Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 153: Rest Part 2

The morning air outside the MOA Complex was crisp, the salt in the wind carried in from the bay. Thomas stepped out onto the upper-level catwalk, boots tapping against the steel grating as he looked over the reclaimed airfield.

It was hard still hard to believe this used to be parking lots, malls, and roads.

Now, it was something else entirely—runways carved into the concrete sea, reinforced hangars repurposed from sports centers, and landing pads drawn with military precision. This wasn't just a fortified civilian zone anymore.

It was a warbase.

Phillip joined him a second later, sipping from a thermos of that "illegal" brewed coffee they'd found last night.

"Didn't think we'd ever pull this off," Phillip muttered, nodding toward the long stretch of tarmac where the aircraft were lined like sleeping predators.

Thomas said nothing at first. He just stared.

Four Black Hawks sat at the far end, matte black with Overwatch insignias stenciled onto the doors. Beside them were two Apaches—ugly, brutal machines armed with rocket pods and chain guns. Further out were the big beasts—an A-10 Warthog, its paint scorched and chipped, but its twin cannons gleaming in the light. And farther back, dominating the far end of the strip, was the AC-130 gunship, Spooky One.

"Give me a walk," Thomas said.

Phillip nodded and waved to the hangar officer nearby—a woman in gray battle utility fatigues and tinted goggles. She gave a short nod and gestured forward. No salutes. No ranks. Just quiet understanding. Everyone here knew who he was.

They started with the Black Hawks.

Two crews were running maintenance—one working under the hood, the other running checks on the rotor assemblies. A small drone buzzed above the team, scanning thermal stress on the engine compartments.

"Flight-ready?" Thomas asked.

"Three out of four," the hangar officer replied, walking beside him. "Fourth needs a new stabilizer as the ones that had been summoned were broken. We're keeping all pilots current—night vision drills, dust landings, evac extractions."

"Wait…so you were saying that some of the summons may be damaged upon summons?"

The officer simply nodded.

"So that's a possibility huh? This is the first time I know about it. I thought when you buy from the system, you will get it fresh like straight out of the factory. But lemon units still happen huh? Do I need to buy parts from the system?"

"No need sir, we have materials and we will fabricate it. It's cheaper compared to buying parts directly from the system shop," he replied.

"I see…keep up the good work."

Thomas gave a short nod, then looked toward the Apaches.

"These ones fly like devils," the officer said with a faint grin. "But they're temperamental. One faulty targeting system and the whole damn bird refuses to launch."

"You work with what you have," Phillip added.

They walked past a group of trainees in crash gear running rotor-down drills beside the Warthog. The A-10's GAU-8 cannon looked like a shark's grin frozen in steel. One mechanic was inside the belly, reloading depleted uranium rounds by hand.

Thomas stopped.

"Gun cycles?"

"Tested every morning," the tech said, stepping back from the open panel. "Triple feed. Minimal jam rates. We keep her hungry and she stays happy."

It was strange, Thomas thought, to hear affection in the voice of someone talking about a death machine.

They reached the AC-130 next.

Spooky One.

Its frame was larger than most buildings in the city now. The paint was patched, engines slightly offset from years of modification, but its side-mounted weapons were pristine—howitzers, miniguns, and a rail-mounted cannon mounted under the wing.

"How's Spooky holding up?"

"She flies," the officer said, looking proud. "Burns fuel like a bastard, but she flies. Runs recon at night. If we need an area cleared, we send her up. Nothing survives below when she speaks."

Thomas nodded. "Crew status?"

"Eight full-timers. Two backups. They sleep under her wing."

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He paused there, staring up at the dark underbelly of the gunship. A few flight crew members were repainting the nose art—an old-school ghost holding a scythe.

"You ever flown in her, boss?" the officer asked.

Thomas shook his head. "Not yet."

"You will," she said.

After the airfield inspection, they moved to the vehicle depot across the northern barricade.

Rows of armored units sat in neat formation—M2 Bradleys with rail-cannons retrofitted to support Overwatch's experimental plasma lances. Next to them, six M1 Abrams tanks stood idle, their engines humming faintly as ground crews ran diagnostics.

Two crewmen were yelling over each other near one of the Abrams, but when they saw Thomas approaching, they both straightened up.

"Sir."

"No 'sir,'" Thomas reminded them. "Report."

"Tank 3's thermal system is buggy. Keeps flickering during simulated fire runs. But the shells are tracking fine. Navcom was recalibrated this morning."

Phillip tapped the side of the tank with the back of his knuckle. "You get a chance to run live fire drills yet?"

"Scheduled tomorrow," one of them answered. "Eastern range. We're testing armor-piercing loads on concrete."

Thomas nodded again and walked on.

Nearby, a group of soldiers, mainly composed of civilian recruits were in a huddle formation around a JLTV, one of the new models fitted with a mounted grenade launcher turret. Their instructor was barking commands.

"React under fire! Don't huddle like goddamn lemmings!"

The recruits scrambled.

Thomas watched quietly, arms crossed.

"They're getting better," Phillip noted. "First week they showed up, half of them didn't even know how to reload a mag without fumbling."

"We'll make soldiers out of them," Thomas said.

Or something close to it.

They passed through the refueling yard next—diesel drums, electric charging rigs for drones, and racks of ammo being stockpiled. Civilians who were tasked of labor were moving crates.

Thomas stopped as his tablet chimed, he tapped onto it and the screen displayed the footage, showing live field drone. A new Bloom tendril had been spotted stretching into the flooded ruins of Pandacan.

"We'll deal with it later," he said to Phillip. "But for now, we get our house in order."

"I think we're almost there."

"Almost," Thomas repeated.

They stood there for a while longer, watching the field operations cycle through their routines. Everyone moving like gears in a well-oiled machine. No fanfare. Just work.

This wasn't the government. This wasn't an army.

This was Overwatch.

And this was the fortress they'd built.

"Let's check the west fence next," Thomas said.

Phillip raised an eyebrow. "You planning to inspect every bolt in the complex today?"

Thomas smirked faintly. "I've seen what's out there. I want to make damn sure we're ready for it."

With that, they continued toward the armored barricades. The war wasn't over. The nests were still out there. But inside these walls, they had the will, the weapons, and the people.

That was enough—for now.