Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 123: The Crimson Dawn Raid

The boy—what was once a boy—let out a low groan. His eyes were pale and lifeless, his jaw twitching as he crawled forward on broken limbs. The father beside him followed, blood still dripping from his face. Neither of them screamed anymore. They didn't need to.

The faithful stepped back and made room, bowing their heads as the newly risen were led away by the Wakers. No tears. No hesitation. This was not death to them. It was deliverance.

High Father Elias turned to face his people once more.

"Tonight, the flame burns bright," he declared. "But tomorrow… it shall spread."

He raised his rusted staff and pointed toward the far end of the cathedral, where a map had been nailed to the wall. A circle had been drawn in red—marking a small survivor settlement roughly fifteen kilometers east.

Barangay Luntian.

A farming village that had somehow kept its walls standing. Rumor had it they had access to fresh water and solar panels. No one knew if it was true. But to Elias, it didn't matter.

They had not submitted to the Dawn.

And that made them enemies of the flame.

The next day.

Morning never truly came anymore. The skies stayed grey. Ash hung in the air like dust. And the sun rarely broke through the clouds.

Six trucks rumbled down the cracked highway leading to Barangay Luntian. They were old military transports—repainted with Crimson Dawn markings. Red flags flapped violently from the antennas. Most of the windows were removed, replaced with rusted steel plates and small firing ports.

Inside, dozens of fanatics waited in silence.

Men and women clutched weapons—bolts, axes, machetes. Some held scavenged rifles with no scopes, no slings, just raw tools of death. All wore crimson robes. Some had bones stitched to their sleeves. Others carried jars of infected blood.

In the lead vehicle, Waker Ramon, a bald, scar-covered man with a missing eye, stood beside a caged Scourged—an infected cultist who swayed back and forth, snarling.

"Release the flame when I give the word," he said to the handler next to him. "Not before."

"Yes, Waker," the handler replied.

The trucks came to a stop at a small hill overlooking the barangay.

Luntian looked quiet, peaceful even. Small wooden huts, an improvised water tower, a few guards with hunting rifles pacing along makeshift barricades. They hadn't seen the convoy yet.

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Waker Ramon raised his fist.

"Strike teams to the left and right," he ordered. "We surround them. We burn them from the inside."

One of the Tithers grinned. "Any survivors?"

"Bring them back for cleansing."

The Crimson Dawn split into three columns and began their approach through the foliage and ruins.

Inside Luntian, a young woman named Mira was washing vegetables in a metal basin when she heard something.

Engines.

She looked up, frowning.

She stood and shaded her eyes. Nothing at first. Then movement. Shadows in the treeline. Red fabric. Metal glinting.

Her blood ran cold.

"Raiders! RAIDE—!"

Her scream was cut off by a gunshot.

A bullet tore through her chest, and she collapsed next to the basin. The water turned red.

Crimson Dawn poured through the trees like a flood. Screaming. Chanting. Bells ringing.

"The fire is here!"

"The flame is truth!"

"Burn the wicked!"

One of the guards tried to return fire but was hit by three crossbow bolts. He fell from the platform, landing hard on a pile of scrap wood.

People ran in all directions. Mothers clutching children. Elderly men yelling warnings. A man tried to close a metal gate—but a Scourged leaped over it, slammed him into the ground, and tore into his face with yellowed teeth.

The infected were not fast—but they were relentless. And more were coming.

At the rear of the village, a group of Dawn cultists lit a bottle of gasoline and hurled it through a hut window. Flames erupted.

Screams followed.

Waker Ramon marched calmly through the chaos, swinging a spiked flail in one hand. A young man rushed him with a crowbar—only to be struck down in one blow. Skull shattered. Blood sprayed.

"No fear," Ramon muttered. "Only flame."

Children were dragged from hiding spots. The elderly were pushed to their knees. Fires spread fast—wooden homes catching quickly. Chickens screeched. Dogs barked until they were silenced.

A woman ran with a baby clutched in her arms. She made it to the edge of the woods—only for a cultist to tackle her. The baby flew from her grip, landing in the grass. The cultist raised a knife.

Then—

"Enough."

The cultist froze.

High Father Elias had arrived. He stood in the center of the village, flanked by Wakers and Red Choir singers who had begun to chant again.

Elias stepped forward and looked down at the screaming woman.

"You fear death," he said softly.

The woman sobbed.

He turned to his people. "They still fear the flame. Still cling to their flesh."

He pointed to the survivors who had been rounded up—around fifteen of them.

"Bring them forward. Prepare the Ash Pit."

At the far side of the village, a Tither kicked open a large trench that had been dug weeks ago by the villagers for trash and animal waste. It was now a pit of fire and rot.

The prisoners were forced to their knees in front of it.

Elias gestured, and four Scourged were unchained. Their handlers held them back as they growled and snapped.

"This is not a massacre," Elias declared. "This is salvation."

He raised his staff.

"Let the fire decide who shall rise again."

The Scourged were released.

They pounced, tearing into the kneeling villagers. Screams filled the air. Some tried to crawl away. Others simply wept, refusing to run. One man jumped into the fire pit to avoid the infection.

The Crimson Dawn watched in silence.

One child—barely ten—was pulled away by a Waker before the infected reached her.

"She's small. Good lungs. She'll sing," the Waker said, dragging her toward the Red Choir's cart.

Once the pit fell quiet, Elias turned back to his followers.

"Take what's useful. Burn what's not."

He walked toward a wooden post, where someone had hung a small rosary. He took it, looked at it, then tossed it into the flames.

Two hours later, Barangay Luntian was gone.

Only ashes and red banners remained. Smoke rose into the grey sky.

The Crimson Dawn loaded their trucks again—this time with food, tools, and three unconscious survivors. The rest had been fed to the flame.

As the convoy drove off, one of the children in the Red Choir began to hum a melody—soft, eerie.

"The fire walks, the fire sings…

The dead don't die…

They just grow wings."