Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 128: Sabotage

The sky over Bataan was gray by morning.

Not stormy—just overcast, like the heavens were holding their breath.

Inside the military compound, life carried on like it always did. People moved in tired rhythms. Routines meant survival. Patrol shifts rotated. Meals were rationed and served. Tools were borrowed, returned, and borrowed again.

Nobody noticed the small changes.

Not at first.

In the motor pool, Benito leaned over the open hood of a truck, his limp almost entirely forgotten as he adjusted a loose belt. One of the mechanics, a short man named Cruz, stood beside him, arms crossed.

"That belt's been slipping since last week," Cruz muttered.

Benito nodded. "You'll want to swap that. Could snap while you're mobile."

"I'll put it on the list," Cruz said, scribbling something on a clipboard. "Fuel lines too?"

"Checked 'em. All good."

Benito smiled, wiping his hands on a rag.

He left a small, unnoticeable nick in the coolant line just below the radiator—just enough to leak slowly. Not enough to draw attention for a day or two.

The vehicle would overheat on its next long run. Maybe it would stall during a patrol. Maybe it wouldn't start at all when they needed it.

Benito limped off without a word.

On the far end of the camp, Sandro sat in the corner of the comms tent, pretending to tinker with a broken portable radio. He wasn't the only one there. Several real comms officers bustled about, managing relays and signal checks.

He'd already tested the system the day before—watching which wires were used for inbound signals and which for outbound.

Today, he quietly untwisted the shielding on one of the outbound lines and inserted a slim, pre-modified relay tap, hidden inside the shell of a salvaged battery.

No one saw.

No alarms tripped.

From that moment forward, anything broadcast from that tower could be intercepted if the right equipment was nearby—say, for example, a Crimson Dawn scout hidden in the hills.

Sandro stood up, wiped his hands, and brought the broken radio to the tech on duty.

"Still nothing," he said. "Think the board's fried."

The officer shrugged and tossed it into the junk pile.

In the kitchen tent, Rosalyn stirred a pot of rice while the head cook barked orders around her.

"Don't burn the bottom this time. You scrape that mess and I'll have your hands."

"Yes, ma'am," Rosalyn said sweetly.

Her hands moved with purpose, but her mind was elsewhere.

Last night, Matias had whispered the details.

Three targets.

Patrol rotation gaps.

Gate manual override.

Guardhouse at the southeast fence.

Rosalyn's job was smaller—but no less important.

She was in charge of making sure the Red Dust reached the right mouths.

It wasn't poison—nothing so dramatic.

It was a ground-up blend of rotting herbs and soil laced with a diluted compound brewed by the Wakers. Ingested over time, it weakened the immune system, brought on coughing fits, fatigue, and disorientation.

She stirred it into the bottom portion of the rice pot set aside for the night shift guards—the ones who would be on duty during the third night.

She worked calmly.

Nobody questioned her.

She was polite. Quiet. Grateful.

Harmless.

And then there was Matias.

He spent his time walking.

Not aimlessly, but deliberately. Carrying crates. Hauling waste. Sweeping alleys between tents. Always helping. Always silent. Always listening.

He learned who carried the gate keys, who handled weapons check-ins, and which soldiers drank too much on their breaks.

He memorized the patrol schedules. Noted the overlapping zones where no guards crossed paths for five minutes or more.

He spent two hours watching the gatehouse.

The two soldiers stationed there were young. One leaned against the wall reading a magazine. The other paced with a bored look, weapon slung across his chest like an accessory. They were real soldiers—but complacent.

Too much time in one place made people soft.

He knew it all too well.

By the end of the second day, the Penitents had already laid the groundwork.

Sabotage wasn't just about breaking things.

It was about timing.

Matias sat in the mess hall that night with a plastic tray of boiled vegetables and rice, flanked by Sandro and Benito. They didn't speak aloud, but their body language said enough. Heads low. Chewing slow.

In front of them, on the far side of the hall, Rosalyn fed the boy quietly. He was their anchor—a fake child, sure, but a tool that bought them pity and distance. No one bothered a grieving aunt.

Matias leaned back in his seat.

One more day.

The third morning, General De Vera himself walked through the camp, flanked by his aides. He didn't speak to the Penitents directly, but Matias watched him from a distance.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Carried himself like a man still clinging to the old world.

Matias respected that.

He also pitied it.

De Vera didn't know it yet, but his fortress was already hollow.

That afternoon, one of the officers came by with a clipboard and called Matias by his assigned name.

"You've been here a few days now. Thinking of assigning you to logistics or perimeter work. You good on your feet?"

Matias lifted his stump-hand with a shrug. "I do what I can."

The officer grinned. "Even better. Makes you less threatening."

"Glad to help."

"Head to the north side at 1500. They'll show you the ropes."

At 1500, Matias stood on the north side gate platform, watching one of the guards demonstrate how to manually override the hydraulic lock system.

"In case power cuts out," the soldier said. "Pull this lever, crank here, hold this open. Then the gate can be moved manually."

Matias nodded along.

He looked like he was paying attention.

But in truth, he was counting seconds.

Timing the entire process.

Measuring how much effort it took to get the gate open without power.

The soldier clapped him on the shoulder.

"You'll get it. You're better than half the guys who started here."

Matias smiled.

"Thanks."

That night, the Penitents gathered in their tent.

No lights.

No words.

Just eyes meeting eyes.

Tomorrow.

It would begin tomorrow.

The guards they'd fed Red Dust to were already coughing.

The fuel lines in two vehicles were compromised.

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The relay tap was active.

The gatehouse patrol had been switched—two new kids, barely trained, assigned to the worst shift.

Everything was set.

Matias sat in silence as he listened to the camp's nightly murmur.

Laughter. Metal clanking. Radios humming.

This place felt alive.

It felt hopeful.

It made him sick.

He closed his eyes and prayed—not for forgiveness, not for guidance—but for the fire to come swiftly.

The fortress would fall.

Not with explosions.

Not with armies.

But with whispers in the dark and quiet knives.

And when the gates opened, and the Chosen flooded through…

The screams would begin.