Everyone's heads snapped toward Armstrong's bed—only to find it empty.
A cold dread swept through the crowd. Then someone pointed, trembling. On the floor beside the bed knelt a figure in a blood-soaked football uniform, his broad back hunched over as he gnawed on something beneath the bedframe. The wet, rhythmic sound of flesh being chewed filled the room, each bite sending a shiver down every spine.
"Armstrong!" someone shouted.
At the sound of his name, the figure slowly turned around. What remained of Armstrong's face was half-rotted—his cheekbones exposed, his mouth torn wide into a grotesque parody of a smile. Slivers of intestine and meat clung to his teeth, sliding off as he moved. His bulging, bloodshot eyes threatened to pop from their sockets, while dark veins pulsed grotesquely beneath his skin.
It was like looking into the face of Hell itself.
"Urgh—"
"Oh, God!"
"No…!"
Fear, sorrow, disgust, and rage all crashed together like a tidal wave. The survivors screamed, cried, and backed away in panic—but the monster that had once been Armstrong didn't hesitate.
With a low, guttural snarl, he lunged.
He was no longer human—only a predator among prey.
Thwip!
The sound of an arrow cut through the chaos.
Hawkeye, who had been watching from the edge of the crowd, reacted without thinking. His movements were pure instinct—draw, aim, release—all in a single heartbeat. The arrow punched cleanly through Armstrong's skull, piercing his forehead and exiting through the back.
The body dropped instantly, lifeless, strings cut.
"I'm sorry, Armstrong," Hawkeye said softly. It was all he could offer.
But his words only seemed to spark fury instead of sympathy.
"Yes, you should be sorry," Alex's voice rang out, venomous and cold. He stepped forward, his expression twisted with self-righteous satisfaction. "Sorry for killing another innocent soul. If it weren't for you—if it weren't for your government—this boy would still be alive! He'd be out there, playing football, living his life! But instead—look what your sins have brought! You defied God's will and doomed us all!"
"Kill him!" someone screamed.
That single cry—half-mad, half-inspired—lit the spark.
In an instant, the dam broke.
"Kill him!"
"Throw him out!"
"Die, you government dog!"
The shouts multiplied, spreading like fire through the room. Dozens of survivors—people who, just a week ago, owed their lives to Hawkeye—now surged forward, their faces twisted with hatred. They'd been saved by him countless times, yet now, driven by fear and Alex's lies, they wanted nothing more than to tear him apart.
"Hey! Stop! Do you even know what you're doing?!"
Marcus was the first to move. He and a handful of rational survivors—the so-called pragmatists—rushed to form a human barrier around Hawkeye. They spread their arms protectively, standing shoulder to shoulder between him and the enraged crowd. A few even raised their guns, hands shaking, to keep the mob at bay.
But they were outnumbered. Badly. The faithful, whipped into a frenzy by Alex's sermons, outnumbered them nearly two to one.
"Listen to me!" Hawkeye shouted over the chaos. "I swear to you—the government didn't create this virus! The files you saw were fake! I can prove it—if you just give me a chance to—"
But his voice was drowned out by screams of fury.
Alex stalked forward, his presence commanding, his words like gasoline on an open flame. "Those who defend the sinners shall share their punishment!" he thundered. "They have defied the Lord's will—they've chosen the side of the damned! As long as they draw breath, judgment cannot end!"
"Stop! Everyone, stop!" Hawkeye yelled. But he knew. He could see it in their eyes. They weren't listening anymore.
If he wanted to, he could fight them—he could cut them all down. But he wouldn't. Not after everything he'd done to protect them. Not after how much he still wanted to believe there was good left in these people.
And that—Marcus knew—was exactly why Hawkeye would die here.
The time had come to light the final fuse.
"Enough, Alex!" Marcus shouted, his voice breaking with fury. He raised his pistol and aimed it straight at Alex's chest. "I've had it with you!"
BANG!
The gunshot split the air.
A bright flash. A burst of smoke.
Alex staggered backward, the crimson bloom spreading across his chest. The force of the shot sent him tumbling onto his back, his arms flung out wide—his body falling into a pose eerily reminiscent of the crucifixion. The smell of gunpowder lingered, thin tendrils of smoke curling from Marcus's gun.
His face was cold, emotionless.
"What have you done?" Hawkeye demanded, staring at him in disbelief.
Marcus didn't even blink. "I told you, Alex would get us all killed."
"Messenger of God!"
A wail tore through the room. One of Alex's closest followers collapsed beside him, clutching his lifeless hand, sobbing uncontrollably. "No… no, no! Our holy messenger!"
The rest of the faithful stared in horror, their faces contorted by grief and rage.
Alex's chest rose weakly one last time. He turned his head toward his weeping disciple, blood spilling from his lips.
"They… have betrayed… the Lord again…" he rasped, coughing violently. "The sinners… must be punished… only through… our sacrifice… can we… be redeemed…"
His hand slipped from the believer's grasp and hit the floor with a soft, final thud.
The crowd watched as the pool of blood spread around his body, forming a dark red cross beneath him. His expression was peaceful, saintlike.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then came the sobbing.
The disciple beside him began to tremble violently, tears falling onto the bloodstained floor, mixing red with clear. The sound of grief spread through the supermarket like a virus, one wail becoming ten, then dozens.
Hawkeye's stomach sank. He could already see what was about to happen.
"Everyone, calm down!" he shouted desperately, raising both hands. "Marcus just lost control! Put the weapons down, now!"
But it was too late.
The disciple who had been crying suddenly lifted his head. His tear-streaked face twisted into pure rage. His eyes burned with hatred.
And then, from deep within his throat, came a roar of madness—
"Atonement!"
The word tore through the air like a battle cry.
The crowd screamed in unison—and surged forward.
____
T/N:
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