Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 126: Located the Base

The doors to the Crimson Cathedral creaked open just past midnight.

Waker Ramon entered, his crimson robe soaked with rain and sweat. He dropped to one knee as soon as he reached the center aisle, fists clenched at his sides, head bowed. Behind him, two scouts stood silently — lean men with hollow eyes, their faces marked with black ash in the pattern of the sun.

High Father Elias Montano turned slowly from the altar. His hands were clasped behind his back. He had been standing before the chained husk of Sister Teresa for hours, whispering prayers only he understood.

Now, his gaze fell on the kneeling Waker.

"Speak, brother," Elias said.

Ramon raised his head. "We have found them."

Elias tilted his head.

"In Bataan," Ramon continued, "a military compound. Reinforced. Armed. Solar power. Vehicles. We counted over a hundred. Possibly more."

A murmur spread through the shadows of the cathedral. Several Red Choir members who had been lingering in the pews turned their heads.

"They've built walls," one of the scouts said. "Real ones. Concrete. Sandbags. Barbed wire. They're organized."

"They call it a safe zone," the other added, his voice laced with disdain. "They think they're rebuilding."

Elias stepped down from the altar, his robes trailing along the blood-streaked floor.

"They would build towers of steel while the world burns?"

He circled slowly around the kneeling men. "They would hoard food and power while the flame offers rebirth freely?"

"They reject the Dawn," Ramon said. "And they gather others."

Elias stopped.

"The virus was their judgment," he said softly. "The dead are their warning."

He turned to the congregation now gathering in the cathedral. Wakers, Tithers, Red Choir—all drawn by the scent of prophecy. Dozens knelt in reverence as Elias stepped back up to the altar, raising both hands.

"And still," Elias said, voice rising, "they resist the fire."

"Still, they cling to their bullets and their machines, pretending this world can be sewn back together with wires and concrete."

"But we know the truth, don't we?"

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"This world is not meant to be saved. It is meant to be remade."

A chorus of "Amen" echoed across the cathedral.

"They fear us," Elias continued. "They mock us. Call us cultists. Call us mad."

"But let me ask you—if we are mad, then what do they call men who hide behind guns and pretend the dead will go away if they wait long enough?"

He walked to the center of the altar, gripping his staff.

"They call themselves survivors. Soldiers. Saviors."

"I call them Rejects."

He pointed toward the heavens.

"The flame offered them a chance at transformation, and they spat on it."

"Now they build their fortress atop stolen ground, stuffing it with sinners and cowards."

He paced across the altar, eyes lit by the flickering fire behind him.

"But the flame does not wait forever."

"The Crimson Dawn will rise over Bataan."

"And their fortress will burn like all the others."

"And when their walls fall, when their bullets run dry, and the dead knock at their gates, they will beg to join us."

The crowd was rapt. Breathless. Devoted.

One of the Red Choir girls, no older than nine, whispered the chant under her breath:

"The fire walks, the fire sings… the chosen don't die, they grow wings…"

Elias turned to Ramon.

"You said they are many. Armed. Disciplined."

Ramon nodded. "Yes, Father."

"Then we will not march to the gates like lambs. Not yet."

He raised one finger.

"We will enter as they do—quietly."

The Wakers exchanged glances. One spoke. "You want us to infiltrate the camp?"

Elias smiled faintly behind his mask.

"No. Not you."

He turned and gestured toward the back of the cathedral. A side door opened, and a group of five stepped forward — the Penitents.

They were dressed in civilian clothing, torn and dirtied. No red robes. No symbols. Each wore a collar made of bone, and their eyes were sunken, pupils wide. They moved slowly, deliberately, like actors rehearsing their roles. One of them had a scar across his face where his eye used to be. Another was missing a hand, replaced with a rusted hook.

"These," Elias said, "are the Flame's shadows."

He gestured for them to kneel.

"They will go to the fortress. They will weep. They will beg. They will lie."

"And they will be welcomed."

The Red Choir began to hum, a low rhythmic chant.

Elias walked behind the Penitents and placed a hand on each of their heads.

"Once you infiltrate their base," he said slowly, voice heavy with conviction, "you will let the gates open."

The Penitents remained still, heads bowed. Not one flinched.

"You will smile. You will nod. You will eat from their tables and sleep in their quarters," Elias continued. "And when they begin to trust you... when they believe you are broken and grateful…"

He leaned closer, his voice a whisper now, laced with venom.

"You will kill their guards… quietly."

Gasps echoed from the congregation.

A low, reverent murmur spread like wildfire through the cathedral.

"And when the gates are unchained and the flood begins," Elias said, his voice rising, "you will let the flames walk in."

He slammed the butt of his staff against the stone floor, sending a sharp echo through the cathedral. The flames from the iron braziers flared as if awakened by his words.

"They will watch their walls fall not to bombs, but to belief. They will die not from bullets, but from truth. And when the chosen ones tear through their streets, they will finally understand that mercy has passed them by."

The Penitents remained motionless, ready to walk into the lion's den with fire in their hearts and knives at their belts.

Elias stepped down from the altar and looked upon the crowd — his followers, his instruments of purification.

"Three nights from now, we strike," he declared. "The Penitents will open the gates. The chosen will enter first. And behind them… the Dawn."

He raised his hands as the Red Choir's chanting grew louder.

"Let their stronghold be a tomb. Let their soldiers become servants of the flame. Let the fortress of Bataan fall into ashes and screams."

The faithful roared in response, their voices a storm of praise.

Judgment was coming. And it would arrive wearing a smile.