NOVEL NEXT Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Fast
What comes to your mind when you think of zombies in movies and TV shows?
Are you picturing the shambling corpses from The Walking Dead, dragging their feet like eighty-year-olds on their last legs? Or perhaps the sprinters from World War Z, racing faster than Olympic athletes, scaling walls hundreds of meters high for a bite of fresh flesh?
Now imagine a zombie in front of you, clad in skintight clothes. Its thin, decayed skin somehow withstands the blast of a hellfire missile, and its gnarled, yellowed fingers can crush a steel plate with the ease of breaking a cracker.
As its decayed hand rests on your shoulder, you can hear its putrid mouth whisper:
"Just one bite."
The zombies from those earlier depictions? A moderately modern military force could handle them. Sure, there'd be casualties, but nothing catastrophic. Flesh and bone are no match for bullets and explosives.
With enough guns and ammo, humanity could wipe out most of the zombies portrayed in fiction. Noah had often seen this sentiment echoed online, where people mocked the idea of slow-moving zombies bringing civilization to its knees.
He couldn't fathom how a horde of shambling corpses with rotting teeth could push humanity to the brink of extinction. Logically, they'd likely be eradicated within months, if not weeks, becoming nothing more than a rare curiosity.
But what if the zombies weren't just mindless monsters? What if they were superpowered, indestructible creatures that could dominate land and sky?
The outcome would be vastly different.
---
As Noah stepped out of the alley and onto the street, the torrential rain had already stopped, and half the sun peeked out from behind the clouds.
Suddenly, he squinted as something reflective caught his eye from the left. Turning his head, he saw a poster of Steve Rogers. The iconic image depicted him in a recruitment pose reminiscent of Uncle Sam, his red-gloved hand pointing directly at the viewer.
The poster was defaced with a chaotic mix of graffiti, obscuring much of the artwork. Only a bold red slogan remained clear: "Colonel America wants you to follow the law!"
Below it, a small line displayed the contact number for the Avengers' Headquarters.
Yes, in this universe, Steve Rogers held the rank of Colonel, three grades higher than his counterpart from the main timeline. Here, he was known as Colonel America, not Captain America.
"Hey, buddy, had your fill?" A voice interrupted his thoughts, accompanied by the pungent smell of cheap, secondhand smoke wafting from behind him.
Noah turned to find a freckled young man with a cigarette dangling from his lips, casually holding a roll of pristine posters.
"Is this your work?" Noah asked, nodding at the posters.
"Mine? Nah. The Avengers Headquarters pays us to plaster these everywhere. But what happens after they're up? Not my problem." He shrugged, pointing at the graffiti. "See that? We put these up yesterday. Look at them now."
With a practiced motion, the youth slapped a fresh poster onto the wall, gathered his materials, and jogged across the street, his workload evidently far from complete.
Watching the hustling young man vanish into the crowd, Noah wiped at the corner of his eye in mock sentimentality. Then he reached out and tore the freshly placed poster down.
"Hey! What are you doing? If you want one, just ask! Don't rip it!"
Ignoring the youth's protests, Noah walked toward the street corner, shredding the poster into smaller pieces as he went. By the time he stopped, all that remained in his hand was a scrap with the Avengers Headquarters' contact number.
The freckled youth had taken a few steps to chase after him but stopped short, spitting on the ground in frustration. His eyes lingered on the gun holstered beneath Noah's jacket. With a muttered curse, he returned to his task, slapping another poster onto the wall.
---
"Judging by what they said, that Quinjet earlier must be the one carrying the Avengers to Times Square, just like in the original story."
Noah leaned against a wall at the street corner, his eyes fixed on a newsstand across the street. The vendor was multitasking, jotting notes on a newspaper while talking on the phone.
Silently recalling the events of the comic's timeline, Noah's fingers toyed with the grip of the pistol tucked into his waistband.
Earth-2149 was set far earlier in the Marvel timeline. The Avengers in this universe had only been assembled a few years ago. Many major events had yet to occur. Their headquarters was still at Stark's old mansion—what they called the Avengers' Residence—long before it became the Avengers Tower after the team disbanded.
In this timeline, the Avengers had received intel about a crash in Times Square. Investigating the incident, they encountered Sentry, who had already succumbed to the zombie virus. He infected the entire team, turning them into ravenous, intelligent undead.
The virus quickly spread, and within weeks, the world was reduced to a feeding ground for zombie heroes.
Unlike other zombie apocalypses, the virus in this Marvel universe only infected superhumans, leaving their intelligence intact. The line between superhuman and human, however, was blurred. Even individuals like Kingpin and Punisher, who considered themselves ordinary men, retained their intellect after infection.
---
"This world's technology could probably cure my cancer. Maybe not easily, but it's doable. Yet here I am, in a world on the brink of being devoured by zombies. What's the point?"
Frustrated, Noah slammed a fist against the wall, drawing wary looks from passersby. Some quickened their pace, while others shot him glances filled with pity, confusion, or outright disdain.
"Think! I need to think faster! Time's running out!"
Suddenly, inspiration struck.
"Fast! Of course… Fast!"
Without hesitation, he drew his gun and fired two shots into the air. Amid the startled screams of onlookers, he bolted across the street, pressing the still-hot barrel against the forehead of the stunned newsstand owner.
"I-I-I-I-I—"
"Shut up. Hang up the phone and do exactly as I say."
Snatching the vendor's pen, Noah tore a sheet of paper from a nearby stack and scribbled a note, slapping it onto the man's forehead. Then he wrote another note and shoved it into the trembling man's hands.
"That's the Avengers Headquarters' number. Call them on speakerphone. Say what's written here. You've got ten seconds. If you don't, I'll kill you. Ten… nine…"
"Y-you can't…"
The vendor's face crumpled as he read the note. Tears welled up in his eyes as he stared at Noah, who cocked the gun in response.
"Five… Four…"
"I'll do it! I'll do it!"
With trembling hands, the vendor dialed the number on the fixed-line phone.
"Hello, this is the Avengers Residence. How can we—"
"I want to speak to Pietro Maximoff. I have a message from Magneto. It's about Wanda."
The line went silent for a moment, then clicked as if someone had muted it. The vendor stared at Noah with pleading eyes, sweat streaming down his face.
After an agonizingly long ten seconds, a voice came through the receiver.
"This is Pietro. What do you want? Make it quick."
The vendor wiped his forehead and took a deep breath before shouting into the phone:
"Listen carefully! Wanda Maximoff is nothing but a filthy—"