Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 187: A Mean to Celebrate

Two days after the speech at SMX, the mood across the MOA Complex had shifted from survival to something else—celebration.

The Seaside Park along the Manila Bay, once known for concerts and weekend strolls, had been transformed into a festival ground. Colored tarpaulins were hung between lamp posts, and makeshift lanterns swayed gently in the sea breeze. From the edge of the reclaimed boardwalk to the open plaza near the bayfront, dozens of food stalls lined the paths—grilled fish, roasted corn, boiled peanuts, even skewered meats sizzling on hot steel griddles. The aroma of spices and charcoal filled the air, mixing with the salty sea wind.

Generators hummed steadily in the background, powering everything from rice cookers to lightbulbs. Someone had even managed to get one of the old ice cream freezers working—kids with small plastic spoons crowded around a man in a repurposed Mang Inasal apron as he handed out scoops of vanilla, chocolate, and something vaguely fruity.

The rides still worked.

Not all of them—but the MOA Eye, the towering Ferris wheel at the edge of the complex, turned slowly against the orange-pink horizon. Overwatch engineers had worked around the clock, rewiring the motors, checking the supports, making it safe again—not because anyone needed it to survive, but because they needed it to remember joy.

The carousel had music again. Slightly off-pitch and scratchy through the old speakers, but it played. Children—some orphans, some lucky enough to still have parents—rode the painted horses like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Inside the mall itself, the corridors had come alive. For the first time in months, the shutters of dozens of shops had been lifted—not for looting, but for use. People browsed shelves and used their digital credits to purchase shoes, clothes, books, tools. A few adults lingered in front of old toy stores, their hands hovering over boxed board games, puzzles, even model kits they once took for granted.

The currency was simple: contribution credits. Every person in the complex had a record—what they did, how often, what value they brought to the community. Every hour volunteered at the kitchen, every day spent hauling rubble, every wounded soldier recovered—it all counted. It wasn't perfect, but it worked.

And today, for once, people were spending.

Thomas Estaris walked quietly along the seaside path, hands in his jacket pockets. The sun had begun to dip below the bay, casting golden streaks across the water. He wore no formal uniform, just his usual black jacket, slightly faded from wear. Behind him, Phillip walked with a slight limp but a quiet smile.

"Feels like a different world," Phillip murmured.

Thomas nodded. "Even if just for a day."

They passed by a group of volunteers handing out grilled banana on sticks. One of the kids offered Thomas a skewer. He blinked, then took it with a small thanks. The boy grinned and ran off.

Phillip smirked. "That's a first."

"What?"

"You. Eating in public."

Thomas raised the skewer like a toast. "Consider it character development."

He took a bite. It was sweet, soft, and still hot.

They continued walking.

By the edge of the plaza, a dart game had been set up. A crowd had gathered, cheering as a young woman in a scavenged denim jacket hit three bullseyes in a row, winning a giant plush tiger from an old arcade prize rack. Beside the booth, a board had been erected with the words "Festival of Fire" hand-painted across it.

"Catchy," Phillip commented.

"Marketing department's working overtime," Thomas replied.

He watched as a father lifted his daughter to pop a balloon with a dulled throwing knife. She missed, but the booth operator gave her a candy bar anyway.

From one of the benches, Erika sat with two other Overwatch guards, laughing softly over a plate of roasted squid. She didn't wave. She didn't even glance his way. But Thomas saw her—hair tied back in a loose braid, her posture relaxed in a way that made her distance from him more obvious than words ever could. He gave a small nod in her direction, more out of habit than expectation. She didn't respond.

"Did we approve alcohol?" Thomas asked, eyeing the makeshift open bar near the center.

Phillip shrugged. "One drink limit. Mostly rice beer and coconut brew. Security's watching. Worst case, we clean vomit off the sidewalk."

Thomas grunted, but didn't object.

People needed this.

He stopped near the boardwalk railing, watching as the Ferris wheel turned slowly above the festival grounds. The cabins were full—each one holding families, lovers, or friends who leaned back and watched the world from above. From that high up, maybe the damage wasn't so visible. Maybe the ruins looked distant. Small.

"Commander."

A voice called from behind.

Thomas turned to see Marcus approaching with a tablet under one arm. But he wasn't in uniform. He wore a gray t-shirt and clean cargo pants, his sleeves rolled up, a soda in one hand.

"I'm off duty," Marcus said with a grin. "Don't worry. Just wanted to give you something."

He handed over the tablet. A still image was frozen on-screen—drone footage of the Cubao crater. The worm. Dead. Still unmoved.

The data overlay showed it all: biomass harvested. Area now thermally stable. No signs of residual spore activity.

"Clean site," Marcus said. "Team One's packing up tomorrow."

Thomas nodded and handed it back. "Thanks."

Marcus gave a small salute and walked back into the crowd.

Nearby, music started. Old speakers began pumping a familiar tune—an old pop song from the pre-apocalypse years. Something nostalgic. The kind people could dance to without remembering what came after.

And they danced.

Mothers with toddlers, teenagers laughing in circles, even a few soldiers clumsily trying to keep up.

Thomas watched, then looked up at the sky.

No drones tonight.

No gunships.

No monsters.

Just stars beginning to peek through the dusk.

"You think they'll remember this?" Phillip asked beside him.

Thomas didn't answer right away.

Then he said, "I hope they don't have to."

Phillip tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I hope we do our job so well… that kids born in this complex someday will think tonight was just normal. Just life. Not something rare."

They stood there for a while, letting the noise and warmth of the crowd wash over them.

And for one evening—for just a few hours—the world felt a little more human again.