Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 106: Angel of Death Part 2

In the AC-130, the crew gave no cheers.

"Next target," Roach ordered. "Stay on them."

Torres highlighted a second thermal contact. "Tracking second bogey. It's faster—closing on friendly signal!"

"Adjust azimuth! Gun two, you're up," Ibarra said.

"25mm hot!" the secondary gunner replied. "Firing short bursts!"

BRRRRRRT!

A hail of 25mm shells raked the jungle, splitting apart the treetops like matchsticks. The feed picked up muzzle flashes as rounds slammed into the charging Mawbeast.

"Partial damage," Cruz reported. "It's wounded—staggered—but not down."

"Switch to Bofors," Roach commanded. "I want it gone."

"Firing!" Ibarra shouted.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

Three successive shots from the 40mm Bofors cannon lit up the hillside. The Mawbeast jerked and twisted before collapsing into the underbrush.

Thomas gritted his teeth, watching the final creature barrel toward the ditch.

"Last contact's moving fast. Get him before he reaches Villamor."

Roach locked eyes on the fire-control display. "One shot, one kill. Gun three, all yours."

KA-THOOM.

The 105mm fired again.

Everyone watching the feed held their breath.

The feed lit up.

The jungle floor vanished under a fireball.

"Target three neutralized!" Cruz shouted. "All hostiles down!"

Back in the ditch, Villamor's team braced for death—but it never came.

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Instead, a gust of heat and a deep echo rolled over them like a thunderclap. Smoke poured through the trees above.

Villamor peeked up slowly, coughing. "That... wasn't thunder."

Tinio nodded, blinking at the fading plume. "That was artillery."

"No," Delgado wheezed. "That was air support."

Villamor clicked his mic. "Overwatch, this is Villamor. Uhm—can you say what air asset you sent above us?"

"It's a gunship," Marcus replied.

"Gunship?" Villamor's eyes widened slightly upon hearing that. He was familiar with the AC-130—dubbed the Angel of Death. The Philippine Air Force didn't have that capability. Not even close.

"The hell do you mean a gunship?" Tinio muttered as he wiped grime off his face. "We've got a couple of Hueys back home barely held together with duct tape."

Delgado sat up, blood caked on his pant leg, blinking at the smoke cloud still rising. "You sure that was a 105mm shell?"

"I know that sound," Villamor muttered. "That wasn't just any bird. That was an AC-130."

He keyed the radio again, heart still thumping.

"Confirm that, Overwatch. AC-130?"

"Yes."

Villamor leaned back against the gully wall, silent.

For the first time since the outbreak began, he felt something unusual—something he hadn't felt in months.

Inferiority.

Not in courage. Not in leadership. But in capability.

In pure, unrelenting firepower.

He looked at Tinio and Delgado. They were alive, but barely. Their rifles were scratched, their vests dented, their uniforms torn. A ragtag unit holding together with grit and orders.

And then there was Overwatch.

They had drones at 25,000 feet, precision missiles, real-time battlefield tracking, and a fully armed, functioning gunship in the goddamn sky.

Villamor keyed his mic again.

"Overwatch, this is Captain Villamor. I don't know what kind of operation you're running—but that was the cleanest fire support I've ever seen in my career."

"Well you might want to watch more as we are not done yet. We are going to exterminate the horde of zombies that we have alerted you to just now. You might hear a loud boom but fear not, it's just our gunship lighting them up into smithereens."

Up in the sky, Spooky One banked hard to the right, its massive wings slicing through the clouds as the gunship aligned itself for another pass. The terrain below opened into a tree-choked clearing—grid Lima-Three-Four—where hundreds of heat signatures clumped together, surging eastward.

"Visual on horde," Torres announced, eyes glued to the infrared display. "Estimated three-fifty to four hundred hostiles. Clustered in a tight spread. They're migrating, fast."

"Copy," Roach said, tightening her harness. "We're lighting 'em up."

Inside the weapons bay, the gunners got to work.

"Gunner two, you're up," Ibarra barked. "Start with the 25mm. Target center mass. Sweep right to left."

"25mm online," the gunner confirmed, flipping toggles. "Visual on dense cluster. Firing short bursts."

BRRRRRRT!

BRRRRRRT!

Tracers tore through the tree canopy like angry hornets. On thermal, dozens of heat signatures vanished instantly, bodies blown apart in sprays of gore and shredded limbs.

"Confirmed kills," Cruz called out from the UAV Ops Center. "You're shredding the western flank. Still got hundreds pouring through the center."

"Adjust elevation," Roach ordered. "Gunner one, Bofors. Let's make it hurt."

"40mm locked," the Bofors gunner said, breath steady. "Firing."

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

The explosions rippled through the horde like thunder. Trees collapsed, fire rolled across the underbrush, and the ground shook with the concussive force. Scores of infected were vaporized—limbs flung like rag dolls.

"Command, be advised," Roach said into the mic. "Initial strike successful. Zombies are disoriented but regrouping. Request permission to deploy 105 on rear formations."

"Granted," Thomas's voice came through crisp. "Clean up the back line. We want them off the map."

"Roger that. Gunner three," Roach called out. "Shell up. Rear column. Paint it."

"105 hot," came the reply. "Firing for effect."

KA-THOOM.

A wall of fire erupted at the tail end of the horde. Smoke plumed high into the air as flesh and bone were atomized by the high-explosive shell. In the glow of thermal, dozens more contacts winked out of existence.

"Killbox is working," Torres said. "Movement slowing. They're scattering."

"Keep the pressure," Ibarra snapped. "They regroup, we start over."

BRRRRT!

BOOM-BOOM!

Rounds fell in rhythm. Gunner calls, target confirmations, and kill counts echoed through the cabin like a deadly symphony.

Below, it was a slaughter.

From the Reaper's overhead view, Thomas watched the chaos unfold with grim satisfaction. The kill zone was absolute. Bodies piled, trees ignited, and earth was churned to ash.

Cruz felt also the satisfaction from it and then he requested. "Reaper One-one to Eagle Actual."

"This is Eagle Actual, send traffic," Thomas replied.

"Requesting permission to shoot one missile on the target cluster—eastern flank. Dense grouping, minimal foliage."

There was a brief silence on the line as Thomas weighed the request, eyes locked on the Reaper drone's live thermal feed on his tablet. Hundreds of heat signatures still swarmed through the jungle like insects, some scattering from the AC-130 bombardment, others regrouping around fallen trees and debris.

He leaned forward, jaw tight. "Confirmed. You are weapons free. Light them up."

"Roger that," Cruz replied, voice calm but focused. "Hellfire One going hot. Target locked."

Up at 25,000 feet, Reaper One-One adjusted its angle slightly, the camera panning over the dense eastern flank of the horde. A solid red mass glowed on thermal—easily over a hundred zombies clustered together, unaware of the death looming overhead.

"Missile away," Cruz announced.

From the Reaper's belly, the AGM-114 Hellfire streaked downward, a bright white line against the sky. On Thomas's screen, the countdown began: impact in five… four… three…

Two…

One.

The feed flashed white.

The jungle erupted.

A rolling fireball consumed the east side of the clearing. Trees splintered into shrapnel. Dirt launched skyward in thick, black columns. The horde's eastern edge disappeared in a burst of flame and shockwave.

"Splash confirmed," Cruz said. "Estimated ninety-plus hostiles eliminated."

"Reaper One-One, maintain overwatch," Thomas ordered, eyes never leaving the display. "Continue scanning for breakaways. If they scatter, we chase them down."

"Copy that, Eagle Actual. Holding pattern and scanning perimeter."

Inside the AC-130, Roach nodded at her crew. "We've got them boxed in. Let's clean house."

"105 online. Two shells remaining," Ibarra called out. "Ready for double-tap on central push."

"Send it."

KA-THOOM.

KA-THOOM.

Two rapid-fire blasts from the howitzer pounded the jungle floor, overlapping the previous kill zones. The thermal feed showed dozens more signatures blink out—each one a walking corpse torn to pieces.

Torres squinted at the screens. "We're mopping up now. Movement down to stragglers."

"Keep hammering until there's nothing left," Roach said coldly.. "We don't leave rot behind."

Below, Villamor, still crouched in the muddy ditch with Tinio and Delgado, watched the sky with disbelief. Plumes of fire, smoke, and the distant rumble of explosions rolled across the horizon. The earth itself seemed to quake from the pounding.

"Jesus," Tinio whispered.

Villamor didn't say a word. He just stared—eyes locked on the heavens—watching Overwatch tear apart an entire horde from the sky like it was nothing.

Like war was just another Tuesday.

And in that moment, he understood.

They weren't just fighting to survive.

Overwatch was fighting to win.

And that gave him hope that humanity could still win this calamity.