Marcus waved dismissively at the zombie dragging Armstrong away, gesturing as though sending off a loyal servant. Then he crouched beside Armstrong's crumpled body and carefully pulled the steel rod from his abdomen. A fresh burst of blood splattered across Marcus's shirt, painting it dark red.
Armstrong's chest still rose and fell faintly—a shallow, fragile rhythm. He was barely clinging to life.
"Perfect," Marcus murmured, admiring his handiwork. "Half a life left—just what I needed."
He tore a strip of fabric from his sleeve and tightly wrapped it around Armstrong's abdomen, staunching the bleeding. Then, from his right index finger, a silvery metallic needle extended like a living blade. Without hesitation, he jabbed it into Armstrong's armpit, leaving behind only a pinprick too small for anyone to notice.
[Virus Touch Activated]
[Target: Armstrong]
[Virus successfully injected]
[Status: Infected – No special mutation detected]
[Transformation expected within 4 hours (duration may vary by host condition)]
Marcus smiled faintly. "For small fry like you, this is the only ending you deserve."
He slung the unconscious Armstrong over his shoulder, the man's limp body hanging like a ragdoll, and began trudging back toward the supermarket. His pace was slow, deliberate—each step calculated for dramatic effect.
"Come on, Hawkeye," he muttered under his breath. "There's a lost lamb here waiting for you to save him."
---
Meanwhile, inside the supermarket, Hawkeye had just received the terrified report from the survivors who'd witnessed the attack. Without hesitation, he grabbed his compound bow and sprinted toward the warehouse.
But before he could reach it, a familiar figure appeared in the dim corridor.
"Marcus!"
Hawkeye's eyes widened. Marcus stumbled into view, his body covered in blood, dragging a motionless Armstrong behind him. From the shadows behind them, several zombies suddenly lunged into pursuit.
"Marcus, get down!"
Hawkeye loosed three arrows in rapid succession. Each one flew like lightning, whistling through the air and burying itself cleanly into an undead skull. The creatures dropped instantly, collapsing into a heap of twisted limbs.
Marcus turned, firing a few erratic shots from his pistol while staggering forward. As he spun to reload, his foot caught on debris, and he crashed heavily to the ground—bringing Armstrong down with him.
"Don't move—I've got you!"
Hawkeye rushed forward, drawing and firing another arrow in one seamless motion. The last of the pursuing zombies fell. He dropped to one knee beside Marcus and offered his hand.
Marcus's face was pale, his breath ragged, his clothes torn. He looked utterly exhausted—but he waved off any concern. Instead, he pointed at Armstrong, panic and guilt lacing his voice.
"Armstrong's been impaled—through the stomach! I—I stopped the bleeding, but he's fading fast. Damn it, it's my fault. If I'd reacted sooner—"
"Hey," Hawkeye interrupted gently, his tone steady and reassuring. "You did everything right."
He knelt to examine Armstrong's wound. The bleeding had slowed, but the injury was severe. "Hang on, kid," he said, his voice firm but kind. "Marcus risked his life to pull you out—you're not dying on us today."
With surprising strength, Hawkeye scooped Armstrong up in his arms and started toward the supermarket entrance. Marcus followed close behind, limping but determined.
When they reached the door, the survivors immediately threw it open to help them inside. The moment Armstrong's blood-soaked body came into view, the crowd gasped in horror.
"Make room! Clear the way!" Hawkeye commanded, his voice cutting through the panic. He laid Armstrong down on a display bed in the store's bedding section. Within seconds, the pristine white sheets were stained crimson.
Marcus stumbled through the doorway soon after, his face ashen, his legs barely holding him up. Several people rushed to steady him, showering him with gratitude and admiration.
To them, Marcus was no longer just another survivor. He was a hero—a selfless protector who had risked everything for one of their own.
But then, a chilling voice broke the moment.
Alex.
He had been sitting silently in the corner, but now he rose abruptly and shouted, his tone filled with wild conviction.
"Stay away from him! Do not touch that man!"
The crowd froze.
Alex's hood fell back slightly, revealing eyes burning with fanatic intensity.
"He has been judged! The Lord has punished him! His soul will suffer eternally in the pit, and his flesh will rise as the devil's servant to consume the living! Cast him out—now!"
"Shut up!" Marcus snapped, his voice raw and furious. He charged forward, his fists clenched. "He's not infected!"
Before he could land a blow, several survivors rushed to restrain him, pulling him back.
"Calm down, Marcus! You'll hurt him!"
Breathing heavily, Marcus let himself be held, glaring at Alex as though ready to tear him apart. "That lunatic will get us all killed," he spat. "We need to throw him out before it's too late."
Hawkeye, who had been kneeling beside Armstrong, raised his hand to quiet the chaos. His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp.
"Alex might be wrong," he said, "but he's right about one thing—we have to be sure. Let me check him over. If he's bitten, we'll know."
His voice carried the weight of authority. The others nodded reluctantly and stepped aside, giving him space.
Two survivors dragged Marcus and Alex apart, keeping them restrained at opposite ends of the room, while everyone else slowly filtered upstairs—nervous, whispering, praying.
The atmosphere on the second floor was tense. The survivors huddled together, staring down the staircase as though waiting for the results of a surgery.
"If he was bitten…" one whispered, "we'll have to… do it. Before he turns."
A woman clasped her hands together, eyes glistening. "God, please… let Armstrong live."
"God has already forsaken him!" Alex cried suddenly, his voice echoing through the aisles. "He is no longer of this world—his body is but a shell for the demon!"
His words sent ripples of unease through the group. Fear spread faster than reason.
Minutes passed like hours. Then, finally, Hawkeye emerged from the stairwell. His hands and forearms were smeared with blood. His expression was unreadable.
Everyone surged toward him. "Well?!"
He hesitated, then sighed. "He's not bitten."
A wave of relief swept over the room.
"Thank God!"
"Praise the Lord!"
"Thank heavens!"
The survivors cheered, their joy as fierce as their earlier dread. For a moment, the hopeless air lifted, replaced by the fragile light of optimism.
Hawkeye raised a hand, silencing them again. His voice was calm but grave.
"Don't celebrate just yet. He's badly injured—I don't know if he'll make it through the night. Is anyone here a doctor? Or at least a medic?"
A young man in a college hoodie stepped forward hesitantly. "I—I studied medicine. I'll do my best."
"Good. Go," Hawkeye said with a nod.
The student and two of his friends hurried downstairs, medical kits in hand.
"Save him if you can," Hawkeye muttered quietly, his shoulders sagging from exhaustion. He walked to a nearby corner and sank down beside Marcus, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Neither man spoke for a long moment.
The hero and the monster—sitting side by side, waiting for dawn.
____
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