Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 114: Visiting their Camp

The sun was already high over the treetops by the time the humming began. A faint, rhythmic pulse that didn't belong to the wind or the forest. Soldiers along the southern ridge of Substation Echo's perimeter—formerly just a survivor camp—were the first to notice.

It started as a low vibration in the dirt, then the unmistakable sound of rotor blades cutting through the air.

One.

Two.

Three.

Black dots on the horizon, growing larger, louder.

"Contact! South quadrant, air!" shouted one of the lookouts.

General de Vera was already stepping out of the command tent, binoculars in hand. He focused on the approaching aircraft, frowning as he counted them.

"Three helos," he muttered. "Black Hawks."

But they were wrong.

No insignias.

No Air Force markings.

No nation flags.

Just matte black paint and sleek profiles.

"What the hell…" his voice trailed off.

"Sir!" shouted his liaison officer, Lieutenant Rosales, running up with his carbine half-raised. "We've got eyes on unknown helos—no IFF pings, no radio hails, nothing. Do we go weapons hot?"

Before de Vera could answer, the lead Black Hawk banked sharply to the right, the side gunner aiming down.

Then came the screeches.

Zombies.

A cluster of them, twenty or more, drawn by the engine noise, stumbled and sprinted out of the treeline, racing toward the outer walls of the camp.

The minigun spun up with a whir.

"GUNNER ENGAGING!" someone yelled from the walls.

Then came the roar—six-barrelled, belt-fed firepower chewing through the horde like paper.

The second helicopter followed suit, cutting a wide arc and mowing down another wave that had crawled out from under a flipped cargo hauler.

The bodies dropped one after another, sprayed with precise bursts.

"Holy shit," Rosales breathed. "They're covering us."

The third helicopter hovered above the open clearing near the center of the camp, its skids just a meter off the ground.

The side doors slid open.

A figure jumped down first—gear strapped tight, rifle across his chest.

Then a second figure, lighter build, wearing a black vest over a grey undershirt.

The first man stepped forward, helmet under one arm, and raised his hand.

"Hold your fire!" he shouted. "Friendly!"

The soldiers on the wall kept their weapons aimed, unsure.

Then General de Vera recognized the man.

"Stand down!" he barked. "That's Villamor!"

The gates cracked open, and a squad rushed out—cautious, but not hostile.

Villamor approached with the second man beside him.

General de Vera met them halfway, boots crunching on gravel.

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"Captain," he said, voice still wary. "Mind telling me what the hell's going on?"

Villamor stood tall, then gestured to the man beside him.

"This is Phillip. Callsign Shadow One. He's Overwatch's field operations liaison. Here under direct orders from Eagle Actual."

Phillip offered a quick nod. "General."

De Vera raised a brow. "You made an entrance."

"Didn't want to walk through Variant territory, sir," Villamor said, almost wryly. "This was the fastest, safest way to establish first formal contact."

De Vera looked back at the helicopters—rotors still spinning lazily—and then to the smoking piles of dead infected outside the walls.

"I'm not complaining," he said. "But next time, maybe a little radio heads-up?"

"We sent one," Phillip said. "Encrypted channel. No reply. Your comms might need upgrading. That's one of the things we're here to assess."

De Vera's expression didn't change. "You're here to assess us?"

"We're here to help," Phillip clarified. "But part of integration means updating everything—communications, logistics, security protocols. From here on, Substation Echo's on the grid."

Villamor stepped in. "They're not here to inspect. They're here to reinforce. And bring us up to standard."

De Vera sighed, then nodded once.

"Alright. You've got quarters in the southern barracks. We'll hold a joint command briefing at 1400. You'll give us the full rundown then."

Phillip gave a tight nod. "Copy that, sir."

De Vera glanced at the Black Hawks. "Your birds staying?"

"One returns to base now," Phillip said. "The other two will remain on overwatch rotation. You've got a five-hour gunship cycle. Air support is now active."

De Vera looked over his shoulder at the wall teams, who were still staring, slack-jawed at the new arrivals.

"Jesus," he muttered. Then louder, to Rosales, "Get the boys back on post. And find somewhere for these guests to stash their gear."

"Aye, sir," Rosales said, turning on his heel.

As the general led them toward the command tent, Villamor leaned in and muttered to Phillip, "You always come in this hot?"

Phillip gave the ghost of a smile.

"Only when it matters." ​

As they moved through the camp, heads turned everywhere. Soldiers stood at half-attention, unsure whether to salute or just stare. Some gave Villamor nods of recognition—others eyed Phillip warily, noting the Overwatch patch on his shoulder and the sidearm strapped low on his thigh.

They passed the motor pool, where mechanics were frozen mid-task. Even the mess hall's chatter had died down.

Phillip ignored the looks. He'd seen worse reactions in worse places.

Inside the command tent, the map table had already been cleared. De Vera motioned for them to sit, grabbing a notepad off the corner as he did.

"Alright," he said. "Let's make this clean. I want to know what you're offering, what you expect, and what kind of operational leash you're planning to keep us on."

Phillip remained standing.

"You'll get the rundown at the briefing," he said evenly. "But here's the short version: Overwatch doesn't micromanage. We coordinate. Echo will retain tactical flexibility, but we provide mission objectives, recon updates, and enforce quarantine and threat protocols."

"And if we push back?" De Vera asked.

"Then we talk," Phillip replied. "But we don't argue in front of the enemy. That's the rule."

De Vera's jaw tightened slightly, but he nodded.

"Understood."

Villamor exhaled quietly, watching the two men—both hard-edged, both used to command—but there was no tension. Just professionalism.

"We'll play ball," the General said. "But I expect you to deliver."

Phillip's reply was sharp and immediate.

"We don't show up unless we can."

Outside, the thump of a departing Black Hawk faded into the distance.

Inside, Substation Echo's new reality had just begun.