Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 144: The Prophet

In an instant, visors switched to night mode—flickering from green to red as thermal overlays came alive. The room, once lit by pale fire and desecrated candles, now glowed with the heat of moving bodies… and one enormous heat bloom, rising in the corner.

Phillip pivoted first, flashlight mounted to his rifle snapping on in a tight beam. The wall—no, the back wall—was moving.

"Contact rear!" shouted Ghost.

The figure that emerged from the shadows was not human. At least, not anymore.

It had once been a man—twice the size of anyone in the room, muscle straining against the bones of something broken and reforged. Flesh melted with rot. Thick cords of pulsing muscle were strung together with surgical staples. Its face was stretched, mouth sewn into a bloody grin, eyes milky and twitching in all directions.

The Scourged.

But this one… was different.

It wore a chain of bones across its chest. Injectors still jammed into its back, feeding black fluid through tubes that ran straight into its neck.

"This one's a different!" Phillip yelled. "Contain it!"

The creature roared.

It charged.

Thomas moved fast—shoving the rescued woman back behind cover as the beast lunged, crushing pews and altars like cardboard.

Shadow-3 opened fire first, rounds striking center mass. Nothing. Not a flinch.

"Flank it!" Thomas barked, rolling left as the monster's arm swept through the air, narrowly missing Ghost's head. The backhand slammed into a stone column, cracking it in half.

"Too thick for small arms!" Phillip called out. "Target the injectors!"

The beast turned, hissing, the tubes on its back pulsing like serpents.

Thomas raised his DMR, toggled to thermal. The injectors glowed hot.

"Hit the tanks!" he shouted, squeezing the trigger.

The first shot struck a metal casing on the monster's shoulder. The injector hissed, leaking steam.

The beast screamed—not in pain, but in rage.

It charged again, this time faster.

Shadow-5 tossed a flashbang. It went off with a sharp crack, but the monster didn't stop. It grabbed Shadow-6 mid-dodge and hurled him across the room like a ragdoll. He slammed into the wall and crumpled, motionless.

"Dammit—Six is down!" Ghost reported.

Thomas ducked low, sliding between rubble, came up behind the creature's flank. He emptied a full mag into the exposed spinal column where another injector jutted out.

Metal sparked. The beast howled, twisting violently. It spun around, slamming Thomas back with the flat of its forearm. His HUD cracked. Alarms blared in his ear.

Phillip jumped onto a collapsed altar, flanking high, spraying burst fire into the upper neck. "Keep pressure on it! We drop this bastard now!"

Shadow-3 crawled into position beneath the creature's legs, planted a satchel charge on its ankle, and rolled out.

"On your mark!"

"NOW!"

Phillip triggered it.

The explosion took the lower leg off at the joint. The monster toppled, bellowing, but even as it fell, it swung wildly, clipping Shadow-3 and opening a deep gash across her thigh.

Thomas staggered to his feet, bleeding, eyes locked on the creature dragging itself forward—arms digging like claws, mouth tearing at the ground.

He lifted his DMR. "I've had enough of you."

He shot one last injector—dead center on the spine.

It detonated.

The chemical reaction ignited the bloodstream, the creature spasming violently before collapsing in a heap of blood, bile, and black smoke.

Silence.

Only the sound of gasping breaths, groaning metal, and leaking injectors remained.

Shadow-3 groaned. "Fuck… I'm good. I'm good."

Phillip moved to Shadow-6. Checked for a pulse.

"Alive. Unconscious. We'll evac him later."

Thomas stepped forward, rifle slack in his hands, staring at the monster's ruined body. Its mouth hung open now, sewn lips split wide by death.

The "ascension" Montano had promised.

Just more rot.

Just more lies.

A slow clap echoed through the chamber.

From the doorway on the far side, backlit by firelight and shadow, Elias Montano stepped forward.

He was calm. Composed. His coat—white on the outside, red satin inside—hung perfectly over his lean frame. His hair was slicked back. His hands were folded behind him like a teacher watching students fail a test.

"You killed him," he said, tone almost admiring. "He was my finest creation."

Thomas raised his rifle.

Montano didn't flinch.

"Don't," the Prophet said. "You've already seen what we can do. And you've only tasted the surface."

Phillip aimed as well, stepping closer. "Surrender."

Montano tilted his head. "To what? You burned my chapel. Shot my children. Killed my shepherd."

He took one step forward.

Thomas didn't lower the rifle.

And yet…

Elias smiled.

"That… is why I chose this country. Because even the righteous have blood on their hands. Even order must taste chaos to survive."

Thomas stared him down.

"No speeches."

Montano's smile faltered.

"You were supposed to fall."

"Then you should've built better monsters."

Thomas squeezed the trigger.

But Montano was already moving—sliding behind the archway, deeper into the firelit corridor.

"AFTER HIM!" Phillip shouted.

The squad surged forward again.

This time, into the Prophet's den.

And Thomas wasn't leaving without his head.

Boots thundered over cracked stone. Flashlights cut through the smoke and strobe-lit embers. Thomas sprinted hard, rifle tight in his grip, his blood still hot from the fight with the Scourged.

"Left tunnel!" Ghost shouted, spotting Montano's white coat vanish into the darkness.

Phillip flicked his laser sight forward. "He's funneling us into a choke. Watch for traps!"

They rounded the bend—only to be met with a shower of sparks. A makeshift trip flare ignited behind them, casting long shadows up the walls. No one slowed.

Thomas was already vaulting over fallen debris, closing distance.

Up ahead, Montano ran with surprising speed, his coat flaring behind him like a banner of defiance. He reached for something at his belt—a flare, maybe. Or a detonator.

Thomas raised his DMR, breath steady.

One shot.

The round tore through Montano's calf.

He screamed, stumbled, and pitched forward—landing hard on the stone floor with a sickening crunch.

Phillip covered the flank. "Got him!"

Montano rolled onto his back, gasping, blood soaking through his slacks. He opened his mouth, lips twitching to form a final monologue.

Thomas didn't wait.

He stepped forward and put a round straight through his skull.

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No words.

Just silence. Cold, final, and absolute.

The Prophet was dead.