Another wave.

Another army.

Possibly larger than the first.

And it was still coming.

Inside Basa Air Base’s command center, silence lingered.

Everyone stared at the drone feed.

The thermal display was almost completely white.

The infected stretched beyond the camera’s field of view.

Roads.

Fields.

Forests.

Abandoned towns.

Everything was moving.

Everything was coming south.

Ryan slowly rubbed his face.

"I officially hate this country."

Nobody laughed.

Because the numbers were absurd.

One analyst finally broke the silence.

"Sir... this concentration exceeds our initial projections."

Adrian looked at him.

"How much?"

The analyst swallowed.

Then answered.

"Possibly several hundred thousand."

The room became quiet.

Again.

The first wave had already reached nearly half a million infected spread across multiple fronts.

And now there was another one.

One officer stared at the map.

"They’re all from northern Luzon."

Another shook his head.

"No."

He pointed toward another feed.

"Some are coming from the east."

Another operator spoke.

"We’re also detecting movement from western sectors."

Silence.

Because that meant only one thing.

Everything.

Every infected in reach.

Every infected capable of movement.

They were all converging.

Toward Basa.

Toward humanity’s largest surviving bastion.

Toward the people inside.

Adrian slowly exhaled.

Then looked toward the operations table.

"How much firepower do we still have?"

The room immediately came alive.

The operations officer checked the reports.

"HIMARS batteries still operational."

"Tomahawk inventory reduced but available."

"AC-130 remains on station."

"Attack helicopters combat capable."

"Four B-1s returning for rearm."

"Fighter squadrons rotating."

Another officer looked up.

"Artillery ammunition remains sufficient."

Ryan blinked.

"We still have all that left?"

The officer nodded.

"Yes."

Silence.

Then Ryan looked toward Adrian.

"So... we’re not dead yet."

Adrian nodded once.

"No."

Then his expression hardened.

"We’re going to kill every single one of them."

Far north of Tarlac.

The new wave continued moving.

The front stretched for kilometers.

The density wasn’t as concentrated as the first.

But it was larger.

Much larger.

The infected filled abandoned roads.

Thousands moved through rice fields.

Entire forests appeared alive.

A Predator drone circled high above.

Its infrared camera continued transmitting.

The operator stared.

Then quietly muttered.

"...This looks like World War Three."

No one corrected him.

Because from above—

It really did.

The province looked like an invasion.

An army.

A moving nation.

Then the radio crackled.

"Predator One, this is Command."

The operator answered immediately.

"Go ahead."

"Mark primary concentrations."

The operator smiled.

Finally.

More firepower.

He immediately began designating targets.

Road junctions.

Dense pockets.

Bridges.

Bottlenecks.

Entire concentrations.

One after another.

The data streamed directly toward Basa.

And then—

Toward the bombers.

Inside Bone One.

The B-1 had barely landed.

Ground crews swarmed the aircraft.

Fuel trucks.

Weapons loaders.

Maintenance teams.

Everything moved quickly.

The crews didn’t even disembark.

There wasn’t time.

New bomb racks were already being loaded.

The weapons officer looked through the canopy.

"Fastest turnaround I’ve ever seen."

The co-pilot nodded.

"They’re scared."

Nobody argued.

Because everyone had seen the drone feeds.

The crew chief suddenly appeared beneath the cockpit.

He gave a thumbs-up.

The pilot immediately smiled.

"Already?"

The reply came through radio.

"She’s ready."

The colonel looked toward his crew.

"Well boys."

He started the engines.

"We’re going back."

Near Guagua.

The southern defensive line still fought.

The pressure had eased.

But not disappeared.

Machine guns still fired.

Mortars still launched.

The smell of smoke and burning flesh filled the air.

Private Miguel Herrera sat behind a concrete barrier.

He looked exhausted.

Everyone did.

A machine gunner beside him had bloodshot eyes.

Another soldier had fallen asleep while sitting against sandbags.

Then immediately woke up because of nearby gunfire.

Nobody had rested.

Nobody could.

Then someone looked north.

"What is that?"

Everyone turned.

A sound filled the night.

Low.

Deep.

Growing louder.

At first nobody recognized it.

Then the squad leader slowly smiled.

"No way."

The roar intensified.

Then four dark shapes crossed the moonlit sky.

Huge.

Fast.

Beautiful.

B-1 Lancers.

The soldiers actually stood up.

Because seeing strategic bombers overhead during the apocalypse somehow felt surreal.

The lead bomber disappeared into the darkness.

Then another.

Then another.

The radio suddenly crackled.

"All ground units. Strategic bombardment inbound."

The entire defensive line erupted into cheers.

Far north.

The new horde never saw them.

The B-1s approached at high altitude.

Their bomb bays opened.

This time—

Everything.

Every remaining bomb.

The bombers had one mission.

Break the second army before it reached Pampanga.

Inside Bone One, the weapons officer looked at the targeting display.

The horde covered nearly thirty square kilometers.

"Dear God..."

The colonel nodded.

"Let’s make it smaller."

"Release point approaching."

Five seconds.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

"Bombs away."

The B-1 released its payload.

Then Bone Two.

Then Bone Three.

Then Bone Four.

The sky rained death.

Dozens upon dozens of precision-guided bombs descended.

The infected continued moving.

Unaware.

Then the first bomb landed.

BOOOOOOM.

A fireball erupted.

Then another.

Then another.

Then twenty.

Then fifty.

Then more.

The province exploded.

The bombardment spread across kilometers.

Roads vanished.

Buildings disintegrated.

Forests ignited.

Bridges disappeared.

The horde was swallowed by fire.

The drone feed shook violently.

Smoke consumed entire sectors.

Huge columns of dirt climbed into the sky.

The explosions continued.

And continued.

And continued.

It looked like the end of the world.

Because for the infected—

It was.

The bombardment lasted nearly two full minutes.

When the final explosion ended—

Silence.

Even the Predator operator wasn’t speaking.

He simply stared.

The entire northern sector had changed.

Massive fires burned everywhere.

Craters covered the landscape.

Entire towns no longer existed.

And the horde—

The horde was gone.

Not entirely.

But enough.

Large sections had simply ceased existing.

The thermal signatures dropped.

Then dropped again.

Then dropped further.

The operator blinked.

Then checked.

Then checked again.

He keyed the radio.

"Command."

Silence.

Then—

"Go ahead."

The operator swallowed.

"I think..."

He looked at the display again.

Then smiled.

"I think we broke them."

Inside Basa’s command center.

The newest feeds arrived.

Analysts leaned forward.

Then one after another—

Expressions changed.

The red markers vanished.

Large sections disappeared.

The northern wave had shattered.

Actually shattered.

Entire concentrations no longer existed.

The operations officer looked stunned.

"We’re... winning."

Silence.

Nobody wanted to say it.

Not yet.

But the evidence was right there.

The northern fronts had collapsed.

The southern fronts had stalled.

The surviving infected were fragmented.

Separated.

Isolated.

The giant converging ocean no longer existed.

It had become scattered rivers.

Dangerous rivers.

But rivers nonetheless.

Ryan looked at the display.

Then slowly smiled.

"No way."

One analyst laughed.

Actually laughed.

Another slumped in his chair.

Several operators smiled.

For the first time since the battle began—

Hope returned.

Adrian remained standing.

Watching the screens.

Watching the burning provinces.

Watching the destroyed fronts.

Then he finally spoke.

"Keep pressure on them."

The room looked toward him.

"No breaks."

"No pauses."

"No letting them regroup."

He pointed toward the map.

"Tonight."

His voice hardened.

"We end this."

Outside.

The artillery still thundered.

The fighters still roared overhead.

The AC-130 still circled.

The destroyers remained ready.

The tanks still advanced.

And across the burning plains of Central Luzon—

The last surviving infected continued running south.

They no longer looked like an army.

They looked like refugees.

Running from a storm of steel and fire.

Running from humanity’s wrath.

And behind them—

The bombers turned once more.

Preparing for another pass.

Because the night was ending.

And humanity intended to make sure the infected never saw the sunrise.