Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 122: The Crimson Dawn

The sun had long since vanished beneath the horizon, and the town of Santa Candelaria sat in eerie silence. The streets were cracked and broken, lined with blackened husks of once-standing homes. Rooftops sagged under rot and water damage. Stray birds no longer perched on power lines — they had learned to stay away.

In the heart of the ruined town stood the Crimson Cathedral— once a Spanish-built church, now a monument to madness. Its stained-glass windows were shattered, replaced by iron bars and blood-stained banners. In place of the cross stood a crude metal sun, jagged and sharp, its rays dripping red like fresh wounds. Fires burned from iron drums scattered across the courtyard, casting orange light against the worn stone walls.

Tonight was a sacred night.

Inside the cathedral, rows of men and women stood shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed, faces hidden behind red cloth masks. Each one wore tattered robes dyed in shades of maroon and brown, soaked in time, dirt, and something else darker. The air smelled of incense and decay — a cloying mixture that clung to their skin and clothes.

From the back of the cathedral, a slow, rhythmic chant began.

"The flesh is clay. Let it be remade..."

Dozens of voices joined in unison, low and droning.

"The world was sick. The flame has come."

A line of Red Choir acolytes entered from the side aisles, barefoot and swaying. They rang small brass bells tied to their wrists and ankles, moving in perfect rhythm as they encircled the congregation. Their faces were veiled, their arms outstretched. Some were children. Their voices didn't waver.

"The dead are not cursed. They are chosen."

The chants grew louder, almost deafening, bouncing off the high stone walls and swirling in the rafters like a storm.

Then, the doors at the altar opened.

All chanting stopped.

A figure stepped through the threshold, backlit by flickering flame. He wore a long red robe stitched from the uniforms of soldiers, civilians, and priests. A rusted crucifix — sharpened into a spear at its base — rested in his hand. His face was covered in a crimson mask with sunburst patterns. Only his eyes were visible, dark and hollow.

High Father Elias Montano raised his staff and walked forward in silence. The congregation knelt as one.

He ascended the steps and stood at the altar, where the statue of the Virgin Mary had been replaced by a decaying zombie bound in chains. It twitched and gurgled, eyes rolled back, teeth grinding. A fresh flower crown sat on its head. Blood pooled beneath it.

"Brothers and sisters," Elias spoke, his voice rough like stone. "Nine moons have passed since the old world burned. Nine moons since the liars and false shepherds left us to die in the streets. Yet... here we are."

He slowly turned to the crowd, eyes scanning each bowed head.

"Here we remain. Not because we clung to science. Not because we begged for help. But because we listened. We understood the message."

The bells jingled faintly as the Red Choir knelt behind him, still swaying.

"The virus," Elias said, "is not a curse. It is a correction. The flame that purifies clay. The hand of the Lord, sweeping away the corruption of the old. The world as it was — with its machines, its greed, its unbelievers — is no more."

He raised the staff into the air.

"And we... are what comes after!"

A cheer broke out from the Wakers standing near the altar steps. They struck the ground with their spears in approval. The congregation followed, slapping palms to the stone floor, the sound echoing like war drums.

Elias lowered the staff and pointed at the chained undead behind him.

"Look upon her — Sister Teresa," he said, voice softening. "A mother of four. Abandoned by soldiers. Left to die in a hospital hallway. And yet, she did not die. She transcended. Her body, now a vessel. Her soul, free from the chains of fear."

He turned back to the crowd. "Would you not follow her example?"

The crowd roared again.

"Would you not embrace the fire?"

Another roar.

From a side hallway, two prisoners were dragged in by the Tithers— both tied in makeshift manacles, stripped to their underclothes, bruised and shaking. A man and a teenage boy, likely father and son.

Elias nodded. "Bring them."

The prisoners were thrown to the center of the altar, between Elias and the zombie. The boy cried out, but the man tried to shield him.

"These two were found scavenging inside the holy perimeter," the Waker announced. "They took canned goods from a marked sanctuary. Stole from the tithe box. One even struck a brother to escape."

The crowd hissed in unison.

Elias looked down at the pair with what seemed like sorrow in his eyes.

"You came into our home and took without giving. You feared death. But tell me—" he knelt in front of the boy— "what is there to fear, child? The world you knew is gone. That fear you cling to... it is a lie."

The boy stammered, "P-please… we didn't know… we didn't mean—"

Elias raised a finger.

"You do not need to mean. You only need to accept."

He stood again, staff tapping the stone floor.

"I offer you mercy. The same mercy the flame gave Sister Teresa."

He turned to the crowd and raised his voice.

"These two shall be cleansed not by blade… but by ascension."

The congregation erupted in cheers and chanting. The Red Choir began circling the altar, their bells ringing louder now, almost manic.

From the shadows at the back of the cathedral, the iron gates groaned open.

Chained zombies — four of them — were released from their cages. All women, dressed in robes like the faithful, their skin pale and torn. Their mouths were covered with metal clamps, which were now being unlatched by a pair of Tithers.

The prisoners thrashed against their bindings, screaming now.

"No! Please—no! Not like this!" the man shouted.

The boy was hyperventilating. His knees buckled.

The crowd watched in silence as the undead stumbled forward, dragged by thick chains held by handlers. They were hungry. Their groans echoed like low thunder in the stone hall.

Elias raised his staff once more.

"Feed the flame. Let clay be reshaped."

The Tithers forced the prisoners to stand, shoving them toward the undead.

The boy screamed, "Don't let them! Don't—" but a handler pushed him to the floor, cutting his bindings.

One of the zombies lunged — the boy screamed again, and the creature bit into his shoulder. Blood sprayed. The crowd didn't look away. Some cried. Others whispered prayers.

The father screamed and tried to lunge forward, but a spear held him back.

The boy's cries turned into gargles.

His body spasmed. Then went still.

Elias watched with an almost peaceful expression.

"We do not mourn. We do not run from the flame."

The handlers backed away as the other zombies tore into the boy's corpse. Flesh ripped, bones cracked. Blood pooled beneath him.

Then they turned to the father.

His bindings were cut, and he tried to run — only to be tripped, kicked, and dragged across the stone toward the feeding circle.

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He shouted curses. Screamed that he'd kill every last one of them. He called them animals.

Elias didn't respond. He simply walked up behind the man as the zombies neared.

"You will not die a coward," Elias said gently. "You will rise… a brother."

The man screamed again — and then the undead were on him.

The Red Choir began to sing as the feeding finished.

The crowd stood in reverent silence, watching the altar floor soak in red.

After several long minutes, the zombies were pulled back. The bodies of the man and the boy were left lying in a heap — torn, chewed, and twitching.

A Tither stepped forward and injected something into both corpses — a black serum.

"The seed is planted," he said.

Elias nodded.

"Now we wait."

The crowd began to chant again, slower this time.

"Let them rise… let them rise…"

And then, as if on cue — the boy's hand twitched.

A gasp rippled through the congregation.

His head turned slowly. His eyes, now clouded and pale, locked onto Elias.

The boy — now reborn — groaned and pulled himself forward.

The man followed soon after. His body twitched, then sat up with a sharp inhale.

They were no longer father and son.

They were brothers of the flame.

The congregation began clapping, singing, some even weeping.

The ritual was complete.

Elias stepped forward and placed a hand on the boy's head.

"Welcome to the Dawn."