Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 178: A Moment of Peace

No drones. No sirens. No screams.

Just peace.

For a fleeting moment, Thomas allowed himself to forget the blood-soaked memories, the burdens of command, the endless logistics of survival.

Just water. Just starlight. Just silence.

He swam a few slow laps—not to train, not to push himself, but simply to move without urgency. His body welcomed the rhythm. Each stroke loosened something knotted in his soul, a weight he'd carried since the very first day of the outbreak.

After what felt like an hour, he pulled himself out, dripping and breathing deep. A white towel waited on a nearby chair, placed by someone long before he arrived. He dried off and wrapped it around his shoulders, letting the cool air brush over his damp skin.

Then, as if summoned by fate—or perhaps good scheduling—she appeared.

"Commander," a woman called gently.

He turned.

A civilian woman in her early thirties, wearing a plain gray Overwatch utility apron over a white blouse, stood respectfully by the poolside. Her name tag read Marina, and her eyes held the calm professionalism of someone who had once worked in a world that no longer existed.

"I was told you'd be visiting the wellness floor," she said. "Would you… like a massage session?"

Thomas blinked, then offered a faint nod.

"Yes. Please."

The massage room had been repurposed from one of the old spa suites. Candles flickered faintly in the corners, casting warm amber light against the beige walls. It smelled faintly of lavender and eucalyptus—old oils still preserved from the hotel's heyday, now used sparingly but effectively.

Marina gestured for him to lie on the padded table, and Thomas obeyed, pulling off his shirt and laying down with a quiet grunt as his spine settled into the cushion.

The moment her hands touched his back, he understood just how tense he truly was.

"Your shoulders are knotted like steel cables," she murmured, kneading firmly. "You haven't rested properly in a long time."

"Feels that way," Thomas muttered into the headrest.

She worked in silence after that, using pressure points and careful strokes. Thomas didn't know the names for the techniques, but each motion sent waves of release through him. At one point, he actually let out a groan—half-pain, half-relief.

He didn't speak much.

Neither did she.

But by the time she was done, Thomas felt like his body had dropped ten years of exhaustion. His arms hung limp. His breathing slowed. Even the dull throb behind his eyes had eased.

"Thank you," he said sincerely as he sat up and rotated his neck.

Marina gave a professional smile. "You're welcome, Commander. I used to work here. Before it all fell apart."

"You're damn good at what you do," he said honestly, pulling his shirt back on.

She bowed her head slightly. "We all try to contribute where we can."

Thomas offered her a rare, genuine nod of gratitude before stepping back out into the corridor.

Down in the private dining suite, lit with warm overhead bulbs and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the battered city, a plate waited for him.

Steak.

There was even mashed potatoes, lightly seasoned with rosemary and a side of sautéed vegetables.

He sat slowly, knife and fork in hand, and dug in.

The flavor was… incredible.

Not because it was seasoned like the old world, or because it came from premium cuts—but because it was normal. Because it was food made by people who believed in something again.

Each bite reminded him that survival wasn't just blood and steel—it was in rebuilding moments like this.

He took his time.

Finished every last scrap.

Drank a tall glass of cold water—chilled with real ice.

Wiped his mouth clean.

And leaned back in his chair with a long, satisfied exhale.

The kind of breath that said: I'm alive. We made it, even just for tonight.

Then came the sound of boots.

Deliberate. Calm. Familiar.

Thomas glanced toward the doorway.

Phillip.

His friend and right hand stood there, still bandaged, one arm in a sling, the other holding a secured tablet. The light from the hallway cast long shadows across his face.

"Evening," Phillip said.

Thomas smirked. "You really don't believe in sick leave, do you?"

"Only when I'm unconscious," Phillip replied dryly.

He stepped into the room, the light clicking shut behind him.

Thomas sat up straighter, his fatigue now tempered by habit. "Report?"

Phillip didn't answer immediately.

He walked forward, placed the tablet on the table between them.

His expression had shifted. Calm, but serious.

"Yeah," Phillip said quietly. "We've got something."

The room went still.

And the war, once again, edged back into focus.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from fгeewebnovёl.co𝙢.