Under Captain America's command, the morale of the U.S. forces surged once more. Soldiers, their spirits rekindled, advanced in unison toward the heart of Queens. Most of the zombies had already been withdrawn from the area; the few that remained were little more than sacrificial pawns—left behind by Marcus to delay the Americans' advance, not to stop it outright.
While Captain America led his men through the ruined city streets, a new report came in from the carrier fleet offshore—news that gave them their first real glimmer of hope.
From the beginning of the war, Professor X had been using his immense psychic power to scan all of New York. Now, he finally reported a breakthrough.
"Captain," came the professor's calm, telepathic voice, "I've located the Scarlet Witch. She's inside a psychic amplification chamber—a massive spherical structure. If your forces can reach it and disrupt the machine from the outside, I can break her hold over the airspace and regain control for our side."
"Thank you, Professor," Captain America replied, the relief evident in his voice. "If that machine is as vital as you say, it's likely the heart of HYDRA's operations."
He turned to his troops, stepping up onto the wreckage of a collapsed wall. Raising his voice, he shouted over the roar of engines and gunfire:
"Soldiers! We've found the enemy's command center! Once we break into their control hub and take back command of the zombie horde—they lose everything! This war ends today!"
"OOH-RAH!" roared the soldiers in unison. Their battle cries echoed through the mist-choked ruins. The fear and exhaustion that had haunted them for so long were swept away, replaced by a fierce, defiant pride. In this moment, they were warriors again—ready to die for their country, for victory, for hope.
Hidden in the shadows behind them, Marcus watched and listened, his expression somewhere between amusement and pity.
"They're surprisingly optimistic," he murmured. From a certain perspective, he supposed Captain America was right—the Scarlet Witch's location was technically the headquarters of the undead army. But the idea that they could seize control of the horde… that was pure fantasy.
Through the mental link, the Winter Soldier's voice replied dryly:
"If they didn't believe that, they'd have no reason to fight at all. Knowing the truth would only crush them. Their belief is the only thing holding them together."
Marcus nodded slightly. "And even if someone did tell them the truth, they wouldn't believe it anyway. They're too devoted to their illusion of heroism. So be it—if they need a target, we'll give them one."
He paused. "Winter Soldier, what's our remaining force count?"
"Only one hundred and four Chasers, a single Thunderbeast, and roughly one hundred fifty thousand ordinary zombies," came the report. "Driving them out completely is impossible at this point."
"It doesn't matter. Throw everything we have left into the fight."
Marcus's tone was cold and final. "And what about Hawkeye's squad?"
"Standing by, ready to move on your signal."
"Perfect. Then we'll let Dr. Helen Cho's masterpiece finish the job."
With that, the connection ended.
Moments later, Marcus's remaining army launched a massive counteroffensive. The ground trembled as the last Thunderbeast charged forward, its enormous pincers cutting a path through the ranks of soldiers. Its armor, like molten metal, shimmered beneath the flames of war.
Having fought the Thunderbeasts before, the U.S. troops were no longer the terrified rookies they once were. Calmly, they dispersed on cue before the monster reached them. Those unfortunate enough to be struck head-on had no chance—but the sacrifice allowed others to flank and fire at its joints and weak spots.
Their bullets couldn't kill such a creature, but they could slow it down—and in battle, even a moment's hesitation could mean the difference between life and death.
But as they focused on the Thunderbeast, new enemies emerged—waves of Chasers, wielding heavy machine guns, rocket launchers, and razor-sharp claws. These bioengineered killers led hordes of lesser zombies in an unending surge that threatened to engulf the American lines entirely.
Despite their growing experience against the undead, the soldiers struggled. Their conventional weapons had been designed for human enemies, not monsters that could shrug off gunfire and regenerate from wounds. The sheer brutality of the assault pushed them to their limits.
Only the sight of Captain America at the front line—his shield gleaming as he charged headlong into danger—kept them from breaking. His courage was their anchor.
---
Meanwhile, aboard the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, the atmosphere was tense. Every operative and technician watched their monitors, praying for news. The thick fog still obscured all visual feeds; only the sounds of chaos—gunfire, explosions, and distant screams—reached their ears.
Even without visuals, everyone understood the grim reality. The front lines were drowning in blood.
In her lab, Dr. Helen Cho sat at her desk, listening to the same grim reports echoing through her communicator. She felt utterly powerless. Her greatest creation, the Regeneration Cradle, could have saved countless soldiers by rebuilding damaged tissue and restoring bodies—but every wounded soldier brought back from the battlefield was now immediately quarantined as a potential infection risk. None were sent to her lab for treatment.
For the first time since joining S.H.I.E.L.D., Helen realized just how helpless she truly was.
On her laptop screen, lines of complex bio-engineering code glowed faintly. It was a formula—one designed for constructing biological tissue using the Regeneration Cradle. The data had come from a fellow scientist who once collaborated with her on the project.
Within those lines of code lay a radical proposal: combine the zombie control helmets with zombie virus tissue to create living bioweapons—entities that could be mass-produced, remotely controlled, and deployed instantly on the battlefield.
The plan was daring. Revolutionary. And terrifying.
If implemented, it could have turned the tide of the war… but Nick Fury had shut it down immediately. "Too dangerous," he'd said.
Now, all Helen was allowed to do was theoretical research, using the control helmet schematics for simulations—nothing more. But theory was meaningless to her while soldiers screamed and died outside her lab.
She stared at the lifeless machine that once promised to save lives, her reflection faintly visible on the dark monitor.
Then, with a weary sigh, she closed the laptop.
Her hands lingered on the lid for a moment.
For the first time, Dr. Helen Cho wondered whether obeying orders was truly the same thing as doing what was right.