Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

Two days later.

​Althea Cruz had spent weeks navigating a world that seemed to have collapsed overnight. The chaos, the constant threat of the infected, and the harrowing journey south had left her with little hope of finding a place untouched by the devastation. Yet, as she stood within the fortified walls of the MOA Complex, she couldn't help but feel a glimmer of disbelief.​

The sprawling complex, once a bustling hub of commerce and entertainment, now served as a sanctuary. The streets, which she had expected to be littered with debris and abandoned vehicles, were surprisingly orderly. Military personnel moved with purpose, their presence a reassuring reminder of structure amidst the chaos. The usual traffic congestion was absent, replaced by the occasional hum of military transports and supply trucks.​

Curiosity piqued, Althea ventured further into the complex. The main entrance to the mall stood open, guarded by soldiers who nodded in acknowledgment as she passed. Inside, the scene was surreal. Shops that once catered to fashion and luxury now displayed essential goods—clothing, medical supplies, and non-perishable food items. Stalls lined the corridors, manned by civilians and soldiers alike, offering services ranging from tailoring to electronics repair.​

Approaching a nearby stall, Althea observed a woman meticulously organizing an array of canned goods. The woman looked up and offered a warm smile.​

"First time in the marketplace?" she inquired.​

Althea nodded. "I didn't expect... this," she admitted, gesturing to the lively scene around her.​

The woman chuckled. "Many don't. After everything out there, it's hard to believe we've managed to hold onto some semblance of normalcy. But we adapt. It's the only way to survive."​

Althea's gaze fell upon a small sign that read "Credits Accepted Here." Furrowing her brow, she asked, "Credits? How does that work now?"​

"It's our way of maintaining order," the woman explained. "The old currency lost its value when the world went sideways. Here, we earn credits through work—helping with defense, farming, teaching, anything that contributes to the community. In return, those credits can be used to purchase goods and services within the complex."

Althea absorbed the information, appreciating the ingenuity. "And everyone participates?"​

"As much as they're able," the woman affirmed. "It's not just about survival; it's about rebuilding, creating a life worth living."​

Continuing her exploration, Althea noticed a crowd gathering near what used to be the central atrium of the mall. Drawn by curiosity, she approached and found a makeshift stage erected where a group was preparing for a performance. The banner above read "ALAB Live Tonight."

As the performance began, the atmosphere shifted. The music was vibrant, the choreography precise. For a moment, the weight of the outside world lifted, replaced by the simple joy of entertainment. Soldiers and civilians alike clapped and cheered, united by the shared experience.​

After the show, Althea approached one of the performers, a young woman with an infectious smile.​

"You were amazing," Althea praised.​

"Thank you," the performer replied, slightly breathless. "We do what we can to keep spirits up. It's essential, especially now."​

Althea nodded, understanding the sentiment. "It's incredible how you've managed to preserve this... humanity."​

"It's not just about surviving," the performer said earnestly. "It's about living. Remembering who we are, what we love. That's what keeps us going."​

As days turned into weeks, Althea found herself integrating into the community. She took on tasks, earning credits and forming connections. The marketplace became a familiar place, the faces recognizable. She even attended more performances, each one a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.​

Yet, amidst this newfound normalcy, Althea couldn't shake the memories of what lay beyond the walls. The friends lost, the family she might never see again. But within the MOA Complex, she found a beacon of hope—a reminder that even in the darkest times, humanity could find a way to shine.​

One evening, as she sat by a window overlooking the complex, Major Rina Torres joined her. The two shared a comfortable silence before Torres spoke.​

"You've settled in well," she observed.​

Althea offered a small smile. "It's not what I expected. It's... more."

Torres nodded. "Even I can't believe that we have a functioning city here in the middle of the zombie apocalypse. It's a safe haven for all of humanity. Making me want to partake in their defense once I am cleared by Overwatch."

"Me too," Althea said. "And I'm sure it's not going to be me being a soldier because I am not fit for it. Say…do you want to watch the performance over there?"

Torres raised an eyebrow at Althea's sudden offer, but smiled. "You sure? Didn't peg you for the type to get into dance numbers and loud pop songs."

Althea let out a soft laugh. "I'm not. But I figure if we're going to be here for a while, we might as well enjoy what we can. I could use the distraction."

"Fair enough," Torres said as she stood. "Let's go."

The two made their way down from the residential quarters, weaving through hallways dimly lit by overhead LEDs. Outside, the complex was buzzing. Civilians chatted by food stalls, children played under the watchful eyes of soldiers, and the faint beat of music pulsed from the atrium once again.

The night air was cooler than usual, with a breeze blowing in from the bay. It smelled faintly of salt, metal, and grilled meat. People gathered around makeshift food carts where chefs—some clearly former restaurant staff—were frying noodles, grilling skewers, and serving hot soup. There were even signs: "CREDITS ONLY," handwritten but neatly displayed.

When they reached the performance area, it was already crowded. Torres nodded to a couple of Overwatch troopers standing nearby, who let them pass and led them to a spot near the front. The crowd's attention was fixed on the stage, where a new set of performers were getting ready.

This time, it wasn't ALAB but a small acoustic trio—two girls and a guy with a beat-up guitar. They played soft, old OPM songs. Simple, heartfelt. Not flashy, but the audience loved it.

Althea stood quietly, hands in her pockets, watching the group on stage. Torres, arms crossed beside her, looked around the crowd. It was diverse—military, civilian, young, old. All of them, in one place, focused on something that wasn't survival.

After a few songs, the crowd clapped warmly. A few whistles echoed out. One of the girls on stage bowed and spoke into the mic.

"Thank you, everyone. We're just volunteers, but music helps us breathe again, right?"

The crowd cheered, some with raised hands, others with simple smiles.

Althea looked over at Torres. "It's strange."

"What is?"

"How normal this feels. Just… people laughing. Music. Even smells like a festival."

Torres nodded slowly. "It is strange. But not wrong. This—" she gestured around— "this is what we're fighting for."

The two of them found a place to sit along the side, near a stall selling hot sweet corn and dumplings. Althea took out a few of her hard-earned credits and bought two paper bowls of dumplings. She handed one to Torres.

"You've got to eat something other than MREs sometime," Althea teased.

Torres raised an eyebrow. "Are you bribing your security detail with food now?"

"Wouldn't be the worst strategy."

They ate in silence for a moment, the music still playing in the background. Althea's eyes wandered around the crowd. She spotted the same girl from ALAB sitting with her fellow performers on a break, laughing with a soldier. A small child ran up to the stage area, clapping along off-beat, causing a ripple of laughter.

It felt unreal.

After the performance ended, the night carried on with light chatter. Some people began to head home, others stayed behind, enjoying the cooler air and company. Althea and Torres walked the perimeter of the atrium, taking in the rest of the market.

There were booths with hand-sewn clothes, others selling soap, toothpaste, and even makeshift cosmetics. A tiny stall offered haircuts—two chairs, one electric clipper, and a woman with precise hands. A sign read: "Buzzcut – 1 Credit. Trim – 2 Credits. Clean shave – 1 Credit."

"What do you think?" Torres asked, nodding at the stall.

Althea smirked. "I'll stick with my toothbrush request for now, thanks."

"You sure? Could rock the soldier cut."

"Not yet."

They looped back toward the residential block, passing by one of the watch posts where two Shadows stood, rifles slung, eyes scanning the distant skyline.

"Torres?" Althea asked as they walked.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think it'll last? All of this?"

Torres didn't answer right away. They walked a few more steps before she finally spoke.

"I think it'll last as long as people believe in it. The moment they give up on it—or start treating it like just another camp—then it falls apart."

Althea nodded slowly.

Back in her room, she sat on her bed and stared at the notebook Thomas had given her. She hadn't opened it yet. The pen sat untouched beside it.

But tonight felt different.

She picked it up and flipped to the first page. For a moment, her hand hovered.

Then she wrote, slowly:

MOA Complex. Day 1. Still feels like a dream.

She stared at the words for a while, then turned the page and began to write more.

Memories.

People they'd lost.

Things she didn't want to forget.

Moments that defined the road here.

And for the first time in weeks, she didn't feel like she was just surviving.

She was living.