Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 107: Picking them Up

"Spooky One to Overwatch Command," Roach's voice came over the comms—calm, clipped, precise. "All ground targets eliminated. Area is clear. We are RTB. Repeat, returning to base."

Inside the UAV Operations Center at the refinery, the overhead lights buzzed softly as the Reaper's thermal feed showed nothing but smoking craters, mangled corpses, and scattered fires where the horde used to be. Cruz reached for his mic.

"Copy that, Spooky One. Good work out there," Marcus said.

There was a short pause, then he continued..

"Overwatch Command to Eagle Actual, do you need continued support from the gunship?"

Thomas leaned forward at his desk, still watching the Reaper's live feed on his tablet. He brought the mic closer to his mouth.

"Negative. Spooky's mission is complete. We'll keep Reaper One-One in the sky to monitor the area. You're free to disconnect."

"Acknowledged, Command. Overwatch out."

As the channel cleared, Thomas keyed a direct line to the Reaper operator.

"Reaper One-One, Eagle Actual. Maintain current orbit. I want your eyes on the survivors. Anything moves out of the ordinary—you let me know immediately."

"Copy, Eagle Actual," Cruz replied through the headset. "Reaper will hold pattern. Area's quiet for now, but I'll keep scanning."

Thomas stood from his seat and turned to the glass-paneled window overlooking the main yard. The dust had finally settled, and the buzz of urgency in the command center had shifted to a slower, more measured tempo. But his mind was still ticking.

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He looked over his shoulder.

"Phillip," he called out.

From near the wall where several Overwatch personnel had been listening in, Phillip stepped forward. Rifle slung, tablet under one arm, his expression alert.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Get a team together," Thomas ordered. "I want Villamor and his men brought back to base. Use the JLTVs. Route's been cleared, but we're not taking chances. Minimal armament—no heavy kit, just light carbines. Reaper's got overwatch if anything goes sideways."

Phillip nodded. "Understood. How many we extracting?"

"Three survivors," Thomas replied. "Plus five confirmed KIA. Bag the bodies. Bring them all home."

"You got it."

Without another word, Phillip turned on his heel and strode out.

Ten minutes later, the sound of diesel engines filled the refinery yard. The JLTV Oshkosh convoy—three vehicles in staggered column—pulled out of the southern gate, heavy-duty suspension bouncing over broken asphalt as they moved.

Phillip rode shotgun in the lead vehicle. His radio crackled as he opened the squad-wide frequency.

"This is Shadow 1. Check comms."

"Shadow 2, green."

"Shadow 3, green."

The replies continued in quick succession.

"Shadow 10, green."

They cleared the outer gate and hit Route 29 at a steady pace, the Reaper drone far overhead tracking their movement like a silent guardian.

"Shadow 1 to Overwatch," Phillip radioed in. "Convoy en route to recovery site. ETA twelve mikes. Confirming no known hostiles?"

Back at the command center, Cruz answered.

"Affirmative, Shadow 1. Grid Kilo-Five-Seven remains cold. No thermal movement, no infrared signatures. All clear."

"Copy that. We'll move fast."

When the JLTVs rolled up to the gully, the damage was still fresh. Charred earth, split trees, scattered wreckage. Ash floated in the air like snow.

Phillip dismounted, rifle low, and approached the edge.

Villamor was there, standing now, arms crossed over his dusty vest. Tinio sat on a rock, his face still pale. Delgado was half-leaning against a tree, favoring one leg.

"You guys okay?" Phillip asked, his voice even.

Villamor gave a short nod. "We've seen better days."

"We brought transport," Phillip said. "Let's get you the hell out of here."

His men moved efficiently. Two JLTVs opened their rear doors, and four members of the Overwatch recovery team—Shadows 3 through 6—moved in to assist the wounded. Tinio and Delgado were gently helped up and loaded into the second truck, with water bottles and trauma kits already prepped.

Meanwhile, Shadow 7 through 10 moved toward the fallen. The bodies of the KIA were laid out with care, zipped into military-grade black bodybags one by one. No words were exchanged. Just quiet work. Respectful, professional.

Phillip moved back to Villamor as the captain stared silently at the nearest body.

"You good to ride?"

Villamor glanced up, eyes tired. "Yeah."

He climbed into the lead JLTV beside Phillip without protest.

Within minutes, the convoy was rolling again, heading north under the eye of Reaper One-One.

Back at the refinery, the gates opened wide.

The convoy came to a halt near the southern pad. Overwatch personnel moved toward the vehicles immediately, assisting with the offloading of injured personnel and transferring the bodybags to the onsite morgue facility.

Villamor stepped down slowly, boots hitting the gravel. He took a deep breath.

A moment later, Thomas Estaris appeared—wearing his field jacket, sleeves rolled, tablet in one hand.

"Welcome to base," Thomas said flatly.

Villamor nodded. "Thanks for the lift."

Thomas's eyes lingered on the bloodied uniforms, the exhausted posture of the men beside him.

"You'll be debriefed after you're looked at," Thomas added. "Med bay's prepped. Then we talk."

Villamor gave a faint nod. "Understood."

As medical staff stepped forward to guide Tinio and Delgado away, Villamor looked back one last time toward the gate they'd entered through.

The nurse stepped forward, a young woman in scrubs with a tactical vest over her uniform with a tablet in one hand, and a small trauma kit slung over the other shoulder.

"Captain Villamor?" she asked.

Villamor turned toward her, his body still stiff from adrenaline and fatigue. "Yeah, that's me."

"You're coming with me to the med bay. We'll get you checked out, run diagnostics, and clean any open wounds. No exceptions," she said, already scanning his vitals with a wrist scanner.

Villamor nodded, offering no resistance. "Fine. Just make it quick."

He limped slightly as he followed her toward the main building, passing other Overwatch personnel who gave him nods—some out of respect, others out of curiosity. Most of them hadn't seen combat survivors in this rough a shape in a while.

As they entered the corridor leading to the med bay, the hum of fluorescent lights and distant chatter filled the space. A sterile scent—alcohol, bandages, antiseptic—hung thick in the air.

The nurse glanced back at him. "You took a hard hit to the head?"

"Little knock during the ambush," Villamor replied.

"We'll run a scan just to be sure. Any ringing in your ears, blurred vision?"

"Only ringing I hear is from those damn explosions," he muttered. "But no. I'm clear."

Inside the med bay, two empty stretchers were already set up. Tinio and Delgado were further down, one receiving IV fluids, the other with a field medic stitching up a shallow gash on his shoulder. Both looked exhausted but alive.

"Sit here," the nurse ordered, patting the edge of the closest cot.

Villamor sat down with a groan, pulling off his helmet and resting it beside him. His uniform was crusted with dirt and dried blood—some his, some not.

The nurse unzipped the front of his vest carefully. "Any sharp pain when you breathe? Bruised ribs? Fractures?"

"Nothing serious. Just worn the hell out."

She ran a scanner down the side of his torso and tapped a few entries into the tablet. "No internal bleeding. Mild dehydration. Moderate concussion. You'll rest here for an hour, then we'll reevaluate."

Villamor leaned back, letting the cot take his weight. His head throbbed, but it was manageable. The AC-130, the Reaper drone, the Mawbeasts—all of it circled in his mind like smoke.

"You people don't mess around," he said quietly.

The nurse gave a small smirk. "We don't have the luxury."

She handed him a hydration pouch. "Drink that. I'll be back to check on you in twenty minutes."

Villamor took it and nodded.