Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

MOA Complex — Starbucks, Mall of Asia

Four days before system maintenance completion

The smell of coffee was one of the last luxuries that still felt real.

Inside the preserved Starbucks on the ground floor of the MOA mall, the polished counters and glass display shelves looked almost untouched by the apocalypse. The espresso machines whirred steadily, powered by Overwatch-engineered generator backups. The baristas—volunteers trained in food service—moved with calm efficiency, wearing clean aprons and name tags from a world that no longer existed.

Thomas Estaris sat near the back, a black mug in front of him. No logo, no brand—just a solid ceramic mug filled with something dark and bitter.

Across the table sat Howard Briggs, head of Logistics and Supply, in his usual gray Overwatch jacket with a tablet resting beside his arm and a cappuccino slowly cooling in front of him.

For a few minutes, they didn't speak. Just sat in companionable silence, letting the ambient hum of casual chatter, clinking cups, and the low hiss of steam fill the air.

Then Thomas broke it.

"We're burning through our food stores faster than projected."

Howard nodded. "Yeah. I ran the numbers again this morning."

He turned the tablet around and slid it across the table.

On screen were three line graphs, color-coded in red, orange, and green. Red was consumption. Orange was resupply from mall inventories. Green was projected farming output.

The green line dipped before it ever had a chance to rise.

"We've got maybe eight to ten months of existing stocks left—if rationing stays tight and there are no emergencies," Howard said. "But you and I both know that's not how things go around here."

Thomas nodded grimly. "We can't just keep pulling from mall storage and patting ourselves on the back for efficiency."

"No," Howard agreed. "We can't."

They both took a sip of their drinks.

"I want to expand," Thomas said plainly. "We need to look beyond the city. Agricultural provinces. Places like Nueva Ecija, Isabela, maybe even parts of Batangas or Tarlac. Areas that used to feed the whole country."

Howard raised an eyebrow. "You're thinking long-term, not just foraging?"

"I'm thinking sustainable farming. Occupy and secure farming zones. Rebuild irrigation, repurpose barns and silos. Grow again."

Howard exhaled. "It's a solid plan, but you know the obstacles."

"Tell me."

Howard leaned forward. "We don't know what the infection density is outside the city. No updated drone scans past Bulacan. Roads are blocked, bridges are either collapsed or mined. And even if we make it to those zones, we don't know if they're usable. Flooded rice fields. Spoiled soil. Overgrown by Bloom Nests."

Thomas nodded again, not blinking.

"And if we find usable land?"

Howard didn't hesitate. "Then we still need manpower. Trained farmers. Seeds that haven't rotted. Equipment. Fuel for tilling. Fertilizer."

"I also considered factory reclamation," he said. "Snack food plants, canned goods—anything we can restart."

Howard frowned. "Tougher proposition. Most factories can't operate without a steady supply chain. They need sugar, flour, preservatives, packaging. Raw materials that used to come from across the archipelago or abroad. Even if we clear one plant, it's a logistical nightmare to keep it running."

"So we don't," Thomas said. "Not yet."

"No," Howard agreed. "Not yet."

Silence again.

The coffee shop was still filled with survivors—people on breaks from their shifts, engineers reviewing maps, nurses sitting in groups, chatting over cups of warm brew. It looked like a coffee shop from before the world ended. But Thomas knew better.

He knew how much it cost to keep something like this running. Not just in power or supplies. But in hope.

"What about test runs?" Thomas asked. "We send recon teams to scout agricultural zones. Secure a few hectares. Trial runs."

Howard brightened slightly. "Now that we can do."

He brought the tablet back, swiped a few pages, and brought up satellite overlays of Central Luzon. Pinned marks blinked over areas labeled San Jose, Science City of Muñoz, Baliwag, and Camiling.

"These are old irrigation zones," Howard said. "We think the terrain's still usable. Low Bloom Nest presence based on last Reaper sweep two months ago. If we send a small team—recon plus agritech advisors—we can test the waters."

"And if we lose them?"

"Then we don't send another until we understand what killed them."

Thomas tapped a finger on the tablet screen, near San Jose.

"Start with this. Closest and flattest terrain."

"I'll prep a team," Howard said, saving the file. "Maybe three vehicles. One drone. Light gear."

Thomas leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders. "If we're going to survive the next two years, Howard , it's not going to be by sitting inside a mall."

"No argument here," Howard replied. "But one step at a time."

Thomas gave a small smile. "That's what I pay you for."

"You don't pay me at all."

"Exactly."

Howard chuckled and stood, grabbing his drink and tablet. "I'll send you the outline in three hours."

"Good," Thomas said, standing as well. "I'll greenlight the op by evening."

They both left the café and stepped into the mall's main hallway. Families were walking with bags of dry goods. Children were skipping beside guards. Life—if you could call it that—was continuing.

As they walked together down the polished corridor, Thomas glanced at the passing storefronts—some reopened, some still shuttered, all reminders of the old world. But beyond the glass and concrete, beyond the illusion of normalcy, he could already see the next frontier forming in his mind. Fields. Tractors. People with dirt on their hands and sunburns on their faces—not scavengers, not survivors. Farmers.

"San Jose's just the first," Thomas said quietly, more to himself than to Howard. "We reclaim the land, one plot at a time."

Howard gave a small nod. "And hope it doesn't bite back."

Thomas didn't answer.

Because it might.

But it was a risk they would take.

They reached the escalator, where a pair of teenagers were laughing, holding bubble teas bought with contribution credits. It looked like something from before.

Maybe, Thomas thought, it could be again.

He stepped onto the escalator, already thinking about the next move.