Marcus's sudden intervention only made the eerie moment from before even more unforgettable. Every witness who saw what happened between Alex and the zombie would remember it for the rest of their lives. That was exactly the outcome Marcus wanted.
Sometimes, what people think they saw leaves a far stronger impression than what actually happened. Soon, this story would spread—distorted, exaggerated, and twisted beyond recognition. The first seed of faith had been planted. The first step in cultivating a cult wasn't to convince people—it was to make them wonder.
And nothing fueled human imagination more effectively than fear.
Still, Marcus had to maintain his carefully constructed image of a brave, righteous savior. So he turned to Alex and shouted angrily, his voice filled with righteous fury.
"What the hell is wrong with you?! Are you insane? You trying to get yourself killed? Get out of here before I throw you out myself!"
He grabbed Alex roughly by the collar and yanked him up, pretending to drag him toward the broken window as if ready to toss him outside.
The survivors gasped and rushed to intervene. Whatever Alex had done, they couldn't stand by and let Marcus kill one of their own—not now, not after surviving the chaos together. Several young men threw themselves between them, prying Marcus's hands away and holding him back.
"Calm down, Marcus! Please, calm down!" they shouted as they restrained him.
Marcus breathed heavily, his chest heaving as if fighting to control himself. After a moment, he stepped back and sighed.
"All right. I'm calm… I'm calm. Sorry, everyone. It's just—something about him doesn't sit right with me. Call it instinct, but I swear he'll get us all killed one day."
Across the room, Alex slowly lifted his head. His eyes glinted with an unnatural light—cold, sharp, and unsettling. Even those not directly in his gaze felt an involuntary chill crawl up their spines, as if they'd just stared into the abyss itself.
The mysterious aura surrounding him grew heavier. And just like that, whispers began spreading again.
For now, the confrontation was set aside. The zombie attack had been repelled, and their top priority was to repair the barricades before the next wave arrived. Hawkeye and the others came down from the second floor to help reinforce the damaged windows. With everyone gathered together, it didn't take long for the events of the battle to become the latest topic of conversation.
As the stories spread, so did embellishment.
Everyone who'd fought beside Marcus told of how he'd bravely saved lives—how he'd appeared in the nick of time, how his aim had never faltered, how he'd risked himself to protect the group. In the eyes of the survivors, he had become a true hero.
But Alex's strange encounter with the zombie… that was another matter entirely. People spoke in hushed tones, unsure what to believe. Some thought it was coincidence. Others swore it was a miracle.
And then there was Hawkeye.
When he heard about the event, realization struck him like lightning. If what they described was even partly true, Alex could be the key humanity had been waiting for—a person somehow immune to zombie attacks. A potential cure, or at least, a clue to one.
Without a word, Hawkeye quietly slipped away, finding a dark corner away from prying eyes. He activated his encrypted communicator and contacted S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.
Marcus, who watched him sneak off, smiled faintly. Perfect.
Phase One — Complete.
The goal had been simple:
To make Hawkeye call for a rescue.
Marcus knew that once Hawkeye reported Alex's mysterious immunity, S.H.I.E.L.D. would never ignore it. They'd send a helicopter immediately to extract Alex—perhaps even personally.
And once that helicopter came… the next phase would begin.
Phase Two — eliminate every survivor except Hawkeye.
He could have easily accomplished it by unleashing another horde—thousands of zombies crashing down upon the supermarket until nothing remained. But that would be wasteful. Marcus preferred something far more elegant: to make the fortress destroy itself.
Meanwhile, in a secure channel, Hawkeye was arguing furiously with his superior—Director Nick Fury.
"Nick, I'm asking you one last time," Hawkeye said, pacing in frustration. "Are we really going to abandon innocent people? They're trapped in the middle of this nightmare, surrounded by the infected. Some of them still have families waiting for them—kids who'll never see their parents again. You want me to just stand here and watch that happen?"
On the other end, Fury's voice was deep and steady. "Clint, I understand how you feel. But this isn't a normal rescue op. We can't guarantee that anyone coming out of that quarantine zone isn't infected. I've already had to place the soldiers who rescued you under medical isolation. We still don't know how this virus spreads."
He paused, his tone growing grave. "National Security is pressuring us to hold our position. S.H.I.E.L.D. can't just ignore their orders and go rogue. Your new priority is clear—bring in the man who the reports say the zombies won't attack. If his immunity is real, he could be humanity's only hope."
Hawkeye's jaw tightened. His reply came sharp and immediate.
"Forget it. I'm not leaving anyone behind. I'll get Alex on that chopper, but I'm staying here until the rest are safe. Every single one of them."
"Barton—Clint! Don't—"
The line went dead.
Fury stared at the disconnected signal for several seconds, then muttered under his breath, "Damn fool."
Hawkeye's compassion was both his greatest strength—and his fatal flaw.
He wasn't the kind of agent who blindly obeyed orders. He was the kind of man who followed ideals. That was why, during the Civil War between Captain America and Iron Man, he had sided with the man of principle over the man of authority.
And it was that same idealism that now made him Marcus's easiest pawn.
When Hawkeye emerged from the shadows, the sight before him stopped him cold.
On one side of the supermarket, Alex sat on the floor, surrounded by a small group of survivors. They were kneeling, heads bowed, listening to him recite prayers in a low, hypnotic tone.
On the other side, Marcus stood among another group—directing them as they reinforced the barricades, his shirt streaked with dirt and sweat, his voice steady and reassuring.
In barely fifteen minutes, the survivors had split into two factions.
The realists, led by Marcus Vale.
And the believers, who gathered around Alex.
For now, Marcus's side was the majority. But the division had begun—and Hawkeye knew that kind of fracture was deadly in a crisis.
He strode over to Marcus, his expression stern.
"Marcus," he said, his tone sharp, like a commander reprimanding a soldier. "I was gone for just a few minutes. What the hell happened here?"
Marcus gave a weary shrug, his eyes flicking toward Alex's group. His lip curled in disdain.
"What happened? They got infected—with something worse than the virus. A sickness called faith."
He holstered his pistol and met Hawkeye's eyes, his voice cold and certain.
"Forget them, Hawkeye. They're already dead. They just don't know it yet."
___
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