Standing beside Marcus, Alex seemed to sense his master's intent. He spoke cautiously, his voice low and respectful.
"Master, do you intend to attack the stronghold directly? I can summon all six Mutant Infected and gather every zombie nearby for a full-scale assault."
Marcus smiled faintly, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. As he gazed upon the heavily fortified supermarket below—its defenses, guards, and even a certain Avenger standing watch—he looked not at a fortress, but at prey already laid upon the butcher's block.
"There's no need to waste that kind of effort on something so small," he said lightly. "You and I are more than enough, Alex."
One of the female Mutant Infected nearby, unable to contain her worry, knelt hastily before him.
"Forgive my impertinence, Master! But the man they call Hawkeye—he alone could rival an entire army! Facing him with only a tenth of your true power is far too dangerous. Please, allow us to summon the horde. Let us attack together!"
Marcus chuckled quietly, shaking his head. "An army? Perhaps… if he were alone. But he's not."
He turned his eyes toward the supermarket's second floor window, where Clint Barton—Hawkeye—stood among frightened civilians, arguing heatedly with a handful of armed survivors. The sight drew a faint, mocking smile to Marcus's lips.
"Surrounded by helpless people to protect, burdened by their fear… he's not an army. He's a soldier in chains."
Alex, ever loyal, nodded at once. "Understood, Master. Your substitute body can be rebuilt endlessly so long as the undead remain. My life, however, is yours to spend as you wish."
"Relax, Alex," Marcus replied, tapping his temple with a sly grin. "This body might only have a tenth of my power… but my mind? That's still at full capacity. We're not going to storm that place with brute force."
He turned toward the glowing supermarket across the darkened street.
"No. We're going to perform—a grand play filled with fear, betrayal, and blood."
---
Eastern United States — 1:07 a.m.
Clint Barton, codename Hawkeye, was in trouble.
Ever since he had chosen to stay behind, letting S.H.I.E.L.D.'s rescue helicopter carry off the wounded and the children, the fate of everyone trapped in the supermarket had fallen squarely on his shoulders. Dozens of survivors now looked to him as their last hope—an expectation that grew heavier with every passing day.
Every few hours, someone would approach him with the same desperate question:
"When are the soldiers coming?"
He'd called S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters so many times that he could recite their response word for word:
"Rescue helicopters remain on standby. Large-scale evacuation plans are still under congressional review."
"Congressional review."
Clint knew what that meant—bureaucratic paralysis. By the time those self-serving politicians finished arguing, half the city would be dead. But orders were orders. He couldn't commandeer a chopper on his own, not without going rogue again. So he stayed, guarding this frightened crowd, trying to hold their morale together with lies he no longer believed.
Thankfully, their situation wasn't hopeless. The supermarket was large and defensible, and the adjacent gun store had provided enough weapons to arm everyone who could pull a trigger. Under his leadership, they'd turned the place into a fortress. No horde would break through easily.
"Listen up," Clint said, addressing the anxious faces before him. "The army will come. We just have to hold the line until then. We've made it this far—we can make it a little longer."
Even as he said it, he knew the words were hollow. But right now, false hope was better than no hope.
Then—
"BANG! BANG! BANG!"
Gunfire echoed outside, drawing everyone's attention. Survivors rushed to the second-floor windows, peering into the street below.
Two men were sprinting toward the supermarket, panic written across their faces. A dozen zombies were chasing close behind.
One of them—a dark-haired youth, no more than eighteen—fired his 9mm pistol with deadly precision, dropping several undead with clean headshots. The other man wore a hood that concealed his face and didn't bother looking back—he simply ran straight for the entrance.
The young gunman spotted the people watching from above and shouted desperately:
"Open the door! Please! We need help!"
For Clint Barton, hesitation wasn't an option. He drew his bow, vaulted from the second-floor railing, and loosed two arrows midair.
Thwip! Thwip!
Both found their marks, skewering two zombies through the forehead before he even hit the ground.
---
Marcus: "That aim… impressive. Alex, how confident are you in taking him down right now?"
Alex: "None, Master. I would fail."
...
Hawkeye landed lightly, his movement as fluid as a dancer's. In one swift motion, he grabbed the hooded man's wrist and yanked him toward the entrance, where other survivors dragged him inside. Then, without pause, he pivoted toward the gunman still outside.
His bow became a weapon of close combat, the reinforced limbs striking and slicing like twin blades.
A lunge. A sweep. A parry. A strike.
Every motion was deliberate, efficient—beautiful in its precision.
Zombies fell in droves, bodies piling at his feet. Within a minute, the street was littered with limbs and blood, and not a single undead remained standing.
Marcus watched from afar, his eyes narrowing slightly. "No wonder they say one man can equal an army."
Hawkeye turned to the young man, panting slightly but unscathed. "You okay, kid?"
"I'm fine," Marcus replied, playing the part perfectly. He forced a nervous laugh. "But damn, man—you were awesome!"
Clint gave a half-smile, the kind of faint, tired grin that came from hearing praise he didn't care for. "Come on. It's not safe out here."
---
And so, the survivors welcomed two new faces.
After confirming neither had been bitten, they were met with warm smiles and relief. When the introductions began, the young man introduced himself as Marcus Vale, and the hooded companion as Alex.
They claimed to have met by chance while scavenging for food, forced to flee together when the horde ambushed them.
"I thought I was dead for sure," Marcus said, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish grin. "Seriously, man, thank you. You saved my life. Oh—and what do I call you, by the way? 'Coolest dude alive' seems a little long."
"Just call me Hawkeye," Clint replied tersely, his expression guarded. Years of espionage had taught him never to trust too easily.
As laughter and chatter filled the supermarket, the survivors celebrated what they believed was a stroke of luck—two more living souls joining their ranks.
None of them realized that what had entered their fortress that night was not salvation…
…but the beginning of their end.
____
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