Zero Day

Chapter 1

December 2018

The alarm clock blared through the small, dimly lit room, its shrill tone slicing through the early morning quiet. Cliff Reed, seventeen and stuck in a perpetual state of exhaustion, groaned as he stirred beneath the worn covers. His bedroom was a chaotic shrine to the 1980s, with heavy metal posters plastered on every available wall, the edges curling from age and neglect.

He turned over, slamming a hand down on the clock to silence it. The dull ache in his head pulsed as he blinked blearily at the ceiling. The cold light of a snowbound Syracuse morning filtered through the thin curtains, casting a pale, lifeless glow over the room.

Cliff dragged himself upright, his bare chest exposed to the frigid air. His reddish-brown hair fell in tangled strands over his eyes, and a faint shadow of a mustache hinted at his attempts to cultivate some semblance of manhood. He let out a heavy sigh, the weight of the world pressing down on him, and he wondered why he even bothered to get out of bed.

A sharp knock at the door was followed by his mother's familiar voice, insistent and tinged with irritation. "Get up! You're already late!"

Cliff groaned again, louder this time. "It's Sunday," he mumbled, half-hoping she'd leave him alone.

"So? We're going to church," she replied, her tone brooking no argument.

Cliff rolled his eyes, frustration bubbling up inside him. He'd heard the warnings on the news—warnings that felt too real to ignore. But his mother, ever the skeptic, dismissed them as nothing more than fearmongering.

"But the news said to stay indoors," Cliff protested weakly, with his face still buried in his pillow, knowing full well what he said wouldn't make a difference.

His mother's scoff came sharp and dismissive. "You really believe that nonsense?"

Cliff hesitated, running a hand through his tangled hair. "There are people eating each other, Mom. You can't just ignore that."

"Maybe you need church to stop believing everything you see on TV," she shot back, her stubbornness as unyielding as ever. Cliff could almost hear the derision in her voice, the same tone she used whenever she talked about "kids these days" and their obsession with screens.

Defeated, Cliff swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cold wooden floor beneath his feet. His body ached with a dull, persistent fatigue, the kind that settled in his bones and refused to let go. He stood slowly, his mind still foggy with sleep and unease, and opened the drawer to pull out a well-worn Iron Maiden shirt. He slipped it on, savoring the comfort of its familiarity, even as a sense of dread gnawed at the edges of his consciousness.

Downstairs, his mother was already moving about, her footsteps heavy and determined. He could hear her rummaging through the kitchen, the clatter of dishes and the faint sound of the radio playing some old tune. Cliff sighed, the weight of inevitability pressing down on him. There was no escaping this.

He was halfway down the stairs when his brother, Randy, emerged from his room. At nineteen, Randy had two years on Cliff and seemed to relish every moment of it. He glanced at Cliff, taking in the Iron Maiden shirt and combat boots with a smirk.

"Nice church clothes," Randy said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Shut up," Cliff muttered, too tired to muster a more creative retort.

Randy just laughed, the sound grating on Cliff's already frayed nerves. Ignoring his brother, Cliff made his way into the living room, where his mother was waiting, her coat already on and her keys jingling in her hand.