The first gray hint of dawn was still bleeding across the sky when the outer traps began to fail.
Tin cans rattled violently on their wires. A low, collective groan rose from the treeline — hungry, coordinated, wrong.
Natasha was already up and moving the instant the sensors screamed. She slipped from the bed without waking Sam, pulled on black tactical pants, boots, and a tight long-sleeve shirt, then layered her worn S.H.I.E.L.D. vest over it. Holstered Glock on her thigh, MP5 slung across her chest, knife on her belt. Red hair tied back in a ruthless knot. She looked like war itself.
By the time she reached the porch, the horde had breached the outer fence — fifty, maybe sixty ferals pouring through the gap like a tide. Leading them was the girl in the tattered pink prom dress, tiara crooked, eyes shining with something that looked disturbingly like intelligence. She raised one pale arm, and the pack halted in eerie unison, waiting.
Natasha didn't wait. The smile on the girl's face was increasing, looking vaguely disgusting. She growled time by time, once looking at the house, sniffed something in the air. Then she started smiling with loud gnarled noise.
Natasha understood she probably found out Sam into the house. Pick up two MP5s into the both hand, Natasha aimed at the horde. "Wrong house," she muttered under her breath, and opened fire.
Controlled bursts cracked the morning air — three-round taps to the chest, follow-up headshots when they kept coming. The first wave dropped in sprays of green-black ichor. She advanced off the porch, using the pickup for cover, drawing a dozen ferals into a choke point between the barn and the generator shed. A tripwire flashed; a claymore surrogate roared, shredding six more.
"Come on, you bastards," she growled as another cluster rushed her. She rolled behind a rusted tractor, came up firing. Two dropped; a third leapt the hood. Natasha sidestepped, drove her knife up under its jaw, twisted, kicked the body away.
The prom-dress girl went and sit upon the generator, looking at The fighting. She growled again, as the other infecteds stops attacking. Then she looks at the groups, gestured something sharply. The horde split — half pressing Natasha, half peeling wide to circle the house.
Natasha's jaw clenched. "Smart little bitch."
She fell back toward the barn, luring them into the kill zone she'd rigged months ago. Another explosion — fuel cans and nails — tore through the front rank, limbs flying. But they kept coming, stepping over their dead without hesitation.
The air filled with the sharp crack of gunfire, the wet thud of bodies hitting ground, the endless guttural snarling. Natasha counted shots, counted bodies, counted seconds. She took down ten in the first minute, another eight as they tried to flank the barn.
But they adapted.
The prom-dress girl — the crown girl — hung back near the generator, gesturing with jerky precision. When Natasha advanced on a cluster near the generator shed, two smaller groups peeled off to circle behind the house. When she fell back to the porch for better angles, the main body used abandoned vehicles for cover.
Twenty minutes in, sweat stung her eyes despite the cold. Her shoulders burned from the MP5's recoil. Ammo was running lower than she liked. The ferals were learning — feinting, sacrificing a few to draw her fire, closing the ring.
Natasha's breathing grew ragged. One magazine left. They were circling now, waiting for her to tire.
Inside the house, Sam jolted awake to the crack of gunfire and the roar of something hitting the roof.
He scrambled to the window. "Natasha!"
Through the glass he saw her pinned near the barn, back against hay bales, ferals closing to ten yards.
Then the ceiling exploded inward.
Two infected women crashed through in a shower of shingles and dust — one in shredded business attire, hair matted with old blood; the other in nurse's scrubs turned gray with filth. They hit the floor snarling, looking straight at Sam. Sam was also looking at them, but he had no weapons, also Natasha was not present here. This was not the time to panic, as Sam now look at his left side. The door was open. The infecteds also seemed to understand Sam's behaviour and charged on all fours.
Sam's heart slammed against his ribs. "Shit—shit—"
He bolted from the bedroom, bare feet pounding on the hardwood. The business-suit feral lunged first, claws raking air where his face had been. Sam ducked, as the swing of her hand grabbed air upon his face. Looking on the room, he found the fireplace. He ran towards it and grabbed the heavy iron poker from the fireplace and swung with everything he had.
"Stay down!"
The infected lunged again, but this time the blow caught her across the temple — skull cracked like a melon, body crumpling, bursting the brain mass onto his body.
The nurse feral saw this, vaulted the couch, teeth snapping for his throat. Sam ducked, felt hot breath on his neck, then drove the poker upward under her chin. It punched through with a sick crunch. She thrashed, nails tearing his forearm, gurgling around the iron, tried to snatch his body regarding the pain.
"Get—off—me!"
He twisted, shoved, then yanked the poker free with a wet pop. She dropped on the floor, twitching for some time, then dropped still.
Breathing like a bellows, Sam staggered back, poker still dripping from his arm. Blood — his and theirs — ran warm down his arms. Now it's the time to save Natasha. But he did not know where the Armory was. Suddenly Sam remembered something, as his eyes landed on the umbrella stand by the front door — the same place Natasha had pulled her shotgun from when she'd first greeted him.
He grabbed it, cracked it open — still two shells left from before. Good enough for now. He opened the Main door, saw the Prom-dress infected sitting on the generator, her back was clearly visible to him. It was certain that she still did not see Sam as her focus was now on Natasha. Sam steadily but lightly placed his foot on the outside, went behind the feral.
Outside, the circle around Natasha had tightened to ten feet. She is checking the human, definitely. She was totally tired, nowhere to hide, nobody to kill, nowhere to run. Soon, she will be one of them. The prom-dress girl raised both arms, mouth opening in a triumphant shriek.
Natasha put her knees on the ground. This is too much tiresome. Somehow, this infected girl knows how to operate. But how?, she thinking. Her eyes were sweaty and tired already, just waited for the last hit from one of the infecteds. Suddenly, she heard the shriek from above, it was the girl. She saw the prom girl raised both arms.
The shriek cut off abruptly.
A loud bang from behind, as Her head simply disappeared in a red-green mist, a lot of brain mass shattered throughout the area.
Natasha spun. Sam stood twenty yards away on the porch, shotgun smoking in his hands, face pale but steady, his borrowed clothes already splattered and changed to green.
The remaining ferals froze, confused without their leader. Then instinct took over them — they scattered quickly, started sprinting for the trees.
Natasha slapped a fresh magazine into her MP5 and hosed the runners. "Nowhere to go, fuckers.." she shouted as a dozen more dropped before the rest vanished into the pines.
Silence fell, broken only by wind, the drip of blood, and their own ragged breathing.
Sam ran to her, he dropped the shotgun, clattering forgotten to the dirt.
"Are you okay? Natasha — are you okay?" His voice cracked with panic. He asked it three times, hands hovering like he wanted to touch her but was afraid she'd break.
She let the MP5 hang on its sling, wiped a streak of gore from her cheek, and gave him a tired, genuine smile.
"I'm okay, Sam. Thanks to you." She glanced at the headless prom queen. "Big damn help. You just saved my life."
He reached down, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet. She swayed a little — adrenaline crash — and for a second just leaned into him, forehead against his shoulder.
Then she straightened, all business again. She walked to the leader's body. The dress was covered in greenish blood, headless, down onto the ground. It was too damn risky to take down this kind of infected, she thought. Crouched beside the body, she started checking it as her instinct told her. Not much time needed, as after rolled up the sleeve, On the inside of the wrist was a faded tattoo: NV098.
Natasha frowned. Military? Black ops? Something older? She again stood straight, look at other bodies. "Check the others, Sam. Look for any kind of tattoos on the wrist or anywhere in the body."
Sam was curious when he saw Natasha checking the prom infected body. After the words, Sam moved among the bodies, turning wrists, neck, legs and other parts. Nothing on the scattered ferals outside.
"Nothing", Sam replied. Natasha took a quick look again, and then both of them head back to the house.
They went inside the house. It was a total message, as the whole floor is covered by thick greenish blood. Two fresh corpses lay in the living room — the ones Sam had killed. He pointed, voice still shaky.
"They came through the roof."
Natasha nodded approval. "Good work with the poker. You kept your head."
He rolled up their sleeves. Both had tattoos — NV112 and NV079.
Natasha's jaw tightened. "These two were smarter. Coordinated the roof breach. Someone experimented on them. Heightened intelligence, pack tactics… this isn't random mutation."
Sam swallowed. "What does that mean?"
"It means we're not the only ones playing a longer game." She stood. "And it means we're leaving."
She stood, surveyed the blood-smeared walls, the broken ceiling, the breached defenses.
"We can't stay," she said quietly. "They know this place now. They'll come back with more. We leave at first light tomorrow."
Sam nodded, still catching his breath.
Natasha looked down at herself — shirt shredded and soaked in red and green ichor, pants ripped, hair matted. Then at Sam — borrowed clothes splattered, shallow claw marks on his arms already bruising.
She gave a tired, crooked grin.
"Not before we clean up, though," she said. "Right now we look like we belong with them. Somebody might shoot us just to be safe."
She headed for the bathroom, already peeling off her torn, gore-soaked shirt.
"Sam — come on. Shower. Together. No time for modesty."
Sam froze in the hallway. "Together?"
Natasha turned, half-naked, sports bra and tactical pants splattered green. She arched a brow.
"Again with the ogling?" She smirked despite the exhaustion. "We've got maybe ten minutes of hot water. Move it."
She grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the small bathroom. The door shut behind them.
Natasha stripped efficiently — bra, pants, underwear hitting the floor in seconds. She stepped under the spray naked, scars and muscle and pale skin glistening.
Sam stood rooted, mouth dry. He'd never seen a woman naked in real life, let alone one like her.
Natasha glanced over her shoulder, water streaming down her back and over the curve of her ass.
"Clock's ticking, Peters."
Blushing furiously, he yanked off the borrowed clothes. His cock — half-hard from adrenaline and proximity — sprang free.
Natasha's eyes flicked down, a quick appreciative smile curving her lips.
"Well, hello there," she said lightly. "At least part of you isn't shy."
Sam stepped in behind her, face burning. The water was barely hot, but it felt like heaven.
They washed fast — soap passed back and forth, hands scrubbing blood from skin, fingers careful around cuts. Natasha washed his back; he washed hers, hands trembling slightly on her shoulders. No lingering touches yet, but the closeness, the steam, the shared breath — it was intimate in a way that made Sam dizzy.
When the water cooled, they stepped out, toweled dry, and dressed in the last clean clothes from her go-bag.
Then they packed — food, weapons, radio, solar panels — everything essential into the truck.
They stood on the porch one last time as the sun shines bright. painting the carnage in long shadows.
Natasha's voice was quiet. "I held this spot for eight months. Thought it would last longer."
Sam touched her arm. "We'll find another."
She gave him a small, determined nod.
Sam talked again, his voice was apologetic. "Sorry Natasha, it happened because of me. I invited those horde.."
Natasha stopped him, "What are you saying? It is a miracle that they did not attack you before. It's not anyone's fault. It will be happening sooner or later. So, we don't have time to cry over spilled milk anymore. Go, pack the rest, I have to check the radio again."
Sam understood the situation, relieved, he went for packing the rest of supplies, as Natasha set the radio up one final time on the kitchen counter — antenna extended through a broken window, generator humming softly. She wanted to broadcast a last warning.
She keyed the mic.
"Widow station relocating. Ranch is hot — large coordinated horde hit at dawn. Enhanced ferals confirmed, possible experimental origin, stay clear of necessary. If you're monitoring this frequency, stay clear of Colorado County outskirts. Heading…" She paused, glanced at Sam, who after completed his part, stood beside her. They hadn't decided yet. "Heading east for now. Will broadcast new coordinates when secure."
She released the key, waited for the usual dead air.
Static hissed.
Then — impossibly — a voice answered.
Soft, female, trembling with exhaustion and something that sounded like wonder.
"Widow station… this is Scarlet. I read you. I… I thought I was the only one still broadcasting."
Natasha's hand froze on the mic. Her green eyes widened.
Sam leaned closer, heart pounding.
Natasha keyed again, voice steady but urgent. "Scarlet, confirm your location. Are you secure?"
A pause. Static crackled like distant thunder.
"Near the old Sokovia memorial site… maybe two hundred miles east-northeast of you. Small farmstead. Wards holding, but they're weakening. I've been alone since… since everything. I heard your voice every night. Thought it was a recording at first."
Natasha's grip tightened. Sam saw recognition flash across her face.
"Scarlet," she said carefully, "is this Wanda?"
Another pause — longer this time. When the voice returned it was thick with tears.
"Yes. Wanda Maximoff. Natasha… is that really you?"
Natasha closed her eyes for a second, throat working.
"It's me, Wanda. And I'm not alone anymore." She glanced at Sam, a fierce protectiveness in her gaze. "We're coming to you. Hold on. Two days, maybe three if the roads are clear. Keep this frequency open."
A shaky laugh came through the speaker — half sob, half relief.
"I'll be here. I'll keep the light on. I'll waiting. Over."
Natasha signed off with coordinates for a midpoint rendezvous in case the farmstead fell. Then she shut the rig down, unplugged it, and packed it carefully into the truck.
The exchange left them both quiet for a long moment. The sun had fully up now; the yard was lit with the glow of the burn pit.
Natasha turned to Sam. In the morning light her face was streaked with dried blood and sweat, hair escaping its tie in wild strands. She looked exhausted, beautiful, and very human.
Without a word she stepped close, cupped his face in both hands, and kissed him — not the soft, tentative kiss of the night before, but something deeper, grateful, alive.
Sam's arms went around her instinctively. She pressed against him, the hard edges of her vest against his chest, her mouth opening under his. The kiss tasted of gunpowder and adrenaline and relief. When they broke apart, foreheads still touching, both were breathing hard.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For today. For saving me. For being here."
Sam's voice came out rough. "Whoa... Sure, Natasha. Thank you for saving my life too."
She smiled — small, tired, real — and brushed her thumb across his lower lip.
Natasha looked at Sam, eyes bright with new purpose.
"We have a direction now."
Sam nodded, climbing into the passenger seat.
Natasha took the wheel, started the engine, and pulled away from the ranch without looking back.
Behind them, smoke from the burn pit rose thin and gray into the winter sky.
Ahead, two hundred miles
of ruined highway waited — and at the end of it, a voice that had been alone as long as they had.
The truck rumbled eastward.