Deadpool's mind was doing that thing again—jumping tracks in the middle of a crisis like a broken TV remote.
Zombie Deadpool.
A "miraculous" Deadpool who, despite having a healing factor, still got chopped up by something as stupid as a propeller until only his head was left.
Just… a head.
A talking head.
And if that head really existed somewhere in this nightmare city, then it meant one terrifying thing: the T-virus didn't care about fairness, logic, or how many times you could stitch yourself back together. It played dirty.
Deadpool stared into the dark church ceiling and thought, Should I go back and time-travel a few more times, just to accidentally meet that head and ask for tips?
Then he remembered something else: time travel was never simple, never clean, and never free. It always came with pain, confusion, and the kind of consequences that made you regret waking up.
Also… meeting your own severed head was a little too weird, even for him.
The church was quiet. Too quiet.
The silence didn't feel peaceful. It felt like a hand slowly closing around everyone's throat.
Tali, the reporter, sat rigidly with her DV camera clutched against her chest like a life jacket. Her breathing was getting heavier, louder in the stillness. The darkness around her felt thick, almost alive—like something could crawl out of it at any moment, teeth first.
Her heart pounded harder and harder.
Finally, she snapped.
She stood up fast, gasping. "I need to get out."
Before anyone could stop her, Jill slammed a hand into her shoulder and forced her back down into the chair with a hard thud.
Tali's camera shook.
Jill leaned in, her voice low and sharp. "If you feel like you can't live, I can give you a bullet. But don't even think about dragging the rest of us down with you."
Tali's eyes widened, offended and terrified at the same time.
Deadpool would have made a joke, but even he could tell Jill wasn't playing. Not even a little.
Then—
"ROAR!"
A beastly sound came from above and behind them, so sudden it made everyone's blood turn cold. Jill reacted first, spinning around and looking up.
A long, thin, red tongue was already snapping toward them—close enough to taste the air in front of Jill's face.
Swish!
A silver flash cut through the air.
Deadpool's blade sliced the tongue clean in half.
Black-red blood sprayed across the floor, thick and foul like rotten syrup.
Something screamed—high and ugly.
A blood-red creature dropped from the wall and crashed onto the wooden floor with a heavy thump.
Peyton's hands moved fast. He clicked on his flashlight and aimed the beam at the monster.
That's when everyone finally saw it clearly.
It had no skin.
Its muscles were exposed, wet and raw, glowing red under the light like fresh meat. Its head looked split—like someone tore it open down the middle. Above the split, a brain sat exposed, twitching and steaming faintly. Below it, a mouth stretched wide, packed with sharp teeth.
And from that mouth—
A tongue.
A long tongue.
The half that Deadpool had cut off was still moving on the ground like a lizard tail—twitching, wriggling, refusing to die.
Tali gagged. "Oh my God…"
Jill's jaw tightened. "Licker."
Everyone fired at once.
Gunshots thundered in the church.
But the creature was already moving.
It pushed itself up with clawed hands and launched into the air with a sudden burst of strength. It flipped—almost casually—and stuck to the ceiling like gravity didn't apply to it.
Every bullet hit the floor or smashed into walls.
Not a single shot landed.
Not even Deadpool's.
Which made Deadpool personally offended.
They all tracked it with their eyes, craning their necks upward, and dread crept in—slow and cold.
Because it wasn't alone.
On the ceiling, four more of them clung silently in the darkness.
Four more blood-red bodies.
Four more exposed brains.
Four more long tongues drooping down, saliva dripping onto the floor in slow taps.
The sound was soft, but in the silence, it was loud enough to feel.
These things didn't have eyes that worked properly. Their eyes were useless, shrunken, almost dead. But in return, their hearing was frightening. They could hear every breath, every step, every trembling swallow.
Peyton held the flashlight with one hand and his gun with the other, and his lips shook as he spoke.
"What the hell is this thing?"
Deadpool stared up at the ceiling, then shrugged like he was watching a movie.
"I don't know," he said. "Photoshop probably couldn't handle it. Maybe it needs After Effects and Premiere Pro."
Peyton frowned so hard it looked painful. "What?"
Deadpool pointed upward. "Look at it. All red. Very stylish. Honestly? Kinda matches my outfit."
He holstered one pistol and let his hand rest casually on the hilt of the blade strapped to his back.
Tali, hiding behind Peyton, whispered in disgust, "No. It's disgusting. Super disgusting."
"Tsk," Deadpool said. "You have no taste."
Nobody laughed.
Nobody even breathed normally.
They spoke in low voices and moved slowly, inch by inch, retreating toward a side room with an open door on the church's right side. Jill led the movement like she was guiding people through a minefield.
But they all knew the truth.
They weren't escaping the Lickers' attention.
Every single one of those monsters had its head angled toward them, tracking them by sound, by presence, by tiny movements in the air.
Jill stepped into the side room first. She turned and aimed her gun upward, staring hard at the ceiling without firing.
"They're… listening," she whispered. "Like they're trying to separate us by sound."
Peyton's grip tightened. "Why aren't we shooting?"
Jill's eyes didn't move. "Because if we miss, we die."
She wasn't being dramatic.
They had already learned enough in the last few minutes: these things were too fast for normal reaction speed. Jill didn't even trust herself to hit one cleanly when it was moving. And in this big open church, with almost no real cover, fighting them head-on was suicide.
So they did the only thing left.
They hid.
They prayed.
And of course—because the world loved cruelty—there had to be an idiot.
Maybe two.
The man in the blue shirt—the one who had threatened them earlier—was at the very back. He was breathing hard, eyes wide, shaking like a leaf. His fear was obvious, but so was something else.
A spark.
A stupid, childish spark.
Maybe he had once dreamed of being a hero.
Maybe he thought this was his moment.
He raised his pistol toward the ceiling.
Tali, walking just ahead of him, noticed he wasn't moving with the group. She turned her head—and saw his gun lifting.
Her eyes went huge.
"What are you doing?" she blurted out.
Her voice echoed through the church.
Clear.
Sharp.
Loud.
The sound rolled across the open space like a bell.
The Lickers responded instantly.
They roared—like they had been switched on.
Peyton, already inside the side room and blended into the darkness, lunged forward. He clapped a hand over Tali's mouth and yanked her back into cover.
But it was too late.
The idiot fired.
Bang!
The muzzle flash lit the church briefly.
The bullet hit the ceiling, leaving cracks and splintering wood and plaster.
The Licker was already gone from that spot.
It dropped—
No, it pounced.
Straight at him.
The man in the blue shirt finally broke. Terror crushed whatever fantasy he was holding onto. He turned and ran toward the side room, toward the others, screaming without even meaning to.
He was almost at the doorway.
Almost safe.
A thick leg in red-and-black tights shot out from the darkness.
Deadpool kicked him hard in the stomach.
The man flew backward like he got hit by a truck.
At the same time, a long red tongue stabbed forward like a spear.
It struck the ground where the man would have been.
Wood and stone didn't matter. The tongue punched through the floor like it was soft bread.
Deadpool's kick had saved him—
And also ruined him.
Deadpool darted out of the shadows with his sword.
Swish!
His blade flashed again, slicing the tip of the tongue as the Licker pulled back. A small piece fell, twitching and bleeding.
The monster hissed in pain and scrambled onto the wall.
But it didn't fall this time.
It stayed up.
And the other Lickers reacted to the sound.
They began to move.
Fast.
Restless.
Their clawed hands scraped along the ceiling and walls with a horrible rustling, like someone dragging metal across stone.
Tali trembled behind Peyton.
Jill's eyes narrowed.
Deadpool stared up and muttered, "Okay. New plan. Less screaming."
The man in the blue shirt crashed through a row of wooden chairs and landed hard on the ground, groaning. It sounded like bones and wood snapping together.
Deadpool's head tilted.
He stepped forward and looked down.
The kick had been too strong.
The angle had been too perfect.
A jagged wooden piece—maybe a chair leg, maybe part of a broken backrest—had pierced straight into the man's back and come out through his chest.
Fresh blood spread across his shirt in a fast, dark bloom.
Deadpool froze.
"Oh… damn it."
For a moment, he looked genuinely upset.
He sheathed his sword quickly, then covered his mouth with both hands like he was trying to hold back a gasp.
He dropped to his knees beside the man.
"I didn't mean to, buddy," Deadpool said, voice rushing out. "That was supposed to be a 'save your life' kick, not a 'speedrun your funeral' kick."
The man's eyes were wide. He tried to speak.
Only blood came out.
Deadpool leaned closer. "Don't talk. Don't move. Hold on, okay? Just—just hold on."
He looked around wildly like a panicked doctor who had no idea what to do.
The side room door creaked slightly as Jill shifted her stance, gun still aimed upward. Peyton's flashlight beam shook as he tried to keep it steady. Tali pressed both hands to her mouth, fighting the urge to cry out.
Above them, the Lickers crawled.
Listening.
Waiting.
Deadpool's eyes landed on the wooden lectern near the front of the church.
A heavy piece of furniture. Solid wood. Thick base.
And in Deadpool's broken logic, it became a tool. A shield. A weapon. A miracle. Something.
His brain moved fast, even if his mouth didn't.
He grabbed the lectern with both hands and pulled, careful not to scrape it loudly across the floor. It groaned anyway—wood against wood.
The Lickers' heads twitched.
Jill's eyes widened slightly.
Deadpool winced and mouthed, "Sorry," at the ceiling like he was apologizing to the monsters.
Then he dragged the lectern closer, positioning it between the dying man and the open space of the church—like a crude barricade.
Peyton hissed, barely audible, "What are you doing?"
Deadpool whispered back, "Improvising."
He looked down at the man in the blue shirt, and for the first time, his voice lowered into something almost serious.
"Hey," Deadpool murmured. "I'm going to fix this."
Peyton's face tightened. "You can't. That's… that's through his chest."
Deadpool nodded slowly. "I know."
Jill's expression hardened. "Wade—"
Deadpool held up a finger.
"Shh," he whispered. "I need everyone to not panic for five seconds."
He placed both hands on the broken wooden piece sticking out of the man's chest and back.
The man's eyes rolled, terrified, begging without words.
Deadpool inhaled, then exhaled.
"Okay," he whispered. "Here's the thing. I heal. I do stupid healing. Like, 'fall into a blender and come back' healing."
Peyton stared at him like he'd lost his mind.
Jill didn't blink. She looked like she was processing it fast, like a soldier evaluating a grenade with a faulty pin.
Deadpool continued, quieter now. "I might be able to do something… if I can get him breathing long enough."
He glanced up at the ceiling.
The Lickers were still there.
Still listening.
Still ready to drop the moment someone made the wrong sound.
Deadpool leaned in close to the man and whispered, "Buddy, if you can hear me, blink."
The man blinked once, weak.
Deadpool nodded. "Good. That means you still have a subscription to life."
He looked at the lectern, then at Jill.
"Cover us," Deadpool whispered. "If one of those tongue demons drops, I'll slice it. But I need you to keep everyone quiet and alive."
Jill's eyes narrowed. Then she gave a small, sharp nod.
Peyton swallowed. "What's the plan?"
Deadpool's voice turned into a grim joke, because that's how he kept fear from eating him.
"The plan," he whispered, "is to not let this guy become a snack before we at least try. And also… to not let me become a zombie later."
He paused.
Because the crawling sensation in his legs was still there, like worms under his skin.
The infection was still spreading.
And if he didn't handle it, one day he might be the thing hanging from the ceiling.
Deadpool looked at the man's blood, at the darkness, at the monsters above, and then back at Jill and Peyton.
This wasn't just survival anymore.
This was a countdown.
And somewhere in that countdown was a head—a head that might hold answers he didn't want to hear.
Deadpool tightened his grip on the broken wood, steadying himself.
"Okay," he whispered. "On three. One… two…"
Above them, the Lickers shifted again, sensing the tension.
Jill's finger tightened on her trigger.
Peyton raised his flashlight slightly.
Tali shut her eyes, clutching her camera like a prayer.
Deadpool breathed in.
And prepared to pull—quietly, carefully—before the church turned into a slaughterhouse.
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