Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 158: Warthog in Killing Spree
Erika moved through the skeletal remains of Ortigas, her boots crunching softly on debris-strewn floors. The red mist had thinned, but the air remained heavy with decay and tension. She kept her rifle at the ready, eyes scanning every shadow, every corner. The city was no longer hers; it belonged to the Bloom now.
Back at the MOA Complex, Thomas Estaris stood before a bank of monitors, each displaying live feeds from surveillance drones. One screen tracked Erika's movements, her figure a solitary beacon amidst the desolation. Another feed caught his attention: a formation of Bloomspawn, their grotesque forms moving with unsettling coordination, advancing towards the complex's perimeter.
"Marcus, what's the status of those hostiles?" Thomas asked, his voice tight.
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"They're closing in, sir. Estimated time to contact: fifteen minutes."
Thomas's jaw tightened. He couldn't afford to lose the MOA Complex. Not now.
"Deploy the Warthog."
The A-10 Thunderbolt II, affectionately known as the "Warthog," roared to life on the airstrip. Its twin General Electric TF34-GE-100 turbofan engines emitted a deep, throaty growl as it taxied into position. The aircraft's distinctive 30mm GAU-8/A Avenger rotary cannon, capable of firing 3,900 rounds per minute, gleamed ominously under the hangar lights .
"Pilot, your mission is to intercept and neutralize the Bloomspawn formation heading towards our perimeter."
"Roger that, command. Warthog is airborne."
The Warthog lifted off, banking towards the threat. As it approached, the pilot engaged the targeting systems, locking onto the leading Bloomspawn. With a squeeze of the trigger, the GAU-8/A unleashed a torrent of armor-piercing incendiary rounds, tearing through the creatures with devastating efficiency.
The Bloomspawn scattered, but the Warthog was relentless. It circled back, deploying AGM-65 Maverick missiles to eliminate clusters of the infected.
Two of the missiles streaked toward the ground like steel javelins guided by death itself. Their infrared seekers locked onto a massive concentration of heat signatures near a partially collapsed parking complex. The warheads struck with brutal precision—twin flashes of flame and force that sent bodies, biomass, and shattered concrete flying in all directions. A thick plume of black smoke curled into the sky, tainted with hints of crimson mist.
From the command center, Thomas didn't blink.
"Confirm splash," he said.
"Targets neutralized. Estimated seventy-plus," the pilot confirmed.
But the feed didn't clear.
More contacts appeared on the thermal overlay. Not just more Bloomspawn—different ones. Larger. Heavier.
"Sir," Marcus said, voice tight. "New heat signatures. They're coming out of the pod cores. Looks like armored types."
"Patch me into the pilot again."
"Warthog, be advised," Thomas said into the mic. "New targets emerging. Larger. Possibly resistant. Do not attempt low-level strafe until confirmed clear."
"Copy that, Command," the pilot replied. "Switching to Hydra rockets. Let's see if these bastards flinch."
From a wide banked turn, the A-10 dropped lower—just enough to get a clear angle. The pilot toggled the weapon systems and selected the 70mm Hydra pods mounted under the wings.
He squeezed the trigger.
Dozens of Hydra rockets screamed from their launch tubes, spiraling toward the advancing creatures like a swarm of angry hornets. They hit hard—some striking directly, others exploding nearby. The results were violent. Two of the lumbering figures staggered, one collapsing under the barrage, but the other kept moving. Its body was like plated carapace, thick as tank armor, ribs turned outward into jagged spines.
"Confirmed partial kill," the pilot said. "Armor's tougher than expected."
"Hit it again," Thomas ordered.
The Warthog circled once more. This time, the pilot lined up a clean shot and squeezed off a burst from the GAU-8/A.
BRRRRTTTT.
The rounds hammered into the larger infected's upper body—bones shattered, flesh tore, and what passed for a spine exploded in a shower of dark red. The beast dropped mid-stride, crumpling like wet paper.
"Contact down," the pilot said. "But it took a full burst. These aren't walkers anymore. They're evolving."
Thomas's jaw clenched. The Bloomspawn weren't just spreading—they were escalating. Testing Overwatch's response. Pushing back.
"Clear the rest of the formation. Leave nothing moving," Thomas said.
"Affirmative. Continuing run."
Back in Ortigas, Erika crouched behind a derelict generator shed on the roof of an old shopping complex. She could hear the distant thunder of the Warthog's cannon, feel the tremors of its bombs in her bones. From her position, the city skyline flickered in the afternoon haze—lit by missile bursts and the rolling fire trails of high-speed rotary rounds.
She knew the sound. She'd heard it during drills. But this? This was war. She pulled her scarf tighter around her mouth, trying to filter out the lingering mist, and kept moving. Whatever the Warthog was targeting, it was between her and the western sector—her best shot at eventual extraction.
She needed to move now, while those creatures were distracted.
Another Hydra salvo lit the horizon. She ran.
Meanwhile, the Warthog swept over another block, this time deploying a Mk-82 low-drag bomb—a general-purpose 500-pounder—right into the heart of an overgrown Bloom Nest core forming along a school courtyard.
"Package away."
A second later, the screen in the MOA Complex command center lit up with a flash. The detonation sent a shockwave through the block, leveling whatever had managed to sprout around the center. Glass shattered in all directions, spores ignited, and a plume of ash and bio-flame surged toward the sky.
"Direct hit," the pilot confirmed. "Nest is down. Moving for cleanup passes."
But then the Reaper drone overhead picked up something new.
"Sir," Marcus said. "We're detecting strange EM pulses around the blast radius. Fluctuating signal... not standard. We've seen this before—back when the Bloom reacted to stress testing in the lab."
Thomas narrowed his eyes. "Are we triggering another transformation?"
"We might be," Marcus said.
On the display, another thermal signature flared—then three more. Smaller. Quicker.
The pilot saw it too.
"Multiple fast-movers breaking from blast radius. Engaging."
He banked hard, pulling the Warthog into a wide S-curve and unleashing another burst of cannon fire. The 30mm rounds chopped through the fleeing infected, sending bodies tumbling across the street like ragdolls.
But one made it through—a spindly Bloomspawn with elongated limbs and blade-like arms. It skittered through alleyways, darted between cars, and vanished under a collapsed tunnel.
"Lost one," the pilot reported. "Pursuit not viable without visual."
"Return to base," Thomas ordered. "We've pushed them back enough for now. We'll get the rest when we know what the hell we're looking at."
"Copy. RTB."
The Warthog banked one final time, engines roaring as it pulled away from the smoldering city ruins. The streets below burned. Bloomspawn lay scattered in pieces. Fire and ash danced in the wind like confetti at a funeral.
Inside the command room, the mood was quiet. Everyone watched the monitors, absorbing the magnitude of what had just happened.
Phillip walked in from the adjacent briefing room, sweat still clinging to his temple.
"That sounded like war," he said.
Thomas gave a slow nod. "It was."
"They'll retaliate."
"I know."
He turned toward the feed tracking Erika's movement. She had made it to the top of another building—an old hotel now turned into a collapsed concrete husk. From above, her figure was small but purposeful.
"She's still alive," Thomas said quietly.
