Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 259: Singers in the Fog

June 11, 2025 — 54 Days Since First StrikeFort Calinog — Northern Observation Ridge

The fog was thick. Not natural fog, not the kind that rolled in from the mountains with dew and morning chill. This was something else—something heavy. Chemical. Every breath carried the taste of copper and mildew.

Lira Morales stood at the edge of the northern ridge, flanked by two spotters and one sharpshooter from Overwatch. They were all silent now. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. They only listened.

The sound had returned.

Not the howl from the day before. That had been brutal—bestial. This was different.

This was... singing.

Faint. Wordless. Melodic. Like a lullaby hummed by something that had never been human. It rose and fell in perfect harmony with the pulse of the Bloom spreading below. Every time it crescendoed, a section of the forest twitched—as if responding.

"It’s coming from the growth field," whispered one of the spotters. "Somewhere near the old creek bed."

The sharpshooter adjusted his scope. "I’ve got movement. Multiple contacts."

Lira lowered her binoculars. "How many?"

The man hesitated. "Ten... no. More. Shit. They’re not walking. They’re swaying. Almost like—"

"Like they’re dancing," the spotter finished. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

Then, out of the mist, they emerged.

Humanoid in shape. Gaunt and elongated. Skin pale and translucent with veins of glowing blue fluid. Their mouths hung open—not in hunger, but in trance. Some had no eyes. Others had too many.

And from every throat came that same haunting melody.

They stepped slowly through the thick fungal floor, barefoot, bleeding from their toes where roots had begun to fuse with flesh.

Singers.

Lira hissed into her radio. "We have new variants. Humanoid. Possibly sensory-based. Requesting Overwatch guidance on engagement protocol."

Static crackled for two full seconds before a reply came.

MOA Complex — Operations Floor

Thomas leaned over Keplar’s shoulder, watching the drone footage being streamed live from Fort Calinog’s uplink.

He frowned. "They’re not attacking."

"Not yet," Phillip said. "But I don’t like the way they’re spreading. They’re not random. They’re... deliberate."

Sato, flipping through biosignature overlays, agreed. "They’re creating sound fields. The frequencies match some of the neural pulses we intercepted. These Singers might be broadcasting commands—or mapping brainwaves."

Thomas turned to his comms officer. "Patch me through to Lira. Direct channel."

Seconds later, her voice came through the speaker. Calm, but tight. "Go ahead, Commander."

"Hold your fire unless engaged. We need a specimen. Prep a capture net. Tangle foam if you have it. If not—go manual. I want one of those things alive."

"Understood," Lira replied. "We’ll bag you a Singer."

Fort Calinog — Ten Minutes Later

The ambush was set.

A ridge over the Singer path had been reinforced with camo netting and prefabricated steel spikes. Below, the fungal overgrowth was thinner—likely new growth, more fragile. Perfect for a trap.

A team of five Calinog rangers and three Overwatch operators crouched in position. Lira stayed above, observing.

One of the Singers drifted closer.

It looked like a girl.

Young. Maybe fifteen when alive. Her hair had long since fallen out, and her eyes were sealed shut with organic resin. Her throat vibrated with the song.

At a signal, two operators flung the capture net—threaded with mild electric charges to disrupt muscle function. It landed clean.

The Singer fell, convulsing once—then went still.

The moment the song stopped, the others screamed.

Not the melody. Not the hum.

A scream—piercing and raw, enough to rupture a man’s eardrum.

Four Singers dropped to all fours and lunged—not toward the trap, but away. Toward the deeper woods. Retreating.

The trap team didn’t celebrate. They dragged the writhing captive into a containment pod and sealed it tight.

And in the silence that followed, the forest began to hum again.

Only this time, the pitch was lower.

And closer.

MOA Complex — Deep Cell Analysis

The captured Singer was restrained in a glass cell submerged in cryo-fluid. Its movements were sluggish now. But it never stopped singing.

Even underwater.

Sato stood next to Thomas in the subterranean lab. A dozen Overwatch personnel watched from behind armored glass as the sensors tried to keep up.

"This is a communicator," Sato said. "Not just a drone. It’s relaying. Everything it sees—everything it hears—it’s sending it back. Likely through that song."

"What about neural compatibility?" Thomas asked.

"We tried a probe. The interface recoiled. Almost like it sensed intrusion."

"Any signs of a hive consciousness?"

Sato hesitated. "More than that. This one isn’t thinking for itself. But it remembers. The song contains layers—verses. Like a story being retold in code."

Keplar stepped in. "We’ve analyzed the waveform against prior recordings. Some of the verses match previous Bloom encounters—including Iriga, the geothermal site, and even Echo-5. It’s broadcasting a timeline. A history."

Phillip stepped forward. "Wait. You’re saying the Bloom is building its own version of events?"

Thomas answered for him. "No. It’s building a religion."

They stared at the Singer in silence.

Then Sato asked the inevitable.

"What happens when the song finishes?"

Same Time — Southern Luzon, Highway Bypass Alpha

An Overwatch patrol in a JLTV convoy approached a derelict gas station just outside the safe zone.

One of the lookouts spotted something strange.

Fungal growth—yes. But controlled. Arranged in patterns.

Circles. Spirals. Symbols drawn in Bloom threads like coral.

Inside the station, a wall had been repainted in blood and bile. But beneath it, faint script remained.

Handwriting.

One sentence.

"We learned to speak through mouths that could never scream."

The soldier who found it didn’t sleep for two days.

Same Night — MOA Complex, Private Quarters

Thomas sat at his desk, the lights dimmed. Across from him, a data slate scrolled endless loops of Bloom waveform analysis, codified song scripts, and neural resonance spikes.

He reached for his cup of coffee. Cold.

He stared at the captured Singer’s image frozen on his monitor.

Alone. Floating.

Singing.

Then a new file opened on its own.

It wasn’t part of the lab’s directory.

Just a single line of audio. Low. Garbled. But human.

A voice.

"You have to stop it. Before it remembers everything."

He slammed the screen shut and stood. His heart was pounding. It was so fucking weird.

Phillip knocked once before entering. "You okay?"

Thomas nodded once. "Brief the strike teams. We’re launching a sweep operation along the northern perimeter. We hit every Bloom node within ten kilometers."

"What changed?"

Thomas didn’t answer at first.

Then he said, "The Bloom isn’t just adapting. It’s evolving beliefs. And before it finds meaning in what we did to it... we erase its memory."