The undead horde surged through a storm of gunfire, hurling themselves fearlessly at the barricaded windows on the supermarket's ground floor. Their rotting fists pounded against the nailed planks with relentless fury, causing the wooden defenses to shudder and splinter inch by inch.
Marcus and a few young men who had rushed downstairs were tasked with shooting through the narrow gaps in the barricades, aiming at any zombie that got too close, desperately trying to keep them from breaking through.
Bullets ricocheted wildly, sending shards of splintered wood flying everywhere. For the moment, the suppressive fire held the horde back—but only barely. As more zombies broke through the second floor's gunfire line, they began to gather at the front and side entrances, doubling the pressure on Marcus's small defensive team below.
Marcus took advantage of the chaos. Silently, he scanned the barricades, quickly identifying one that had been nailed too loosely. With a subtle mental command, he guided the undead outside toward that very spot, directing their assault there. Then, pretending to help, he fired his pistol at the same section of wood—each "missed" shot weakening the structure further.
CRACK!
The first window gave way, the boards bursting apart as several zombies tumbled through the gap. The terrified survivors screamed, the sound raw and panicked.
Then came the second breach—then the third. Within seconds, more zombies poured in, clawing and snapping at the living.
Upstairs, Hawkeye heard the commotion and shouted down, "Ground team! What's your status? Do you need backup?"
Before anyone else could respond, Marcus raised his voice and yelled back, firm and steady, "We've got this under control! Keep the second floor secure—don't let more of them through!"
Hawkeye hesitated, then nodded to himself. The second floor was their primary defensive line; if he left his post, the horde could flood in uncontested. And Marcus's confident tone carried weight—it wasn't the voice of a panicked civilian, but that of a seasoned soldier.
He had no idea how close his guess was… or how wrong.
The zombies swarmed the room, converging from all directions. The defenders' aim faltered under the pressure, and their objective shifted from "holding the line" to simply staying alive.
Marcus decided it was time to escalate the drama. A few deaths would terrify the others—and fear was the most fertile soil for manipulation.
"Help! They've got me!"
"Please—get it off me!"
Two survivors were dragged down in the chaos, their screams ending in a spray of blood and torn flesh. Marcus made a show of trying to help, firing a few token shots that "missed" their marks.
'Two down,' he thought calmly. 'Time to polish the hero act.'
Reloading with a click, Marcus's demeanor shifted. His gaze sharpened, and his shooting instantly became flawless—every bullet struck dead center.
"Help! Please!"
A young man had fallen, wrestling a zombie that had pinned him to the floor. He was seconds from death when—
BANG!
Marcus's bullet tore through the zombie's skull, splattering the young man with brain matter. Shocked and trembling, the man barely had time to react before Marcus hauled him up by the arm.
"No time to freeze up!" Marcus barked. "Grab your gun and fight!"
From that moment on, Marcus became the group's savior. Whenever someone was in danger, he was there—each time at exactly the right moment. The reason was simple: the zombies were under his command. He knew precisely who would be attacked next, and he timed his "rescues" to perfection.
Each close call was another opportunity to play the hero. Each "miracle save" earned him gratitude and trust.
Under his orchestration, the tide began to turn. The zombies attacking the supermarket seemed to weaken, their numbers thinning as the defenders fought back with renewed morale.
When the last few undead were gunned down, the survivors broke into exhausted laughter and shaky cheers. They had lost two people—but everyone else was alive. For that, they were thankful. And for saving so many of them, they were grateful to Marcus Vale.
That gratitude was exactly what he'd been cultivating.
But amid their relief, someone suddenly asked the question no one had considered during the chaos.
"Wait… where's the hooded guy? The quiet one?"
Everyone paused. Yes—Alex had come downstairs with them, but no one had seen him fight. He hadn't fired a single shot, hadn't spoken, hadn't even seemed present. And yet, he was still alive.
Then, as if to answer their doubts, Alex calmly stepped into view.
He walked straight toward one of the shattered windows, where danger still lingered. The others watched, stunned, as he approached the gaping hole in the barricade and looked outside—not with fear, but with reverence, as though gazing upon something divine.
"What the hell is he doing?" someone whispered.
Alex stood there, his posture relaxed, his expression serene. Outside, the low growl of a zombie echoed through the night.
Then—
ROAR!
A rotting corpse suddenly lunged up from beneath the window frame, its jaws open wide. The survivors screamed, certain they were about to see Alex's throat ripped out.
But the attack never came.
Instead, the zombie froze mid-motion, its bloodshot eyes locking on Alex. It didn't snarl or bite. It just stood there—motionless, docile.
And Alex, unflinching, raised his hand slowly and extended one finger toward the creature's ruined face.
The moment was surreal. The undead and the man, inches apart, their fingers almost touching—like a twisted recreation of Michelangelo's "The Creation of Adam."
"Alex! What the hell are you doing?!"
Marcus's shout shattered the silence. He rushed forward, grabbing Alex by the arm and yanking him back. Then, turning on the zombie, he opened fire.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The shots echoed through the corridor as chunks of rotting flesh exploded under the muzzle flashes. Blood and blackened tissue splattered across the floor.
Under the flickering light of gunfire, Alex's lips moved once more in quiet, eerie prayer:
"The Lord in Heaven… has forgiven me…"
The survivors stared, pale and speechless.
They had just witnessed the impossible.
And Marcus Vale—the man who had saved them all—stood between them and the horror, his pistol still smoking in his hand.
___
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