Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

Thomas moved first.

Shadow-3 flanked him, silent and close, their carbine at the low ready. Behind them, Ghost and another operator from Alpha Team crept forward, spacing themselves evenly along the treeline. The ruined chapel stood still in the clearing—just as it had from the drone feed. Cracked arches. Crumbled pews. An altar made of stone and fire-blackened wood. But it wasn't empty.

Twelve veiled figures swayed in rhythm, kneeling in uneven rows near the altar. Thin robes clung to skin soaked by the jungle humidity. The children didn't move like children. They didn't look around, didn't speak, didn't fidget. They hummed—low, reverent, hypnotic.

Thomas's fingers tightened around his DMR.

He and his team fanned out in a wide crescent formation around the building's left perimeter. The eastern wall had a collapsed section—just wide enough for silent entry.

Shadow-3 held up two fingers. Two guards, partially hidden behind support columns. Both male. Both armed—barely. Rusted bolt-action rifles slung lazily over their backs.

Thomas didn't hesitate.

He slipped forward, one step at a time, boots kissing the wet stone floor with almost no sound. He reached the edge of the archway, crouched low, and waited. The guard turned—just slightly. A clearing of his throat. A shift in posture.

Thomas struck.

A suppressed shot cracked like a muffled cough.

The round entered just beneath the chin. The cultist collapsed without a sound, blood pooling beneath him like dark ink on an altar floor.

Shadow-3 moved a heartbeat later, crossing the gap in a crouch, blade in hand. The second guard had just begun to glance left when the blade kissed his throat. A clean draw. No scream. Only a twitch, a gurgle, and silence again.

The squad pressed forward.

Thomas stepped into the nave first, and immediately, the air shifted.

It was warm.

Too warm.

A fire burned in a makeshift brazier beside the altar, fed with wax, bone, and fabric. The stench was unmistakable—charred hair, sweat, and something metallic. Blood. Old and new.

The Red Choir didn't react.

They continued their chant. Veiled heads bowed. Lips moved in slow, rhythmic whispers. Every child bore cuts on their arms—fresh, deliberate. Some had black symbols painted across their foreheads. Sunrays. Circles. Spirals of ash.

Thomas's jaw clenched.

One of the operators, Shadow-5, whispered over comms. "What the fuck is this…"

"Hold position," Thomas said, voice sharp. "We identify first."

He moved slowly along the pews, scanning faces, postures, hands.

And then he saw her.

A teenage girl, maybe sixteen. Her veil was torn. One eye swollen shut. But around her neck—woven into her necklace—was a looped patch of crimson thread and teeth. Not human.

Thomas turned slightly. "Confirmed. She's one of them."

The girl suddenly smiled.

"Praise the Flame," she whispered.

She lunged.

Too fast.

A blade flashed from beneath her robe.

Thomas ducked and drove the butt of his rifle into her sternum. She collapsed with a shriek—not of pain, but joy.

"NOW!" he barked.

Alpha Team surged forward.

Two Red Choir members screamed and ran—straight into waiting blades.

One reached for a hidden pistol—Thomas dropped her with a double-tap to the chest.

Shadow-3 tackled a boy no older than ten. The child bit down on a capsule in his cheek. Foam spilled from his mouth. He died smiling.

One by one, the veils fell—and the illusions with them.

Half the Choir were converts. The other half were suicide pawns.

One tried to light a molotov. It shattered in her hand. She went up in flames, screaming scripture until her lungs cooked inside her ribs.

Ghost reported in. "Chapel is clear. Six confirmed Crimson. Six unarmed converts. All down."

Thomas stood amid the bodies, breathing heavily, eyes wide behind the visor.

He looked toward the altar.

There was a book.

Bound in leather. Pages soaked in what he could only guess was blood. Symbols etched with knives. Chant lines. Ritual procedures. Waker commands.

Phillip's voice came over the radio.

"Bravo Team secured the hatch. Entry delayed—booby-trapped. We're cutting through the side."

Thomas didn't reply.

He knelt by the book and flipped through its pages.

Drawings of the Scourged.

Injection procedures.

Maps of "the cleanse."

A prayer for each organ when removed from a body.

Thomas closed it and handed it to Phillip.

"Bag this. It goes straight to intel. We are going deeper."

Ghost took the blood-soaked tome and sealed it in a black containment bag, tagging it with a glowing blue chip before slinging it across his back.

Thomas stood, brushing grime from his gloves. The bodies still twitched slightly—reflexes. Nerve endings misfiring. Smoke from the brazier stung his eyes.

Shadow-3 looked up from one of the bodies. "Sir, she wasn't carrying a weapon."

Thomas didn't flinch. "She reached for a blade. That's all that matters."

Behind them, the rest of Alpha Team swept through the chapel's side rooms—bare stone closets with rotted cots, dried blood on the floor, and markings scorched into the walls. More symbols. Some familiar. Some new. Some disturbing enough that even hardened operators didn't want to say their names out loud.

Thomas checked his slate. The live feed from Reaper One-One still showed the jungle around the chapel clear. The drone hovered at high altitude, vigilant and silent.

He tapped his earpiece. "Bravo, status?"

Phillip answered with a low grunt of exertion. "Charges placed. Cutting through the western foundation wall. Booby trap's nested just inside the hatch. Motion sensor and chemical trip. Looks like nerve agent—jury-rigged. Not amateur."

Thomas turned to his team. "Alpha, we're moving. Regroup with Bravo and prepare for breach."

The team filed out, quiet as shadows, stepping over the broken bodies of the Red Choir.

At the edge of the clearing, Thomas paused. He looked back once.

The chapel stood still. Silent now. Just stone and ash. But the smell lingered. The memory clung.

They hadn't just killed cultists in there.

They had killed what was left of the children who couldn't be saved.

Thomas adjusted the strap on his rifle and stepped into the jungle without a word.

Ahead, Bravo waited at the hatch.

Below that?

The pit.

The nerve center.

The nest.

And Thomas planned to gut it.