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"Has something happened outside?"
Deadpool scratched his head under the mask. The priest's earlier words—fear, danger, not a good time to wander—echoed in his mind. Those weren't random phrases. Something was clearly wrong out there.
Could it be mutants again?
Maybe Nightcrawler had teleported into the White House for round two and triggered a full-scale mutant crisis. If that happened, the streets would turn into a battlefield—mutants versus the army. The moderate mutants like those from X-Men would inevitably be dragged into it.
Deadpool folded his arms.
If that were the case, whose side would he take?
Humans?
He had always disliked Professor Charles Xavier and his shiny bald head. Reading minds without permission—where was the privacy? Where was the respect?
Of course… if Charles allowed him to poke that polished "white boiled egg" head for good luck, Deadpool might reconsider.
"Child," the priest said gently, "self-deception cannot escape reality. You are simply too tired. Would you like something to drink?"
Deadpool froze.
That was exactly why he hated priests.
It wasn't because of scandal rumors or stereotypes. As a former law-abiding citizen—well, mostly—he knew better than to judge the majority by a few bad apples.
No, it was because they always spoke in riddles.
Say it clearly!
He wanted to shout, Riddler, get out of Gotham!
"I'll have a Coke," Deadpool replied flatly. "Thank you."
The priest smiled. "Very well."
He disappeared into the side corridor.
Deadpool sat down on one of the wooden benches. The stained-glass light cast colorful patterns across the floor. It was peaceful.
Too peaceful.
He frowned.
Which storyline was this? His brain flipped through plotlines like a broken streaming service menu.
Then—
"Roar…"
His ears twitched.
That was not wind.
That was not pipes.
That was a low, animalistic growl.
Deadpool's posture straightened instantly.
Was the priest in danger?
Despite all the jokes, he was still a self-declared superhero. He couldn't just sit there.
A pistol appeared in his hand as if pulled from thin air.
He moved toward the corridor.
The growl became clearer.
At the end of the corridor, a door.
Deadpool kicked it open.
Inside—
The priest stood frozen, holding a ceramic cup in one hand and a small white plastic bottle in the other.
Across from him—
An old woman tied to a chair.
Her skin was gray-white, corpse-like. Her eyes were milky and clouded. Blood smeared her face. Not wounds—just smeared blood.
At her feet lay scattered human limbs.
Deadpool didn't need a forensic report. He had seen enough battlefields to recognize dismembered human remains.
The low growl came from the old woman's throat.
"My God," Deadpool muttered. "That's… bold taste."
He glanced at the priest with disgust.
Also—
Zombies?
Had he somehow stumbled into another universe?
"Go back to the hall," the priest said hurriedly. "The drink will be ready soon."
"I asked for Coke," Deadpool replied.
"They're both black. No difference."
Deadpool stared.
"Sir, did you major in competitive diving? That was a deep deflection."
He raised his gun slightly.
"What's wrong with her?"
"She's my sister," the priest snapped. "She's sick."
"What about the buffet at her feet?"
"That's just an acci—"
Mid-sentence, the priest's expression twisted.
He dropped the cup and lunged.
Bang!
The bullet tore through his forehead, leaving a massive hole.
Deadpool stepped aside as the body collapsed.
He turned.
The old woman was still growling.
Bang!
Silence.
Deadpool walked forward and picked up the small bottle.
Estazolam tablets.
Sleeping pills.
He looked at the cup on the floor. Undissolved white granules floated in dark liquid.
Everything clicked into place.
The priest drugged people who sought refuge in the church.
Then fed them to his infected sister.
Deadpool exhaled slowly.
Heartless.
And disturbingly organized.
Church.
Priest.
Zombie.
Human bodies as feed.
This plot felt familiar.
His mind raced.
Was this—
Resident Evil 2?
But that wasn't Marvel.
And his time-hopping nonsense was usually limited to Marvel-adjacent nonsense.
Unless—
A terrifying thought appeared.
Had corporate mergers rewritten reality?
Had Marvel wandered into crossover territory?
Deadpool blinked rapidly.
Was it too late to bribe streaming executives?
He shook his head.
Focus.
He stepped outside the church.
The street was eerily quiet.
He checked a nearby street sign.
Raccoon City.
"Beginner village," Deadpool whispered.
He had entered a survival horror tutorial level.
---
Raccoon City
Located in Colorado, surrounded by mountains and bordered by a river, Raccoon City had only one major bridge connecting it to the outside world.
Perfect for containment.
Or isolation.
The Umbrella Corporation had invested heavily here.
On the surface: factories, jobs, prosperity.
Underground: the Hive.
A massive research facility.
Inside it, scientists studied a highly infectious pathogen known as the T-virus.
The artificial intelligence system, Red Queen, had once tried to contain a leak.
It failed.
And now—
Only about ten hours had passed since the outbreak began.
Deadpool entered an abandoned apartment building and found a small refrigerator.
He grabbed a soda.
"If I'm going to face zombies," he muttered, "I need carbonation."
The electricity still worked.
Water still ran.
The crisis was fresh.
He turned on the TV.
Static.
Static.
More static.
Deadpool punched the top of the television.
Sizzle.
The screen stabilized slightly.
A news broadcast flickered into view.
"An unknown virus is spreading throughout Raccoon City. Infected individuals display extreme aggression and attack others without provocation. Citizens are urged to remain indoors. The Umbrella Corporation has deployed armed units and is cooperating with local police to evacuate uninfected residents."
Deadpool leaned back.
He took a sip of soda.
"Okay," he said calmly.
"So this is definitely not Brooklyn."
He stood up and walked to the window.
In the distance, faint screams echoed.
Gunshots followed.
Sirens wailed.
The sky was still blue.
It looked like a normal day.
But underneath—
The city was dying.
Deadpool cracked his neck.
"Alright, beginner village," he muttered. "Let's see what difficulty you're set to."
He holstered one pistol.
Drew another.
And grinned beneath his mask.
The zombie apocalypse had just gained a very talkative participant.