Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 117: The President Daughter

The main gates of the MOA Complex remained shut. Heavy steel reinforced by concrete, guarded by Overwatch soldiers in full gear—faces obscured behind ballistic visors. They watched the small group of weary survivors standing just beyond the outer perimeter fence. No one moved. No one spoke through the loudspeakers.

Just the low hum of electrical systems and the occasional bark from one of the dogs patrolling the yard.

One of the Overwatch guards inside the wall finally raised his radio.

"Command, we've got civilians at Gate Six. Group of twelve. No hostile signs. Standing by."

A moment passed.

"Copy. Hold position. Assessment team en route," the voice on the other end replied.

Outside, the group waited. They looked exhausted. Some carried nothing but satchels and duffel bags. Others had makeshift weapons—steel pipes, sharpened sticks, a fire axe. But none of them made a move toward the gate. It was clear they weren't a threat.

The youngest of them, a teenage girl with scuffed boots and matted hair, leaned against a taller woman in her thirties—her arm wrapped protectively around the toddler on her back.

That woman—despite her worn clothes and dusty face—carried herself with unmistakable posture.

Straight-backed.

Deliberate steps.

Eyes that didn't wander.

Military eyes.

The man beside her whispered quietly, "You sure this is the right place?"

She nodded. "This is it."

Another man with a crutch shifted uneasily. "We've been running for weeks. If they don't let us in—"

"They will," the woman cut in. "They have to."

Just then, the sound of gates sliding open drew everyone's attention.

A squad of Overwatch troopers stepped out—four in total, weapons lowered but ready. Behind them, walking briskly, came a man in a clean field uniform—no helmet, sidearm holstered.

Phillip.

He stopped a few feet from the group.

His eyes scanned them briefly, sizing them up, then landed on the woman with the toddler.

"You're the one who called in on the old TacNet frequency," he said.

She gave a short nod. "Yes. Five days ago. From Base Juliet-4."

Phillip's tone shifted slightly. "Juliet-4's been dark for weeks."

"It fell," she said. "We were the last out."

Phillip took a step forward. "Name?"

"Major Rina Torres. Philippine Army."

He frowned slightly, then tapped his comm. "Control, confirm identity. Name: Torres, Rina. Formerly stationed Juliet-4."

A few seconds of static passed. Then a voice came back:

"Confirmed. Major Torres. Assigned to Presidential Security Group. Last known deployment—Malacañang Palace."

Phillip's expression changed instantly.

He stepped forward, eyes sharp now. "Who else is with you?"

Torres stepped aside slightly, revealing the teenager—now standing on her own—and the toddler.

"This is Althea Cruz," she said. "Daughter of President Isabella Cruz."

Phillip's jaw tightened.

Then he stepped back and raised his radio again.

"Control, get Thomas on the line. Now."

Inside the command building, Thomas was already halfway into briefing prep when the call came through. He heard the name and paused mid-step.

"Say that again?"

The source of this c𝓸ntent is frёeweɓηovel.coɱ.

"Rina Torres. Presidential Security Group. She's at the gate—with the President's daughter."

Thomas didn't hesitate.

"I'm on my way."

Minutes later, he arrived at the outer gate, flanked by two Shadow operatives.

Phillip stepped forward and filled him in quickly, voice low.

Thomas nodded once and approached.

His eyes settled on the girl—Althea. No more than sixteen, maybe younger. Dirty face, but alert. Watching everything. Smart eyes. Trained to stay quiet.

And then the toddler. She was clinging to Torres's back with a near-dead grip, but her eyes were open too.

He stopped in front of them.

"You're saying these two are the daughters of the sitting President?"

"Was sitting," Torres replied. "We lost the Palace. She didn't make it out. I was assigned to protect her daughters. We got out through the Pasig sewer tunnel and ran south."

Thomas processed that quickly.

"You've been on foot since?"

"Mostly. Some help from what was left of the Army down south. But no stable zones. We headed here because of the signal."

"The encrypted one?" Phillip added.

Torres nodded. "We heard the pattern. Military, not bandits. I knew it had to be Overwatch."

Thomas took a deep breath and motioned for one of the medics.

"Get the children to triage. Now."

The medics stepped forward and gently took the toddler and guided Althea toward the trucks. She didn't speak, but she never stopped looking at everything around her.

Thomas turned back to Torres. "You're cleared to enter. Full access. You'll be debriefed in an hour."

"Yes, sir," Torres replied.

Then she hesitated.

"One thing," she added. "If she's the last of her line… if the Republic's ever going to get back on its feet—we'll need her alive."

Thomas nodded firmly. "She will be."

He turned to Phillip.

"We'll issue a press blackout for now. No public announcements until we're ready. And get the upper quarters cleaned out. She'll be staying on the second floor, under direct supervision."

Phillip raised an eyebrow. "You sure about housing her inside the main building?"

"She's the President's daughter," Thomas said. "Whether we like it or not, that means something. People are going to rally around her. We need to control that narrative before it controls us."

Phillip didn't argue.

He just turned back toward the med bay and watched the children disappear through the doors.

Later that night, in a quiet room in the upper levels of the MOA Complex, Althea Cruz sat on a cot. Clean clothes. Hot food. Lights that didn't flicker. For the first time in months, she was indoors with armed guards that didn't feel like threats.

She didn't cry.

She didn't ask for her mother.

She just stared at the wall.

Outside her room, Thomas stood at the window, hands behind his back. Phillip stood beside him.

"We don't tell anyone who she is yet," Thomas said.

Phillip nodded. "For how long?"

"Until she's strong enough to carry it."

They looked out over the Complex—busy, lit up, and alive.

Below them, the gate guards resumed their watch.

And far outside, beyond the roads and wreckage, other survivors still wandered.

Searching.

Hoping.

But only a few would ever make it this far.

***

Thomas didn't sleep.

The moment the corridors quieted and the lights dimmed for night cycle, he found himself pacing outside the second-floor quarters. A pair of Shadows stood watch, rifles slung, eyes alert. One of them gave him a silent nod as he approached the door.

"Status?" he asked quietly.

"She's awake, sir," one replied. "Hasn't spoken much. Just… sits there."

Thomas gave a short nod and stepped closer to the door. He hesitated, then knocked lightly.

There was a pause. Then a faint voice from inside: "Come in."

He opened the door slowly.

Inside, Althea Cruz sat on the edge of her cot, back straight, hands folded in her lap. Her eyes tracked him calmly, no surprise or fear—just focus.

Thomas stepped in and closed the door behind him.

"You know who I am?" he asked gently.

Althea nodded once. "You're the one in charge."

Thomas pulled up a chair and sat across from her.

"Yes. And you're the daughter of a President."

She didn't react.

Thomas leaned forward slightly. "I don't know what you've been through, and I'm not going to ask—not yet. But I need to know something. Are you ready to carry what your name means?"

Althea looked him in the eye. Steady. Then she answered softly.

"If I have to."