Doctor Strange pushed open the metallic doors, only to be greeted by a scene that caught him off guard. The room was crowded with people, their faces heavy with concern, yet there was no sign of physical injury or recent combat.
The atmosphere in the room was tense and somber, and every gaze turned toward Doctor Strange, seeking guidance or answers. The stark contrast between the dire situation he anticipated and the relative calm of this scene made him uneasy. He had expected the helicarrier to be overrun by the virus, but reality seemed to defy his expectations.
Taking a step into the room, Strange cast a glance over the gathered crowd. Among them were medical personnel, scientists, soldiers, and even other superheroes. All wore grim expressions, their eyes betraying fear of the unknown.
"Strange."
Lost in thought, Doctor Strange felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Wong gesturing for him to look ahead. Raising his head, Strange spotted Nick Fury emerging from the crowd, his expression as stern as ever.
Fury stepped forward, surveyed the room, and snapped his fingers. A holographic image materialized above him, commanding everyone's attention.
The projection displayed a scene from within the helicarrier: a janitor hunched over a sink, retching violently. A soldier entered the room, startled by the sight.
"Old man, too much to drink last night?" the soldier joked, placing his rifle on the counter and patting the janitor's back. But before he could say more, the janitor spun around, his face twisted with rage and hunger, and sank his teeth into the soldier's throat.
Fury's voice resonated across the room: "Just minutes ago, we had our first infection on the helicarrier."
"Soon after, similar incidents erupted across different areas. And yet, as we investigated, the source of the infection made itself known."
With a wave of Fury's hand, the projection shifted to a corpse of a fallen agent. Standing over the body was a short-haired woman with auburn hair—her zombified face unmistakable. Behind her spread translucent wings.
The room fell silent as recognition dawned. The infected figure was The Wasp.
She chewed on a piece of flesh, her wild eyes gleaming as she roared:
"I've had enough! You think it's fair? You shrink down to ant-size and fly thousands of meters to board a plane, Pym!"
Swallowing the meat, her bloodied lips curled into a grin. Her gaze burned with a manic hunger.
"Let me feast on ten more of you first! Then we can talk about your brilliant plans!" she growled, her wings fluttering as she prepared to charge out of the room.
Before The Wasp could act, a searing red laser beam struck her from the doorway, slamming her into the wall. Flames erupted, and her body was reduced to ash in an instant, leaving only charred remains behind.
A tall man, nearly two meters in height, stepped into view. Clad in X-Men battle gear, his distinctive red visor made his identity clear—Cyclops.
Cyclops sighed at the wrecked bathroom. Pressing a finger to his earpiece, he asked, "Fury, where's the next nearest bathroom?"
Doctor Strange frowned, interrupting the brief moment of calm.
"Wait. If the source of the infection has been eliminated, shouldn't you have cleared the remaining infected by now? Why are there still zombies in the med bay?"
Fury's expression darkened as he remained silent. Instead, the holographic projection shifted to display the helicarrier's deck in real time.
"This is live footage. The infections within the helicarrier were just a diversion," Fury explained grimly.
The projection revealed plumes of red and blue smoke swirling on the deck. With each puff, another zombified hero appeared. Among them stood an infected Angel, his decayed wings dripping with putrid flesh. He carried two infected individuals—Colonel America and Luke Cage—in each hand. With a swift motion, he hurled them onto the deck before diving back to retrieve more of the infected.
Similar scenes unfolded elsewhere: Falcon and Ms. Marvel were seen ferrying zombified allies onto the helicarrier.
The infected amassed on the deck, forming a relentless tide of undead. The soldiers who remained rushed out, wielding heavy weaponry and opening fire with all they had.
A storm of bullets ripped through the air, the deafening cacophony of gunfire blending with the howls of the undead. Flamethrowers roared, their fiery tongues incinerating clusters of zombies and forming temporary walls of flame.
"Hold the line! Push them back—" one squad leader shouted before a shield sliced through the air, severing him and several soldiers cleanly in half.
The remains of the soldiers crumpled to the ground. The half-bodied squad leader struggled, his hand inching toward a nearby rifle. Each movement was a battle against the searing pain coursing through him.
A swift volley of arrows pierced the fallen soldiers' skulls, silencing them forever. Hawkeye, standing nearby, smirked.
"Cap's shield isn't exactly hygienic, you know. Wouldn't want you guys turning, now would we?" he quipped, drawing another arrow and letting it fly.
"Damn it! Are we just going to stand here while people die? Is this what heroes do?" Wolverine growled, extending his gleaming adamantium claws.
"No, Logan," Fury said quietly. "Charging in will only worsen the situation. You're a liability in this state. That 'take a hit to deal a hit' style of yours will get you killed in minutes."
Fury continued, his voice resolute. "And remember, every operational Quinjet is parked on the deck. We'll need to fight through the infected to reach them."
Wolverine snarled but reluctantly retracted his claws. "So we're just waiting around to die, huh? Might as well tenderize ourselves for the zombies."
"Not a chance," Fury said, his eye gleaming with determination. "We might not have time to create a cure, but I've found a few individuals who can hold their own against the virus."
"They're skilled, resourceful, and resilient—a surprise for the undead horde."
"They're our secret weapon."