Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 137: We Are Going to do this in American Way

"What do we tell MOA?" Andrade continued.

Phillip didn't hesitate. "We don't message. I'll brief Eagle in person."

Andrade gave a short nod. "Then you better move. We've got storms rolling in by midnight. It'll be a rough flight."

Phillip tapped his comms. "Shadow Actual to Helipad Control. Prep a bird. I'm wheels up in ten."

"Copy, Shadow Actual. Blackhawk 05 is ready. Fuel topped. Pilot on standby."

Phillip turned and stepped back into the rain.

***

The Blackhawk's rotors were already spinning when Phillip arrived. The sound was deafening—rain thrashed against the fuselage, whipped sideways by the rotor wash. The tarmac was slick, reflecting flashes of red and blue from perimeter lights and the occasional streak of lightning overhead.

Shadow 2 handed him a sealed file pouch and shouted over the roar. "Survivor logs, bio scans, anomaly tags. Everything you need to brief the top."

Phillip took it, slinging it over his chest. "Watch Reyes. If he so much as smiles wrong, sedate him."

Shadow 2 gave a sharp nod and stepped back.

Phillip ducked low and climbed into the cabin. The side doors slammed shut. Inside, the noise faded to a low thrum. The cabin was dark, only dim red cabin lights illuminating the interior.

He settled into his seat and keyed his mic.

"Shadow Actual to MOA Tower. This is Overwatch Blackhawk 05 requesting direct approach clearance. Priority package en route."

"MOA Tower to Blackhawk 05. Clearance granted. Corridor Charlie-6. ETA: twenty-six minutes. Godspeed."

The bird lifted off, rising steadily above the ruined camp. As the rotors carried them higher, the full view of the devastation came into focus. Bataan's perimeter was fractured—gates twisted, walls collapsed, entire sectors scorched black from the Reaper strikes. Tiny movement signatures still danced at the outer edge, but the compound was holding.

For now.

Phillip looked down at it through the window.

All of it had burned.

And it had only taken one true believer.

The storm was easing by the time the city came into view—Manila's coastline dotted with half-lit towers and the faint, flickering security grid of the MOA Complex glowing like a beacon in the dark. The shape of the reclaimed Mall of Asia was unmistakable: fortified walls, repurposed buildings, drone towers, and the helipad cluster lit up on the south end like a landing strip from a different world.

Phillip adjusted his harness and double-checked the file pouch. He didn't expect applause. But he needed Thomas to know what was brewing.

Not just infection.

Ideology.

Fanaticism that thrived in collapse.

Crimson Dawn wasn't some scattered death cult clinging to scraps in the wilderness. They had strategy. Structure. Timing. And worse—they had believers willing to die for the fire.

The Blackhawk circled once, then descended into the MOA's primary pad. Rain hissed against the pavement. Ground crews sprinted in with ponchos flapping, guiding the aircraft with glow wands.

The moment the wheels touched down, Phillip unbuckled and stepped into the wash.

The wind tore at his coat, but he didn't flinch. He moved with purpose across the tarmac, boots slapping hard against wet steel as he approached the elevator that would take him to the command level.

By the time the doors hissed open and he stepped into the command briefing hall, Thomas Estaris was already there—waiting by the central holo-table, arms folded, eyes locked on the live drone uplink of Bataan.

Phillip stopped three feet from him and dropped the file on the table.

"We have a name."

Thomas looked up, one brow raised.

"Crimson Dawn," Phillip said. "And it wasn't just sabotage. It was a purge. A ritual."

Thomas didn't speak for several seconds.

"A cult, huh?"

Thomas Estaris didn't flinch when he said it. His voice was low, but not surprised. If anything, he sounded like a man who'd been waiting for this shoe to drop. The central holo-table glowed softly between them, displaying a pulsing top-down drone feed of Bataan—thermal smears of Reaper strikes still fresh, the base half in ruins, half under occupation.

Phillip stood across from him, drenched, jaw tight. The sealed pouch of reports lay unopened on the glass, but the word had already done its work.

Crimson Dawn.

Thomas reached out, tapped the side of the table once, and the projection zoomed in on a blood-smeared courtyard. The sun symbol was barely visible through the ash and wreckage.

He exhaled through his nose and leaned forward slightly.

"I had a feeling something like this would show up eventually," he muttered.

Phillip raised an eyebrow. "You expected this?"

"Not this exact group," Thomas clarified. "But zealots? People trying to make sense of all this with fire and prophecy?" He nodded once. "Yeah. I did."

Thomas said, "A weeks after the apocalypse started and when I got the system, I watched movies and series and read books about the zombie apocalypse. There I learned about disaster sociology, cult theory, and panic behavior under mass trauma conditions. All those zombie movies people used to laugh at—they got a lot wrong. But not everything."

Phillip crossed his arms. "You think these Crimson Dawn fanatics are drawing from pop culture?"

"No," Thomas said, glancing at him. "I think they're drawing from despair. But the shape of what they've become… it's familiar."

He inserted the drive into a port on the console. The room dimmed as data populated the table: psychological analysis reports, case studies from the 20th and 21st centuries. Koresh. Aum Shinrikyo. Heaven's Gate. Patterns began to overlap. Language. Ritual. Self-destruction. Control.

"Cults emerge in collapse," Thomas continued. "When institutions fall and people are afraid, they reach for anything—especially someone who promises purpose. Safety. Salvation."

"He said they've already infiltrated other camps. That they're embedded."

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"Of course they are," Thomas said. "If they weren't, they wouldn't be dangerous."

"So how do we deal with the cults?" Phillip asked.

"Well the answer to that is very simple, Phillip. We are going to find where they are hiding and we are going to do this the American way."

"American way you mean…"

"We are going to blow those motherfuckers because they can't be part of the society any longer," Thomas replied with conviction.