Two SUVs weaved through Manhattan's graveyard of abandoned vehicles, their engines rumbling dull and constant through the dead streets.
Static crackled from the walkie-talkie on Veyric's chest, followed by Peter's voice, breathless against the wind.
"Captain, Ms. Natasha, we might have a problem. Fifth Avenue, the main road up ahead... God, it's like the front door of a Mall on Black Friday, except it's wall-to-wall zombies!"
A flash of red and blue swung down from above and landed on a rusted streetlamp.
Peter pointed at the heaving black tide of corpses a few hundred meters out and swallowed hard.
"Way too many. If we try to push through, the cars will get jammed up for sure. Should we reroute down Seventh Avenue?"
Natasha tapped the brake. The SUV eased to a stop at the intersection.
She didn't reach for the steering wheel. Instead, she glanced at Veyric in the passenger seat and raised an eyebrow.
"Seventh Avenue might not be any better. Could drive straight into a dead end."
Veyric's gaze swept past the windshield to the reeking ocean of corpses in the distance. No hesitation.
"Straight ahead. No detour."
He pushed open the door and stepped out, tactical boots crunching into the dust.
"We're driving Tony's cargo truck back this way. Seventh Avenue's side streets are too narrow to fit it."
One hand drew the Glock from his hip. The other unclipped the walkie-talkie from his chest.
"If we have to take this road eventually, we clear it now."
He brought the radio to his lips and hit transmit. "All units, prepare for combat. Full sweep of every zombie along the route."
Colossus was the first one out, shouldering the rear door open.
The man stood well over six and a half feet. He rolled his neck, flexed, and the sound that came off him was dull metal grinding against itself.
"Agreed." A wide grin split his face. "Two days cooped up in that basement. My fists have been itching."
He charged.
Like a human bulldozer, Colossus plowed straight into the densest knot of the horde. Zombies that lunged for him were sent ragdolling through the air, bones snapping with wet cracks, dark blood spraying in their wake.
Right behind him, a cold silver arc.
Blade moved through the swarm like a ghost, his custom titanium alloy sword carving the air with a high, keening whine. Each effortless stroke sheared two or three heads clean off at once, leaving nothing but smooth, flat stumps.
Overhead, Falcon's metal wings cut twin trails of blue flame across the sky.
Sam dropped low, skimming so close to the horde he nearly grazed their skulls. The sharpened edges of his wings screamed through the air, and in his wake, dozens of zombies lost the top halves of their heads in a single clean line, like melons split open. Black blood erupted in geysers behind him.
Before the wingblast could even topple the bodies, arrows were already streaking silently from the SUV's roof.
Hawkeye crouched on top, bowstring drawn to a perfect crescent. His hands moved too fast for aiming to matter. Every shaft punched into an eye socket or an open mouth.
Explosive tips detonated in the thickest clusters. Limbs and black gore fountained skyward.
Along the building facades on both sides, Peter was a blur of red and blue, wall-running at insane speed, leaving afterimages.
"Sorry, excuse me! Borrowing your heads for a second!"
Arms crossed at his chest, wrist-launchers hissing in rapid bursts. Dozens of web-lines fanned out and latched onto the skulls of a massive cluster below.
He backflipped in midair and yanked both hands.
A sickening chorus of snapping vertebrae. Dozens of snarling heads ripped free at once, trailing white silk into the sky.
From the side, the severed heads dangling on their web-lines looked like some grotesque pair of fleshy wings spreading behind Peter's back.
Veyric stood by the SUV, watching the carnage unfold, and a thought flickered through his mind: I played a game called Dead Rising once. One guy mowing through a zombie apocalypse like a one-man army. What I'm looking at right now is the Marvel superhero edition.
Jokes aside, he wasn't standing idle.
A blob of black oozed from his shoulder and formed a tennis-ball-sized head next to his ear.
"Right side. Twelve o'clock. Three of them."
Veyric raised both arms, grip steady on the pistol.
Every technique Natasha had drilled into him over the past few days, every firing posture, every aiming habit, had crystallized into rock-solid muscle memory. Today was the field test.
Weight forward. Power from the core. Eyes locked past the front sight.
Three shots. Three muzzle flashes.
Thirty meters out, three zombies sprouted neat holes between their eyebrows and toppled backward in unison.
He allowed himself a satisfied look.
The training paid off fast. There was something deeply gratifying about this level of control over a weapon.
The magazine ran dry. No pause. Index finger flicked the release, the empty mag clattered to the ground, left hand already pulling a fresh one free, sliding it home.
The whole sequence flowed like water. Under a second.
Two more shots. Two more headshots.
Not far away, Natasha danced along the horde's edge with a tactical blade in each hand. Every spinning strike came with the sickening crunch of bone, caving in every skull that drifted too close.
She turned her head just in time to catch the tail end of Veyric's shooting and reload sequence.
She paused, wiped a fleck of black blood from her cheek with the back of her hand, and flashed him an approving smile.
"Nice work. Didn't embarrass me after all."
A loaded magazine sailed through the air toward him.
Veyric caught it clean, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward despite himself.
Half an hour later.
Fifth Avenue, once choked with the dead, had been carved into a wide corridor of gore.
Peter dropped from the sky onto the roof of an abandoned sedan, pulled his mask down to his chin, and gulped air.
He surveyed the carpet of bodies around them, then looked over at Veyric holstering his Glock.
"Whoa..."
He hopped off the car and walked up beside him.
"Veyric, level with me. Did you sneak off to some special forces bootcamp in Hawaii? It's been a few days, and that reload just now was straight-up professional!"
Before Veyric could answer, a mass of black shot from his shoulder and solidified into a snarling head.
Venom bared a full set of fangs at Peter, dripping with disdain. "Are you blind, you eight-legged spider? It was obviously the redhead woman drilling us in that basement for days!"
Veyric laughed and slid the hot Glock back into its holster.
"Don't give me the credit." He clapped Peter on the shoulder. "That's all Natasha's training."
A few more minutes of pushing forward, another few hundred meters cleared.
Then it rose into view. A skyscraper piercing the clouds, the massive "A" on its crown still sharp and unmistakable.
Stark Tower's main entrance stood sealed. The surrounding streets were eerily quiet.
Everyone stopped, unprompted, a few dozen meters from the doors.
Peter looked around at the team, unable to keep the grin off his face.
"Hey, did anyone else feel like our teamwork back there was perfect?"
His eyes found Veyric, bright and eager.
"Veyric, see? I told you! The Resurrectors work like a machine! Once the world's back to normal, we're a lock for Superhero Team of the Year!"
God... Veyric sighed inwardly and pinched the bridge of his nose.
The kid and his obsession with that ridiculous name.
Before he could say a word, a hand tapped lightly against his back.
He turned. Natasha had already walked past him, heading straight for the tower's sealed glass doors.
She glanced over her shoulder and flicked her red hair.
"Let's go, Resurrectors."