Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 181: Hello Once Again

The night sky over Cubao ignited like a second sun.

At precisely 2100 hours, Overwatch's attack begun.

The first shells screamed through the air—155mm HE rounds fired from the M109A7 Paladins perched along the perimeter of the MOA Complex. Each shell struck the crumbled ruins of the old Araneta district like a hammer from the gods, detonating in thunderous blooms of flame, shrapnel, and shockwaves that shattered what remained of concrete towers and skeletal malls.

Each impact cratered the earth.

Each detonation scorched the air.

From the MOA Command Center, the digital map flickered with each confirmed strike. Heat signatures lit up like fireworks—dozens of red markers around the Colossal Worm's coordinates flared and vanished as the outer symbiotes were incinerated by the first barrage.

"Paladin battery report," Marcus called over comms.

A gruff voice returned, thick with adrenaline. "Raven Battery to Command, twenty rounds out. All tubes green. Reloading."

"ETA on next salvo?" Marcus asked.

"Seventy-five seconds, sir."

Then the HIMARS joined in.

High Mobility Artillery Rocket Systems—fifteen launchers fired their payloads in tight succession. Each launcher loosed a full salvo of six GMLRS rockets, arcing high before diving like reaper scythes into Cubao's burning heart.

The earth shook.

Cubao ceased being a district and became a crater.

Back at MOA, Thomas stood still, hands clasped behind his back, watching the war map ripple with expanding red circles—each one a blast radius. Overwatch's drones confirmed: secondary explosions had begun in the worm's nest. Either ammunition cooked off from scavengers… or the worm was reacting.

Then came the scream.

Not audible—seismic.

Deep tremors rolled through the crust, enough to jostle readings on the nearby tiltmeters deployed around the blast zone. Cameras mounted on Reaper One-One caught the moment: the worm rose.

Through flame, ash, and shattered steel, the Colossal Worm reared up, its segmented body glowing with molten lines. Plasma glands near its throat glowed red-hot, then yellow—its signature charging phase.

"Worm's prepping plasma fire," Phillip warned over comms. "Interval tracking in effect. Estimated charge time: twenty-three seconds. Beam duration: eight-point-four seconds."

"Confirm flight dispersal pattern," Thomas ordered.

"Already airborne," Marcus replied. "Evasive pattern Delta-3."

"Break right, break right!"

Apache Echo-Four banked hard just as the worm's plasma beam erupted. A searing column of light—thick as a train car—swept across the sky, melting a row of hollowed-out skyscrapers. The blast lit up the Manila skyline like a sunrise. But this time, they were ready.

The choppers danced.

AH-64E Apaches and AH-1Z Vipers rolled and flared at the edge of the beam's arc, evading just past the burn radius. Chaff and flares deployed automatically, though the plasma didn't seek—it simply vaporized.

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In the cockpit of Echo-Four, Hargrave's voice stayed steady. "Interval reset. We got twenty seconds before it heats again."

"Copy that," came Viper Two-One. "Time to ruin its day."

Viper Two-One dropped low between ruined towers, popped up over the next block, and released a full Hydra 70 rocket pod straight into the creature's face. The explosions burst across its armored head like fireworks. Molten flesh sprayed backward. The worm recoiled—its head shaking violently side to side.

Behind it, Echo-Four unleashed AGM-114 Hellfires, laser-guided straight into the exposed gills along the worm's sides.

Impact. Detonation.

Chunks of scorched meat and bone erupted skyward.

A sharp buzz rippled through the air as the GAU-8 Avenger on Hammer-One spun up.

"On the deck. Hammer-One, guns hot," the pilot called.

From just 500 feet above Cubao's burning crater, the A-10 Thunderbolt II lined up its run. Crosshairs locked on the worm's exposed spinal ridges as it writhed between partially collapsed LRT tracks and fractured foundations.

BRRRRTTTTTTTTTTT

The 30mm depleted uranium rounds shredded through tissue like paper, sending up plumes of black mist as the worm roared in pain, its body convulsing violently. Secondary rounds slammed into the ground around it—targeting retreating symbiotes attempting to repair its armor.

The pilot banked left, flares deploying automatically. "Pulling out. Ammo spent."

Behind him, Hammer-Two and Hammer-Three began their run.

From ten thousand feet, the Ghostriders circled the sky like vultures with cannons.

"Target acquired," the fire control officer barked.

"Firing thirty-mil autocannon. Sector three."

The side-mounted GAU-23/A let loose, spitting high-velocity rounds that chewed through the worm's lower trunk. Followed immediately by a 105mm M102 howitzer—each shot like a miniature earthquake delivered from heaven.

"Griffin missile ready."

"Send it."

The AGM-176 Griffin launched from the underwing rail. Precision-guided. It punched into the worm's gaping plasma gland—just as it began to glow again.

Detonation.

The worm convulsed, beam short-circuiting mid-charge, plasma igniting prematurely within its own throat.

The explosion burst outward, rupturing a section of its upper body—internal organs, bile, and seared cartilage raining into the burning crater below.

"Direct hit confirmed," Marcus said, eyes wide. "Secondary explosion. It backfired on its own plasma."

Thomas didn't flinch. "Continue the barrage. Don't let it settle."

"Roger that. All batteries, fire for effect. Continuous."

On the map, a new ripple of red circles expanded.

Phillip's voice returned on the line. "Symbiote count dropping fast. Half are dead. The others are scattering."

"They'll die tired," Thomas muttered. "Keep the sky hot. No breath. No breaks."

Another feed came in—Reaper One-One zoomed in on the worm's charred, ruptured segments. Its head remained intact… but now sluggish. Trembling.

"It's weakening," Marcus said. "But it's not down."

Thomas's jaw clenched. "Then we keep striking until there's nothing left."

Above Cubao, the air had turned into a hellstorm of missiles, cannon fire, and raining steel. Smoke blanketed the sky. Fire licked the ruins. And at the center of it, the Colossal Worm—once the apex predator of the infected—lay writhing and broken.

But not dead yet.

Its movements were erratic now—jerking, spasming, no longer coordinated like before. Sections of its armored flesh peeled back from the heat, exposing raw muscle and twitching veins. Its glowing plasma sacs flickered—unstable, glitching with each pulsing throb like a faulty reactor on the verge of overload.

From the command center, Thomas leaned closer to the war table, eyes locked on the feed.

"Status?" he asked.

Marcus answered grimly, "It's bleeding out, sir. But it still has enough mass and power to level another city block if it gets a chance."

Thomas's eyes didn't blink.

"Then don't give it one."