Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 100: Reporting to the General

A day had passed since Captain Enrique Villamor met with Thomas Estaris, and now he was back on the road—this time not as a scout, but as the bearer of grave news. Three military trucks kicked up dust along the cracked asphalt road that led toward the fortified military base in Bataan. His recon team rode in silence, weighed down by exhaustion, uncertainty, and the heaviness of failure.

As they neared the outer checkpoint, armed soldiers stepped forward, rifles low but ready. One of them recognized Villamor and quickly raised a hand.

"Captain Villamor?" the guard called out.

"Yeah. It's us," Villamor replied from the front passenger seat. "Let us through."

The guard waved them in. The gate opened with a mechanical creak, and the trucks rolled inside.

The base was nestled between a ridge and the coast.

Long rows of tents were pitched along the dirt lots—some for soldiers, most for evacuees. Civilians lined up near a makeshift soup kitchen, bowls clutched to their chests, eyes hollow from hunger and fatigue. Children clung to mothers, while medics tended to the sick under tarpaulin shelters. Armed soldiers moved between stations, keeping order, their faces stoic.

Villamor stepped out of the truck and looked around. It wasn't just a base anymore. It was a last refuge.

"Let's move," he said to his men. "You're dismissed. I'll handle the report."

They nodded silently and dispersed.

Villamor made his way across the camp and into the administrative building—a pre-war structure retrofitted for command use. He passed through two guards at the door and climbed a short flight of stairs before arriving at the general's office.

As he opened the door, raised voices met him.

"You can't be serious, General!" a man in a barong barked. "I'm the Mayor of Limay! I deserve quarters that reflect my station. My family shouldn't be sharing a tent with displaced farmers!"

Inside, General Angelo de Vera stood tall behind his desk, arms folded, his face lined with exhaustion but steeled with resolve. Across from him, a red-faced, overweight man paced furiously.

"I don't give a damn if you were a senator before the outbreak," the general said firmly. "Out there, everyone's equal. Inside these walls, I command, not you. You're a civilian now. You get a tent, just like the rest."

The mayor sputtered with disbelief. "This is how you treat elected officials?!"

"This is how I treat people who think privilege still matters in a dying world," De Vera replied coldly. "Now if you're done complaining, leave."

The mayor huffed and stormed past Villamor, glaring at him as he shoved the door open.

"Enjoy your time in the mud," he muttered on his way out.

Villamor stepped in. "Sir."

De Vera's scowl didn't lift, but his voice softened. "Villamor. You're back."

The general walked around his desk. "Well? Is the refinery secured?"

Villamor didn't answer immediately. He shut the door behind him, then turned to face De Vera.

"No, sir."

The room fell still.

De Vera's jaw twitched. "What do you mean no?"

Villamor stood straight. "It's already been secured, General. A private military force got there first. They're calling themselves Overwatch. They've fortified the entire compound."

The general's brow furrowed. "Overwatch? Who the hell are they?"

"Private army. International contractors, from what I gathered. Professionally trained, well-equipped. They're not a militia, sir. They're organized."

De Vera's expression darkened. "And Santiago?"

Villamor hesitated. Then he said it.

"KIA, sir. Along with the rest of Alpha One."

The general's eyes widened slightly. "What?"

"They attempted to take the refinery by force. Santiago made demands. When they were refused, they pushed forward. The other side responded. Alpha One didn't survive."

De Vera's fists clenched, his voice dropping to a near growl. "Those were trained soldiers. Santiago was a seasoned officer."

"I know," Villamor said quietly. "But they were outmatched. Overwatch isn't just some gang of mercs. They held the ground, suffered casualties, but survived. They didn't shoot first, sir. That much I believe."

De Vera slowly walked back behind his desk and sat down, the weight of the news sinking in. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, breathing through his nose.

"So, that's it? The refinery's lost?"

Villamor shook his head. "Not completely. Commander Thomas Estaris is willing to negotiate. He says they'll consider sharing fuel—controlled distribution."

The general opened his eyes. "And what does he want in return?"

"Peace. Order. No more firefights. He said they're here to rebuild, not hoard. But he made it clear, sir—if we try to take it by force again, the result will be the same."

De Vera stared across the room, then exhaled heavily. "So we misjudged the situation."

Villamor didn't respond.

The general stood, pacing behind his desk. "We're low on food. Our supply lines are unstable. And now, the refinery—our last real fuel source—is controlled by a private army."

He stopped, turned back to Villamor. "What do you think? Can we trust them?"

Villamor thought for a moment, then answered honestly. "They didn't kill us when they had every reason to. That counts for something."

De Vera sat again, leaning back.

"We'll need to tread carefully," he muttered. "Santiago's death… that's going to ripple through the ranks."

Villamor nodded. "I'll talk to the men. They need to hear it from me."

"Good. We'll discuss terms later. For now, you're dismissed."

Villamor saluted.

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He then turned and exited the office, the door shutting behind him with a soft thud. He hoped that the leadership would make a sensible decision when it comes to this matter. Even though he hadn't witnessed the military prowess of Overwatch, it's better to be careful than sorry.

After all, Thomas's words resonated in him. That they aren't enemies but an ally for humanity. They shouldn't forget that the real enemies are the zombies. However, he also knew that in the times of apocalypse, personal or any other type of interest would prevail over unity more often than not.

Well—there are other things for him to do, so he left the building and prepared for whatever it is to come.