Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 188: Checking the Status of the Complex Part 1

Morning came slow and golden.

The MOA Complex stirred earlier than usual—not from sirens or drills, but from the quiet rhythm of something long forgotten: peace.

The night before had been loud. Laughter. Music. The sounds of plastic chairs being dragged across tiles and empty cans clinking against tabletops. The faint crackle of speakers playing an old 2010s playlist still echoed faintly in the minds of those who had stayed late at the seaside plaza. Some were hungover—not from alcohol, but from joy.

By 7:00 AM, the mall's central atrium was already active. Volunteers swept confetti into neat piles while small drones hovered overhead, scanning for debris or damage. Food stall owners were rolling up their canvas awnings, and kids sat on the edge of the fountain with cups of leftover ice cream melting in their hands.

Thomas Estaris stood on the second-floor balcony overlooking the entire atrium, sipping from a black mug. No lid. Just strong coffee—thick, bitter, with no sugar. He didn't need it sweet.

"Morning, Commander," came a familiar voice behind him.

It was Howard Briggs, Chief of Logistics & Supply. He wore a freshly laundered polo, neatly tucked, and carried a clipboard too full for this early in the day.

"You look like you haven't slept," he added.

Thomas didn't respond right away. He took another sip, then finally gave a low, "I got a few hours."

Howard smiled. "You always say that."

Below them, a group of children were chasing each other through the fountain's shallow edge. The water jets hadn't worked in months, but the basin was clean, and for now, that was enough.

"Did anyone get hurt last night?" Thomas asked.

"Nothing serious. One guy slipped trying to climb the Ferris wheel structure—security pulled him down before he could break his neck. Someone else passed out from dancing too hard. Pretty tame for a post-monster-kill party."

Thomas gave a dry chuckle. "Good. Let's keep it that way."

They stood there for a bit longer, watching as more people filtered into the mall. A group of engineers walked past with tablets and power tools, heading toward the old tech hub on the third floor. A trio of cooks pushed a cart full of fresh pan de sal toward the market zone, the smell wafting up to where they stood.

"How long do you think this'll last?" Howard asked quietly. "The quiet?" ƒreewebɳovel.com

Thomas didn't answer. Not at first.

Then, as the kids below erupted into a splash war, he said, "Long enough for people to remember what it feels like."

—

Elsewhere in the complex, life moved on with a rare sense of normalcy.

At the old Timezone arcade, someone had rewired a few machines. A teenager named Luis had figured out how to get three units working again: the basketball shooter, the racing game, and an old Dance Dance Revolution pad. The screen flickered occasionally, but the kids didn't care. The line was long, and the excitement was real.

"You suck!" one boy shouted as his friend missed a jump on the DDR pad.

"Shut up, you tripped too!"

Adults watched nearby, half-smiling, arms crossed. For once, no one was rushing to work detail. No one was checking emergency exits. Just letting it happen.

At the MOA Food Hall, families gathered around long plastic tables. Workers handed out trays—some for credits, others for free if they had a voucher from yesterday's celebration. The menu was simple: rice, grilled fish, munggo stew, and banana for dessert. But it was hot, clean, and shared. That made all the difference.

Beside the escalators, a young couple held hands in front of a reopened bookstore. He pointed at a poetry collection. He raised an eyebrow. They laughed. And just like that, they bought it.

People still kept their radios close. The sound of static was a comfort, not a warning now. Civilians traded jokes and stories as they waited in line for everything from toothpaste to flashlights. One man even bartered his way into buying a guitar—strings broken, but body intact. Said he'd restring it himself. Said music was coming back.

—

Back at the Overwatch command wing, Phillip leaned on the edge of the loading bay railing, eating a boiled egg and watching the vehicles move in and out. Supplies were being prepped for a routine scouting mission toward Parañaque. Nothing urgent. Just making sure roads were still clear.

"Thomas out there playing Mayor again?" someone asked.

Phillip nodded. "He deserves a few hours off."

"Think we'll ever get another one of these?" the other guard asked. "Another day like yesterday?"

Phillip cracked the eggshell against the rail. "I think we'll make one. Eventually."

He looked up at the Ferris wheel, still turning, slow and steady.

—

By noon, Thomas found himself at the rooftop garden. What had once been a bar and smoking area was now filled with planters, rows of lettuce, beans, and even tomato vines climbing up rebar trellises. Sunlight poured over the concrete space, and solar panels hummed quietly nearby.

Maya, the head of agricultural ops, wiped her brow and approached him.

"You're early."

"Wanted to see how it's going."

She handed him a small cherry tomato. "Try that."

He did. It was slightly tart, but fresh.

"Not bad," he said.

"We're getting better yields now. Might actually have enough for the next ration cycle."

Thomas nodded. "Good. Let me know what you need."

"Well, perhaps we can try to take over a farm field located in the provinces, make an outpost there solely for agricultural purposes."

"I'll think about it."

They spoke a bit more—soil levels, water distribution, maybe converting another wing of the parking structure into greenhouse space. Then Maya turned to check on a set of grow lamps, and Thomas stood for a moment, alone again.

The wind from the bay drifted in, warm and gentle.

Below him, the sounds of life continued.

And for the first time in a long while, Thomas Estaris allowed himself to believe—not just in surviving—but in living.

Even if only for now.