Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 136: Discovered Something

The rain pattered against the canvas roof like fingertips tapping glass. Outside, the forward camp was a mess of light and motion—medics processing the wounded, drones overhead humming like silent ghosts. But inside the tent, it was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of silence that waits.

Phillip stood at the entrance, arms crossed, watching the man seated calmly beneath the interrogation floodlight.

Matias Reyes.

He looked clean—too clean for someone pulled from the remains of a destroyed base. Uniform scrubbed, boots laced tight, no visible wounds. On paper, he was a civilian contractor. Logistics support. Checked into the Bataan base just six days ago.

No prior military record. No government ties. No digital footprint before the outbreak.

Which made him dangerous.

Phillip stepped inside. Behind him, Shadow 4 and an Overwatch analyst followed in silence. A scanner hummed softly in the corner, logging neural activity, body heat, pulse.

Matias didn't react. He sat with his hands on the table, palms open. Smiling faintly.

"You look comfortable," Phillip said.

"Isn't that the point?" Matias replied, his voice calm, serene. "This is where things get interesting, right?"

Phillip didn't bite. "Your logs show you near the north gate twenty minutes before it was compromised."

"Coincidence."

"Power substation. Fifteen minutes later."

"I was… exploring."

"Motor pool?"

"I like trucks."

Phillip stepped closer, eyes narrowed. "Three compromised zones. Three confirmed sightings. All before the alarms went off. You want to keep playing cute, or do we skip straight to containment?"

Matias tilted his head. His grin widened.

"Contain me if you want," he said, almost laughing. "But that won't stop the sun from rising."

Phillip paused. "The sun?"

Matias leaned forward, elbows on the table now. His voice dropped to a whisper, low and reverent.

"Have you ever stared at the sun so long it bled into your eyes? Left a mark? A halo that never fades?"

Phillip didn't respond. He let the silence stretch.

Matias smiled again. Not friendly—fanatic.

"That's what we are," he said. "The ones who stared too long. The ones who saw. And now the sun rises… whether you're ready or not."

Phillip glanced at the analyst. The neural scanner was showing minor spikes—parietal lobe activity off baseline. Nothing clinically dangerous. But unstable.

Phillip returned his gaze to Matias. "Who are you working with?"

"I told you. Logistics."

"You're lying."

Matias chuckled. "I'm praying. There's a difference."

Phillip exhaled slowly. "You belong to something. We've seen the symbols—carved in walls, drawn in blood. The sun. The flames. That wasn't panic graffiti. That was doctrine."

Matias's eyes burned now. "Doctrine? No. That's revelation."

"You and others sabotaged that base," Phillip pressed. "Opened the gates. Led the infected inside."

Matias didn't deny it.

He just started humming.

Low. Rhythmic. A tune without lyrics, but haunting in its repetition.

Phillip slammed a hand on the table. "Who else was involved?"

The humming stopped.

Matias leaned back, smile gone now. Replaced by something colder. Almost pity.

"You think it's about names? Faces? Arrest a few and burn the rest?"

He laughed, genuinely amused.

"They're already inside," he whispered. "Walking your halls. Wearing your uniforms. They'll hold your hands, share your food, and when the time comes—they'll open the doors from within."

Shadow 4 shifted uncomfortably. The analyst tapped something into the slate, running a deeper scan.

Phillip's voice hardened. "So there are more of you?"

Matias's grin returned.

"We are everywhere. Every camp, every convoy, every 'safe zone.' We're the whisper before the scream. The spark before the blaze. The smoke before the fire."

"And what do you call yourselves?" Phillip asked.

Matias lifted his chin.

"The Crimson Dawn."

There it was.

The confirmation Phillip needed.

Matias spread his hands like a priest at the altar.

"We are the ones who do not fear the fire. We are the fire."

"You sound insane."

"No," Matias said. "I sound free."

Phillip took a step back, expression unreadable.

"Then prove it. If you're so devout, so proud of what you are—give me names. Tell me where your boss is hiding. Tell me how many you've planted."

Matias laughed again, shaking his head.

"You think this is a confession. It's not."

He stared into the camera mounted above, addressing whoever was watching.

"This is a sermon."

He thumped his chest once.

"I am the voice in the ash. I am the hand on the gate. And we're not done."

Phillip turned to the analyst. "Anything?"

The analyst looked unsettled. "Unusual neural patterns. No signs of coercion. No drug influence. He believes everything he's saying."

Phillip nodded. "Then we treat him like we would any other believer with a bomb in his vest."

He leaned in, eye to eye with Matias.

"You're not a prophet. You're not a voice. You're a loose end."

Matias smiled.

"Then tie me up. Burn me. Bleed me. It won't matter."

He tapped the table twice with his index finger, almost like a beat.

"Because even now, one of mine is watching you from inside your ranks. Maybe he's cleaning your guns. Maybe she's watching the drone feeds. You'll never know—until the smoke comes."

Phillip stared at him.

Matias stared right back.

Of course he knew that was fake as all of Overwatch officials are summoned individuals and they are only loyal to their summoner, who is Thomas. But–he'll play with him to extract more information.

"Secure him."

Phillip's voice was low, flat. The order cut through the tent like a scalpel.

Two Shadow operatives moved in from the flanks. Matias didn't flinch. He raised his hands slowly, almost reverently, as though presenting himself for ritual rather than detainment.

"You think the cage changes anything?" he murmured.

"No," Phillip replied. "But it slows the rot."

Shadow 4 stepped behind Matias and pulled his wrists behind the chair, locking them with reinforced zip cuffs. The other operative produced a flex-visor hood, the kind used to prevent line-of-sight communication—no talking, no glancing cues. As the hood slipped over Matias's head, he chuckled softly.

"You're late, you know. He already walks among you."

Phillip didn't answer.

He turned his back on the prisoner and stepped out into the storm.

The rain had thickened into a steady curtain, beating down on the makeshift camp and washing the bloodstains from concrete and boots alike. Spotlights flickered over the staging area, casting long, twitching shadows. Even now, drones floated silently above, scanning for movement, thermal shifts, and the impossible.

Phillip ducked beneath the canvas awning leading to the ops hub. His boots squelched in the mud as he passed lines of survivors, all seated with plastic ponchos pulled over their heads like makeshift coffins. The med teams worked without pause, running IVs, checking pupils, logging biometric scans.

He could see the ripple of tension building across the camp. Too many people. Not enough answers. The fear was shifting from external threats to internal unknowns. Anyone could be one of them.

A member of Crimson Dawn. A cult.

Phillip entered the ops hub without knocking. Vera Andrade was still at the central table, hunched over a holographic display with two of her analysts. The map of the Bataan base flickered between infrared overlays and surveillance logs.

"We need a full psychological isolation on Subject Matias Reyes," Phillip said without preamble. "Flag his bio-signature and secure him in a black cell under double rotation. No comms. No windows. No exposure to other detainees."

Andrade straightened, eyebrows lifting. "You found something?"

"He named them. Crimson Dawn."

The room went still.

One of the analysts muttered, "The ones who carved the sun."

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"Exactly." Phillip crossed to the map. "He didn't give names, but he didn't need to. He confirmed what we already suspected—this wasn't a panic breach. It was engineered. Multiple agents, embedded long before we ever got involved."

Andrade's face tightened. "How many?"

Phillip exhaled. "Unknown. He hinted they're everywhere. In uniform. In the ranks. Maybe even here. But he's a fanatic. Delusional, maybe. What matters is that we take the possibility seriously."

"We are going to contain all the survivors in this camp then."