While Hawkeye was busy holding off the zombies attacking from the rear, Marcus quietly gave a mental command. The infected under his control—hidden in advance throughout the area—lunged toward the pharmacy team from all directions.
Gunfire thundered. Muzzle flashes illuminated the chaos as more undead fell, their heads bursting apart. But several still broke through the hail of bullets, charging forward with a feral, blood-drenched frenzy.
"Boom!"
Marcus hurled a grenade scavenged from a fallen soldier. The explosion ripped through the room, throwing both zombies and men to the floor. The blast wave roared like a storm, stirring up thick clouds of dust and debris. Smoke, blood, and gunpowder choked the air. Visibility dropped to nothing. The ringing in their ears drowned out all sense of direction—friend and foe became indistinguishable.
For these young men—students, athletes, and ordinary citizens—this was no battlefield. Panic took hold.
"Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!"
Several black shafts sliced through the haze, each accompanied by a sharp whistle. Arrows pierced the air, slamming precisely into the skulls of charging zombies.
Hawkeye had returned.
No one even saw him move, but there he was—covered in blood, his compound bow drawn taut. He fired in swift, flawless succession, each shot a clean kill. His arrows didn't miss, even in the suffocating smoke.
"Are you all right?!" he shouted, never taking his eyes off the undead. He drew, loosed, drew again, the arrows flowing as naturally as breath. The projectiles seemed almost sentient, swerving midair to strike the heads of zombies leaping from behind him.
It was inhuman—predator's instinct made flesh.
Seeing that Hawkeye had things under control, Marcus stopped ordering his hidden horde to attack. Continuing the assault would be pointless; Hawkeye's interference would only raise the survivors' guard.
Instead, Marcus gave new mental commands. The remaining zombies melted back into the shadows, vanishing into silence.
He then gathered the terrified survivors, leading them back toward the supermarket with a carefully crafted expression of exhaustion and fear.
Hawkeye's interference had disrupted part of his plan, true—but the broader picture remained untouched. The seeds of collapse had already been sown.
By the time the pharmacy team stumbled back through the supermarket doors, the idealistic light in their eyes was gone. Their faces were pale, hollow, and haunted. They had seen death up close, and it had stripped them of their illusions.
"God… that was close."
"I almost got bitten!"
"I'm never leaving this place again!"
The bravery and patriotism that had carried them across the street had dissolved completely. Now they understood—out there was nothing but death.
The supermarket, for all its fear and tension, was the only safe haven left.
And though Armstrong's fate still hung by a thread, at least the medicine had been recovered. The med students immediately set to work, praying their efforts hadn't been in vain.
But as relief began to spread, a familiar voice shattered the fragile calm.
"You persist in denying your sins," Alex intoned from his corner, his tone cold, almost triumphant. "You try to conceal the truth from the Lord, and thus you are punished! The blasphemers must fall into Hell so that the faithful may be cleansed and forgiven!"
The survivors exchanged uneasy looks. Normally, they would've dismissed him as a lunatic—but after everything they'd seen, Alex's words carried an unsettling weight. Rumors had already begun to circulate about how zombies seemed to hesitate around him, and about his eerie, prophetic speeches.
Now, more and more people were beginning to believe.
All that was left was one final push—a single straw to break the camel's back.
And that straw had just been brought back with them.
---
In a dark corner of the supermarket, one of the pharmacy team members gathered a few close friends. His hands trembled as he pulled something from inside his jacket—the bundle of papers he'd taken from the dead scientist's chest.
"Guys," he whispered, his voice tight. "I… I don't even know how to say this. But this—this is huge."
His friends leaned in.
When they saw the documents, their expressions shifted from confusion to shock, then to horror.
"My God," one of them breathed. "How could they do something like this?"
"If this is true," another whispered, "we're all witnesses. They'll have to silence us."
Marcus, watching from the shadows, allowed himself a faint smirk. He already knew what they were reading. The "documents" had been his idea—a carefully planted forgery created by one of his infected subordinates.
The contents were simple: classified research notes about the "Zombie Virus," allegedly conducted by the U.S. military. To make it convincing, he had thrown in familiar details—unit numbers, references to "Area 51," a few official-looking seals.
To these frightened, half-educated survivors, it looked devastatingly real.
But anyone with genuine experience—someone like Hawkeye—would immediately spot the flaws. There were dozens of inconsistencies. Which meant Marcus still had one task left: make sure Hawkeye never saw the file.
---
"What are you guys talking about?"
Marcus's voice came suddenly from behind them, casual and curious, as though he had just wandered by.
The group froze. For a moment, fear flickered in their eyes—but when they realized it was Marcus, their tension eased.
The young man who had brought the file hesitated, then handed it over with trembling hands. "Marcus… promise you won't tell anyone. I found this on the doctor's body back in the pharmacy."
Marcus took the folder, flipping it open just long enough to see the bold title on the first page. His expression darkened convincingly, though inside, he felt only amusement.
Without a word, he pulled out a lighter, flicked it open, and set the papers on fire.
"What are you doing?!" one of the young men shouted.
Marcus watched silently as the flames devoured the forged documents. When the last page had turned to ash, he finally spoke, his voice low but firm.
"Forget it ever existed," he said. "Knowing things like this won't help us—it'll only destroy what little hope we have left. What matters now is survival. We hold out until the military comes. That's it."
The small group exchanged uneasy glances. His words were calm, rational—but they carried the weight of finality.
Still, one of them couldn't help asking, his voice trembling, "But… if the virus was created by the military, will they really come for us? How could they let something like this escape?"
Marcus's expression hardened, and a cold, cynical smile crept onto his lips.
"Because humanity never learns," he said quietly. "People always believe they can control power—until it consumes them. It doesn't matter how dangerous it is. As long as there's profit to be made, someone will always take the risk. We're lucky this was the military's doing. If it were a private company…" He paused, his eyes gleaming. "…the virus would've already gone global."
The others fell silent.
And in that silence, Marcus Vale smiled inwardly—his trap now fully set, his web of deceit tightening around them all.
___
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