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"Nice gun."
Deadpool tilted his head slightly, staring at the pistol in Peyton's hand as if he were admiring a rare piece of art.
"Huh?" Peyton blinked in confusion. "You mean Jill's gun, right? Mine is just a very ordinary Beretta 92F. Standard military issue M9. Nothing special. Very common."
Deadpool shook his head slowly.
"No. I mean the color matches you perfectly. It blends into the dark like it was born there."
Peyton stared at him for a second.
"…Too bad it uses 9mm bullets. Power's a little small."
"Dude," Deadpool replied, sounding offended, "this is for fighting zombies, not competing in a fireworks show. No matter how big the caliber is, one shot is still one zombie."
"That's not necessarily true."
Deadpool narrowed his eyes.
For the first time since the fight started, he pushed himself off Peyton's shoulder and stood straight. His posture shifted. Casual and lazy vanished. In its place stood something sharp.
He drew both pistols from his waist.
Two polished Desert Eagles.
.50 caliber.
Heavy.
Brutal.
"Let me demonstrate."
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunshots exploded like firecrackers in a metal drum.
Peyton stopped firing without realizing it.
His mouth slowly opened.
In front of them, the rushing zombies were falling at an unbelievable speed.
Deadpool's aim wasn't just accurate—it was surgical.
Each .50 caliber round tore through skull after skull.
One bullet pierced two heads.
Another pierced three.
One shot, unbelievably, punched through four zombies lined up by chance.
The recoil of the Desert Eagles didn't seem to affect him at all. He adjusted angles instinctively, calculating trajectories in real time.
Within seconds, the wave thinned dramatically.
The speed of zombie emergence couldn't keep up with Deadpool's killing pace.
He changed magazines smoothly.
Fourteen bullets.
Fourteen thunderous shots.
When the smoke cleared, the street ahead was nearly empty.
Deadpool lowered his guns and stared at the faint smoke rising from the muzzles. He leaned closer and inhaled deeply.
His eyes went distant.
"I really love this world," he whispered.
Then he turned toward Peyton, unable to hide his pride.
"Two .50 caliber Desert Eagles."
Peyton slowly closed his mouth.
"Dude… I'm starting to believe you're actually a superhero."
Deadpool raised both thumbs proudly.
"You have excellent taste. Truly. But please, for the love of everything red and black, stop watching Green Lantern. A person with refined taste should not admire that glowing emerald traffic light."
Jill holstered her pistol and stared at the massive hand cannons in Deadpool's grip.
"If I had those guns," she said calmly, "I could do the same."
"I believe you," Peyton nodded seriously.
Jill's marksmanship in S.T.A.R.S. was among the best. There was no doubt about that.
Deadpool shrugged.
"Don't worry. There will always be things you can't do."
He grinned under the mask.
Could Jill slice a bullet in half mid-air and then make both halves pass through his lungs without killing him?
He could.
Just as the atmosphere began to relax—
A new sound echoed from the alley behind them.
A low, horrible chorus.
Groaning.
Dragging.
Shuffling.
Another wave.
A bigger one.
Zombies poured out in numbers that made the previous group look like a warm-up exercise.
Everyone's expressions changed instantly.
Four pistols.
No automatic rifles.
Limited ammunition.
Even with Deadpool acting like a walking glitch in reality, they were being outpaced.
"We can't sustain this," Peyton said grimly, slamming a fresh magazine into place. "We don't have enough ammo."
"There's a church nearby," Jill said quickly. "We retreat there."
Deadpool blinked.
"So what exactly was I doing out here? Wouldn't it have been more efficient to wait inside the church?"
He paused.
"And I got shot for nothing."
"Run!" Peyton shouted.
He yanked a grenade from his tactical belt, pulled the pin, and hurled it toward the densest part of the horde.
Deadpool raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, now we're doing explosions. Excellent."
Boom!
The blast lit up the street.
Fire erupted.
Bodies flew.
The shockwave pushed back the front ranks of zombies.
But the sound would carry.
It always carried.
They ran.
Jill led.
Peyton supported Deadpool again, though the "injured" mercenary didn't look very injured anymore.
Tali followed, clutching her camera.
Behind them, the moans grew louder.
They burst through the church doors and slammed them shut.
Heavy wood met metal.
Silence followed—thick and shaky.
Everyone leaned against the doors.
Breathing.
Alive.
"For now," Deadpool muttered.
After a moment, Tali lowered her camera slightly.
"How did you know?" she asked quietly. "That their weakness is the head?"
Peyton glanced at Jill too.
If she hadn't warned him earlier, he might have wasted half his bullets on body shots.
Jill didn't answer immediately.
Her expression shifted.
"Because I've seen them before," she said at last. "In the Arklay Mountains."
Peyton's eyes widened.
"That mission? The one you were suspended over?"
"Yes."
She sat down slowly on a nearby pew.
The memory clearly weighed on her.
Before anyone could speak further—
"Don't move!"
A trembling voice echoed from the shadows.
A man stepped out from behind a pillar.
Blue shirt.
Sweat-soaked.
Holding a pistol with both hands.
Pointed directly at Jill.
Peyton reacted instantly.
His gun was up in a heartbeat.
"Lower your weapon," he ordered.
Jill stood as well, calm but ready.
"You should put it down," she said evenly.
The man's voice shook.
"If anyone lowers their gun, it's you!"
Deadpool glanced between them.
He tilted his head.
Then he leaned toward Peyton and whispered loudly:
"I give him five seconds before he drops it."
Jill sighed.
"Let him hold it," she said casually. She lit a cigarette, crossed her legs, and sat back down. "He's not going to shoot."
The man's hands trembled even harder.
After a few awkward seconds, he lowered the gun.
No one reacted.
He awkwardly sat down in a corner.
Deadpool blinked.
"Wait. That happened too fast. I missed the dramatic tension."
Peyton holstered his weapon and sat across from Jill.
Deadpool dropped down next to him.
He patted Peyton's shoulder and pointed subtly at the man in blue.
"See? You should learn from him. With your natural stealth camouflage, if you hide in a corner, we might not find you for a year."
Peyton rolled his eyes.
Tali kept adjusting her camera quietly.
The church interior felt heavy.
Dust floated in beams of faint light from stained glass windows.
Deadpool glanced down at his leg.
The wound was gone.
Completely healed.
As expected.
The bullet hole had sealed before they even retreated from the bridge earlier.
So why had he insisted on being supported?
He coughed lightly inside his mask.
Because Jill's shoulder had smelled very nice.
And also because explaining rapid regeneration was complicated.
Everyone saw him get shot.
If he suddenly stood up perfectly fine, questions would follow.
He preferred jokes to explanations.
But something else was wrong.
Very wrong.
He had felt it for a while now.
A strange crawling sensation.
Like earthworms wriggling under his skin.
Starting from his feet.
Moving upward.
He didn't need to look to know his calves probably looked disgusting.
Though, to be fair, his entire body already looked like it survived ten levels of hellfire.
Still.
This was different.
He knew what it was.
He had been infected with the T-virus.
He was certain.
Logically, his healing factor should eliminate viruses instantly.
Poison? No problem.
Toxins? Mild inconvenience.
He could die and come back more times than a soap opera character.
But the T-virus was abnormal.
It broke rules.
It rewrote biology.
It created monsters.
Zombies weren't supposed to exist.
Yet here they were.
So what would happen to someone like him?
Would the virus fight his healing factor endlessly?
Would he mutate?
Would he become—
He shuddered theatrically.
"Brains… Brains…"
He imagined himself shuffling down the street.
Arms stretched forward.
Mask crooked.
Begging for snacks.
"Nope," he whispered firmly. "That would be embarrassing."
Then a memory surfaced.
Not a full person.
Just a head.
A man who had once been reduced to nothing but a talking head in a jar.
A scientist.
Brilliant.
Cold.
Obsessed.
Deadpool slowly turned his masked face toward the darkness of the church ceiling.
"Oh no," he muttered.
He knew exactly who might understand what was happening to him.
And that thought alone was terrifying.
Because if he was right—
Then this infection wasn't going to be simple.
It was going to be personal.