Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 195: The Work Continues & System Maintenance Nearing Completion

November 6, 2025 – 1600 Hours

Forward Agro-Zone One – San Jose, Central Luzon

The sky had turned gold by late afternoon, the kind of warm hue that once meant harvest season to generations long gone. Now, it cast long shadows across the trench lines, scaffold towers, and scattered machinery dotting the reclaimed farmland.

Work hadn't stopped. It wouldn't.

"Hold it steady—steady!" a crane operator yelled from the cockpit of a compact crawler crane. Its boom arm lifted a large water tank, swaying slightly in the breeze. Below it, two Overwatch engineers guided the cylinder into a circular metal cradle embedded in fresh concrete.

"Hydraulic locks engaged," one of them called. "Anchoring complete!"

To the north, another team worked on trench-digging. Not with power augers or excavators—they had those—but this section was too delicate. The old irrigation channels ran close to the surface, and one wrong cut could collapse the brittle cement structure buried below.

So, they dug by hand—pickaxes, shovels, elbow grease.

"Depth's holding steady at one meter. We've got contact with the main feeder line," said a hydro tech, sweat dripping from his bandana as he brushed aside the last clump of dry earth.

Thomas crouched beside him.

He looked down into the trench, then at the exposed concrete pipe. "This is the original system from the 80s."

"Yeah. Still surprisingly intact. We can reinforce it with PVC sleeves and reroute flow to new basins."

Thomas nodded. "Do it. And start mapping water distribution patterns for this zone. Any sign of leech growth?"

"None. Soil's clean, sir."

That was good news. The Bloom Nests weren't present in the sublayer—yet. But Thomas had seen firsthand how fast things could change.

He stood and turned toward the horizon. The second wave of aircraft was already inbound.

Three more CH-53E Super Stallions thundered in from the west, engines groaning under the weight of new cargo modules, hover drones, and modular greenhouses. A flight of V-22 Ospreys followed behind, their tilt-rotors shifting to vertical mode as they approached.

"Wave Two on final approach!" a flight marshal yelled over the rising wind.

"Clear landing zone!" came the reply from field control.

Crewmen moved fast, waving glowsticks and holding up paddles as the aircraft came in one by one, flaring and dipping until their wheels crunched onto the makeshift pad. Dust flew everywhere, coating faces and gear in a fine brown film.

But nobody complained.

They had work to do.

By 1800, lights began to flicker on.

The solar array along the southern ridge had gone live, charging a backup battery bank that now powered lamps, consoles, and the overhead floodlights above the landing strip. Blue-white LEDs lined the walkways between the habitat modules. A generator station hummed behind a wall of sandbags, belching heat as its engines kicked into idle.

Overwatch engineers were finishing the greenhouse shells now—five translucent domes, each with internal misting systems and insulated walls. Two were hydroponic units, the rest soil-based, seeded with fast-growth vegetables and high-yield rice strains.

"Temperature regulation's online," an agri-tech reported. "Interior climate stabilized at twenty-two Celsius. Seed trays are being prepped now."

Across the field, a group of Overwatch soldiers—off-duty but still alert—took up night perimeter watch. One man climbed the scaffolding to man a mounted thermal scope while others patrolled in pairs, rifles slung, eyes scanning the treeline.

Phillip stood near the central command module, hands on his hips, watching the night operation unfold.

"How many people are up here now?" he asked.

"Eighty-six, including crew, techs, pilots, and guards," answered Corporal Reyes, the deployment coordinator. "We're expecting twenty more by morning. That's our current operational limit without stretching rations."

"And the kids?"

"Sleeping. Med staff gave them something mild to help. They've got their own cot in the med bay."

Phillip nodded, then looked back out over the field. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

The view was surreal.

Where once had been cracked dirt and windblown ruins, now stood rows of structured activity. Machines hummed. Lights buzzed. Teams moved with practiced coordination. Even the distant air buzzed with renewed presence—motion sensors, spotlights, relay towers all forming a living web.

It wasn't a city.

But it was civilization.

"I'll take third watch," Phillip said, stepping away.

"Copy that, sir."

Night deepened. 2000 hours. Then 2200.

Then 0100.

Still they worked.

The hydro teams began laying the secondary pipe network deeper into the fields, aided by short-range digging bots shaped like moles. Overwatch logistics teams offloaded crates labeled with barcodes and timestamps. Some were ammunition and emergency rations, others marked SEED STOCK – GENETIC VARIANT 17B or SOIL RECON AGENT – DO NOT EXPOSE TO AIR.

Farther out, a two-man patrol inspected motion sensors embedded along the ridge.

"Sensor 3B offline," one of them said, kneeling by the blinking red light. "Might've shorted from rotor wash earlier."

The other soldier checked the base plate. "Connector's loose. Re-seating it now."

They fixed it in under five minutes, reactivated the IR scanner, and logged it with base control.

Every step mattered.

Every fix was a future meal. A future harvest. A future defense.

By 0300, some of the crew finally rested. Not all.

Most took turns on folding chairs or inside cots inside climate-controlled modules. The medics rotated in fresh coffee brewed from the last remaining bags of roasted beans recovered from a Manila warehouse. It wasn't the best brew, but it tasted like stability.

Thomas remained awake.

Inside the central command tent, he reviewed drone overlays of the surrounding provinces, tagging possible secondary zones for future reclamation.

"Zone 8A near Tarlac… maybe," he muttered, highlighting an area with elevated terrain and surviving water channels.

He keyed into his wrist console.

System Maintenance Completion: 2 hours and 53 minutes.

"It's getting closer."

Voices rose. Boots thudded. Cots creaked.

New teams took over patrols. Crews resumed digging. Farmers-in-training grabbed toolkits and headed for the greenhouse. One group of bioengineers prepped a trench for soil microbial testing.

Phillip returned from watch, face shadowed, gear dusty.

Thomas met him at the center walkway.

"Still think it's a long shot?" Thomas asked quietly.

Phillip looked out at the growing lights, the distant drone hum, the greenhouses now misted from within.

He shook his head.

"No," he said. "I think this place has a shot at life."

Thomas nodded once.

"Then let's make sure it sees morning. We can move some of the survivors from MOA, you know, to avoid overpopulation."

"Yeah…that's a good idea."