"Atonement!"
The chant rolled like thunder through the supermarket. Dozens of voices merged into one—furious, desperate, and blind. Their faces twisted into grotesque masks of rage. The sound of weapons being cocked echoed through the aisles.
Those who still had a shred of reason knew what was coming, but it was too late to stop it. All they could do was dive for cover and pray.
"Everyone, calm down!" Hawkeye shouted, standing tall with both hands raised, his voice hoarse with urgency.
But his plea was lost to the storm.
"Don't bother."
Marcus lunged, tackling Hawkeye to the ground—just as the believers opened fire.
"Ratatatatatata!"
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
"BOOM!"
Gunfire and explosions swallowed the world. The sharp stench of gunpowder filled the air as bullets tore through shelves, walls, and flesh alike. In an instant, the supermarket became a war zone.
Only this time, there were no zombies—only humans slaughtering humans.
Rounds ripped through cans and boxes. Splinters of wood and shattered glass flew in every direction. The flickering lights struggled against the muzzle flashes, dimming beneath the storm of violence. Smoke rolled across the aisles as screams and gunshots fused into a single, hideous symphony.
Blood mist exploded like crimson fireworks, painting the broken shelves and walls. A grenade went off, shredding three people into mangled scraps of flesh and bone. Limbs, organs, and red stains covered the floor where only hours ago people had shared food and hope.0
In that moment, no one won.
The irrational, the faithful, the desperate—all of them were victims. The only true victors were the two men who had orchestrated the madness: Marcus Vale, the hidden puppet master, and Alex, who still lay "dead" on the ground, waiting for his next act.
And in the very center of it all—caught between the warring sides—was Hawkeye.
The man who had risked everything to save them.
Now branded a villain, betrayed by the very people he'd fought to protect.
Even as chaos engulfed the room, he still couldn't understand it. How had it come to this?
How had these people—who once stood united against the undead—turned on each other in less than two hours?
They weren't evil. Hawkeye knew them. He had fought beside them, eaten with them, listened to their fears and laughter. But now those same people were shooting each other without hesitation, consumed by hysteria and manipulation.
He had expected to die fighting monsters. He had never imagined the monsters would be human.
And still, he couldn't see the real devil among them—the man beside him, who now crouched low, feigning fear while savoring every second of the carnage he'd caused.
"Hawkeye! We have to get out of here!" Marcus shouted over the roar of gunfire, firing a few token shots toward the crowd. The gesture, of course, only provoked even fiercer retaliation. The shelves shielding them were soon riddled with bullet holes. "You don't want to hurt them, do you?"
Those words struck home.
He didn't. He couldn't.
It was that mercy—the same mercy that had made him a hero—that now doomed him.
Hawkeye glanced around. The people who had stood by him moments ago were now gone—slumped in pools of blood, their bodies motionless. Only Marcus remained beside him.
The rest were lost, their cries of "Atonement!" still echoing as they slaughtered one another in blind faith.
"Fine," Hawkeye said through clenched teeth. "On my mark. When I say three—close your eyes."
Though his heart ached, though his mind screamed in protest, he had no other choice.
He pulled an arrow from his quiver—a thick shaft tipped with a small, spherical head—and drew the bow.
"One."
"Two."
"Three!"
Thwip!
The arrow shot upward, piercing the ceiling.
A blinding burst of white light exploded from its tip—a flash brighter than the sun, flooding every corner of the supermarket. Even Marcus, who'd shut his eyes in advance, felt the searing pain stab behind his eyelids.
Screams erupted all around. Blinded, disoriented, the combatants dropped their weapons, clawing at their faces in agony.
"Now!"
Hawkeye grabbed Marcus by the arm, dragging him toward the exit. They sprinted through the smoke, past fallen bodies and burning shelves, bursting through the shattered front doors into the open street.
Behind them, the shooting resumed barely a minute later—more chaotic, more desperate than before. The supermarket, once their last bastion of safety, had become something worse than the zombie-ridden city outside.
The survivors had destroyed themselves—exactly as Marcus intended.
Now, there were only two left standing.
---
"Will… will we be saved?" Marcus asked, his voice trembling just enough to sound sincere. In truth, it was merely code—his way of checking whether the extraction helicopter was on schedule.
Hawkeye, still panting, placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Yes, Marcus. I swear to you—I'll get you out of here alive."
"But… what about the others? The zombies—"
"Don't worry about them. Follow me. The rescue chopper will be here in about thirty minutes. Once it arrives, we'll be safe. We'll go home."
Marcus nodded, a faint, relieved smile tugging at his lips.
Half an hour, he thought. More than enough time.
By then, everything would be in place.
His plan was simple: reach the extraction site with Hawkeye, wait for the helicopter, and strike at the perfect moment. If he could infect a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent—someone of Hawkeye's caliber—before he was rescued, it would guarantee the virus's spread into the very heart of the organization.
And Hawkeye, so blinded by trust, would never see it coming.
---
A guttural snarl shattered the silence.
From the shadows of a collapsed building, a pack of zombies emerged, sprinting toward them.
Marcus raised his pistol and fired wildly, emptying the last of his rounds. Hawkeye switched his bow into staff mode, stepping in front of Marcus to shield him from the charging undead.
"Stay behind me!" he shouted, striking with swift, precise movements. His staff cracked skulls, shattered jaws, and sent bodies flying. Even now—bloodied, exhausted, betrayed—he fought with the resolve of a hero.
Because Marcus was all he had left.
And that was exactly how Marcus wanted it.
"My ammo's out!" Marcus called, tossing aside his empty pistol. His eyes darted around frantically until they landed on the quiver on Hawkeye's back. "Hawkeye, can I grab a few arrows for defense?"
"Take them!" Hawkeye barked, parrying another blow. "Just don't touch the ones on the far right—they're explosive. Use the ones on the left. Got it?"
"Got it!"
Marcus reached back, brushing his fingers deliberately against the explosive-tipped arrows before sliding them aside and pulling two from the left. He gripped them like twin daggers and stepped into the fight.
To Hawkeye's surprise, Marcus moved well—too well. Each strike was quick, efficient, almost surgical. He drove an arrow through a zombie's eye, twisting it until the point burst from the back of its skull.
Hawkeye blinked, impressed. "Nice shot," he muttered, assuming it was luck.
But it wasn't luck.
It was precision—cold, calculated precision.
And soon, those same hands that had just saved his life would be the ones to end it.
____
T/N:
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