Just as the survivors were rallying themselves to risk their lives for Armstrong's sake, a cold, discordant voice cut through their determination like a knife.
It was Alex again. His expression was shadowed, his tone chillingly devout.
"You're walking into the devil's embrace," he declared. "You would defy the Lord's judgment and aid His punishment. None who defy Him shall ever be forgiven. Only the faithful who submit will follow His messenger into paradise."
"Don't mind that lunatic," Marcus said with clear disdain, casting Alex a fleeting glance before turning his attention back to the med students. His voice grew brisk and practical.
"We need antibiotics, surgical needles, hemostatic cotton, and as many bandages as we can carry. Did I miss anything?"
"That's… that's everything," one of the med students said quickly. "Thank you, Marcus. Every time we're in trouble, you're the first one to step up."
It was true—this was the third time Marcus had taken action to save someone's life, and by now, his reputation among the survivors had eclipsed even Hawkeye's.
"Good," Marcus said, smiling warmly. "Then let's move."
Somewhere along the way, leadership had quietly shifted. Without anyone quite realizing it, the group now looked to Marcus, not Hawkeye, for direction. It wasn't hard to see why—Hawkeye was calm, efficient, but distant; Marcus, in contrast, was approachable, charismatic, and always ready to speak to anyone.
That fiery speech about "American spirit" earlier had sealed it. Even Hawkeye had publicly praised him. Who else could lead but Marcus Vale?
No one suspected that the man they now trusted so completely was secretly plotting their deaths.
And step by step, his plan was advancing exactly as intended.
---
The ten-person team slipped silently out through the supermarket's front entrance. After a brief survey of the street, they dashed across the corpse-strewn road and reached the pharmacy opposite.
There was no generator here—the inside was pitch black, the kind of oppressive darkness that made the air feel heavy. The weak beams from their flashlights only deepened the eeriness, revealing glimpses of overturned shelves, broken glass, and faded signs.
Hawkeye raised his hand in a silent signal.
"I'll take point," he said quietly. "Stay close and don't fall behind."
"Understood!" Marcus answered before anyone else, his voice steady.
The group formed a narrow column, weaving cautiously between the aisles. Every corner could hide death. But in this suffocating darkness, Hawkeye's instincts were razor-sharp—every zombie that stirred or twitched met an arrow through its skull before it could take a step.
He truly lived up to his legend.
Even among the Avengers, Hawkeye's reaction speed and spatial awareness were unmatched. In Age of Ultron, the Scarlet Witch had singlehandedly ambushed the likes of Black Widow, Captain America, Thor, and even the Hulk—but her one failure had been trying to sneak up on him.
The old hunter saw it coming, turned, and drove an arrow straight into her temple.
Aside from Spider-Man's supernatural precognition, no hero rivaled Hawkeye's ability to detect ambushes.
That was why Alex had said earlier, with absolute certainty, that a sneak attack on Hawkeye had zero percent chance of success.
---
Under his leadership, the team advanced smoothly and reached the pharmacy's rear storage room without injury. There, among the dusty shelves and debris, they found the supplies they needed.
But they also found something else—something Marcus had been waiting for.
Following his subtle prompting, they discovered several bodies.
They were soldiers—American soldiers, by the look of their uniforms. Their formation suggested they'd died defending something. The rifles clutched in their stiff hands bore signs of recent use; they had gone down fighting.
At the center of the group lay a man in a blood-stained lab coat, curled protectively around his chest as if guarding something precious.
Marcus didn't hesitate. He raised his pistol and fired several sharp shots into the corpses' skulls.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Only when the echoes died away did he lower his weapon and say calmly,
"They were probably escorting someone important. Doesn't matter anymore. Check their bodies—take whatever's useful. And pick up their guns. Hawkeye, keep watch."
While Hawkeye turned toward the corridor, the others began rummaging through the bodies. Their efforts quickly paid off—two grenades, a few magazines, and several M4 carbines still loaded.
Then came the real find.
One of the young men knelt by the man in the lab coat, prying open the stiff fingers clutching at his chest. He reached inside and frowned when his hand brushed not metal or medicine—but paper.
He pulled out a small bundle of documents bound crudely with wire. At first, he assumed it was junk—some random medical report. But when his flashlight passed over the title page, his face drained of color. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.
"Hey, what's wrong?" his friend whispered.
The young man jerked his head up, eyes wide, then quickly stuffed the file into his jacket, mimicking the dead scientist's earlier posture.
"N-nothing," he stammered. "There's nothing here. Let's get out of here."
Marcus, standing quietly at the rear of the line, watched everything with a faint, knowing smile. It flickered for only a moment before vanishing again.
The documents had been found—that was what mattered. And with his objective achieved, it was time to end this little expedition… in blood.
A sudden, piercing howl shattered the silence.
"Raaahhhh—!"
Dozens—maybe hundreds—of zombies burst from every direction, surging out from behind counters, through shattered walls, even crawling from broken vents. In seconds, the ten-man team was completely surrounded.
The cramped aisles offered no room to maneuver, and the darkness amplified every sound, every scream, every heartbeat.
"Fall back!" Marcus barked.
The order was exactly what they wanted to hear. The survivors began firing wildly, retreating step by step toward the entrance.
Meanwhile, Hawkeye stayed behind to cover them. In one smooth motion, he reconfigured his bow into its close-combat form and charged straight into the swarm. His movements were sharp, fluid, terrifyingly precise.
"Go!" he shouted. "I'll hold them off!"
Anyone else saying that would've been signing their death warrant. But this was Hawkeye Barton. His body moved with effortless precision, every strike clean and efficient.
The undead never stood a chance.
Even a million of them couldn't hope to tear down this single, relentless hunter.
Good thing Marcus hadn't set his sights on him.
His real targets were the frightened young men scrambling for the exit—each one of them soon to become another casualty in his grand design.
____
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