Under the curious gazes of a few confused onlookers, Alex knelt with his hood drawn low, his face hidden in shadow. His voice was calm yet fervent, whispering a prayer to a god that did not exist.
"Let me save them, Lord. Let me show them Your truth and bathe them in Your light. They are not all wicked—some still deserve Your grace, Your salvation. Though… most shall burn eternally in the lake of fire…"
A few members of the "realist faction" passed by, snickering at the sight of the praying group. Their contempt was obvious—they saw only delusion and weakness. None of them realized that this quiet divide was quickly growing into something far more dangerous.
Marcus counted silently. The number of believers had grown—seven, maybe eight.
'Still not enough,' he thought. 'We'll need to give our preacher a little more spotlight.'
He turned to Hawkeye. "I'll take a few people to check the back warehouse, make sure no zombies slipped in. You can handle the holy man however you want."
Without waiting for an answer, Marcus pointed to a few broad-shouldered men wearing thick jackets—the ones who'd proven themselves capable in the earlier fight. They obeyed immediately, following his lead toward the dimly lit rear warehouse.
The air there was damp and stale, heavy with the scent of mold. The faint yellow light of a flickering bulb cast long shadows over stacked boxes and broken shelves. Everything looked undisturbed. The windows were still boarded up, the barricades intact.
Of course, Marcus had made sure of that. For now.
"Check the boards for loose nails or cracks," Marcus ordered, keeping his tone brisk and commanding. "If you find anything, report immediately."
As they spread out, he moved to one window himself, brushing his fingers along the wooden planks, pretending to inspect them. In reality, he was removing the nails one by one with surgical precision, loosening the boards just enough to make them collapse at the perfect moment.
---
Mutant Infected Mental Link
Marcus: Alex, report. How's it going on your end?
Alex: Hawkeye's trying to convince me to share the secret of how I avoid zombie attacks. I've… misled him, for now.
Marcus: Good. And the props outside—the files, the bow, the corpses? All ready?
Female Infected: Yes, Master. Everything is prepared and waiting for your signal.
Marcus: Excellent. Let's make Act Two a little more… chaotic.
---
By the time he finished removing the nails, the entire window was effectively defenseless—one good push and the boards would fall away like paper.
He stepped back casually, positioning himself where he could observe the scene while remaining safely out of reach. Then, with a mental command, he called the zombies lurking outside to move in closer.
It didn't take long.
One of the men—a muscular young guy wearing an old football uniform—walked up to that very window. Following Marcus's earlier instruction, he leaned in to inspect the boards. He immediately noticed the missing nails and frowned, confusion spreading across his face.
This wasn't done by zombies, he realized. Someone inside did this.
Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. Could it be that one of the survivors was sabotaging their defenses?
He turned to call out, but before he could speak, Marcus called his name from across the room.
"Armstrong! You don't look so good. You feeling sick or something?"
Startled, Armstrong turned around, words tripping over themselves.
"N-No, it's not that, Marcus! It's— I think someone—AHHH!"
Before he could finish, the loosened boards shattered outward. A rotting hand burst through, grabbing him by the shoulder and dragging him toward the window.
The zombie's jaws clamped down—but the thick padding of his football gear saved him, at least for a moment.
"Help me! Please!" Armstrong screamed, thrashing wildly as the undead tugged him closer to the opening.
Marcus sprinted forward, every movement precise, purposeful. "Hang on! I'm coming!"
He leapt over crates and debris like an athlete, vaulting the window ledge in one fluid motion. As he landed outside, he glanced back and barked an order to the others:
"Board it back up! Don't let more of them in!"
Then he turned his attention to Armstrong, who was being dragged into the narrow alleyway beyond the warehouse.
A few more zombies emerged from the shadows, as if waiting for their cue. They lunged toward Marcus, blocking his path. He slowed his pace just slightly, pulling his pistol and methodically shooting each one through the skull.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Each shot clean. Each kill deliberate.
By the time the last body hit the ground, Armstrong had already been pulled deeper into the alley. Marcus followed, his silhouette vanishing around the corner with his prey.
Inside the warehouse, the remaining survivors stood frozen.
"Should we… go after them?" one of them whispered, his voice trembling.
Another immediately shook his head, desperate to avoid danger. "No way! We can't abandon our post. Marcus said to guard the barricade—if we all leave, this place is done for!"
That reasoning—half cowardice, half convenience—was enough to convince the rest. None of them wanted to admit it, but the truth was simple: no one wanted to risk their life out there.
"Let's call Hawkeye," one of them said suddenly, relief flashing in his eyes. "He'll know what to do! He can save them!"
The others nodded quickly, clinging to that solution as if it absolved them of guilt.
---
Meanwhile, in the dark alley behind the supermarket, Armstrong's desperate cries echoed against the brick walls.
"Marcus! Please! Help me!"
The zombie's teeth still scraped uselessly against the thick padding on his shoulder, unable to break through. He looked up at Marcus with desperate, pleading eyes.
"It's okay," Marcus said softly as he ran closer. "I've got you."
He stopped beside a half-collapsed wall and pulled free a long, rusted iron rod, gripping it like a spear. His expression was one of focus, of determination—heroic, almost noble.
Armstrong's face lit up with relief.
"Yes! Do it! Kill it, Marcus! Hurry—!"
But then, something changed.
Marcus's arms shifted, the angle of his stance adjusting slightly—not toward the zombie, but toward Armstrong himself.
The smile froze on Armstrong's face.
"Wait… Marcus… what are you—"
SHUNK!
The steel rod pierced through his abdomen, the impact forcing a wet gasp from his lungs. Blood poured out in a crimson wave, splattering across the ground.
Armstrong stared in disbelief, confusion clouding his fading eyes. His mouth opened as if to speak—but no words came out.
He collapsed backward, eyes wide, lifeless, the expression on his face one of utter betrayal.
Marcus watched him fall, his hand still gripping the blood-soaked metal.
His lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile.
'The stage is set,' he thought. 'Time for the next act.'
____
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