Zero Day

Chapter 4

Several Weeks Later – February 12th, 2019

Cliff trudged down a desolate road, his footsteps echoing in the eerie silence of the post-apocalyptic world. He was clad in a faded blue denim jacket, a worn W.A.S.P. T-shirt underneath, blue jeans, and scuffed combat boots. His backpack, filled with the few supplies he had managed to scavenge, weighed heavily on his shoulders. The streets were littered with debris and the decaying bodies of those who hadn't made it—silent reminders of the world that had once been.

It had been several weeks since he left the shelter, but it felt like an eternity. His thoughts swirled as he walked, each step a painful reminder of everything he had lost. "It's been a month... or less. My birthday was yesterday. I'm finally eighteen..." The thought felt hollow, meaningless in a world where survival had become the only thing that mattered.

He hadn't celebrated. There was nothing to celebrate. The world was gone, and all that was left was the grim reality of day-to-day existence. "I left the shelter right after everything went down... and now I'm just out here, alone, on these streets. Do I regret what I did? Yeah, every damn day. But there was no other choice." He grimaced, the memory of Randy's lifeless body still fresh in his mind. "I just hope he's in a better place now... I swear I'm going insane. Three months ago, I couldn't have imagined any of this, and now... now, the world is ruined forever. I've killed people, I've hurt people... there's no going back."

Cliff continued down the road, the bleak landscape passing by in a blur. Eventually, he reached Joey's house. The sight of the familiar structure brought a pang of nostalgia mixed with dread. The family car was still parked in the driveway, a grim sign that there was a good chance they were all dead inside. He paused at the edge of the street, his heart pounding in his chest as he weighed his options. The thought of what he might find made him hesitate, but he knew he couldn't turn back now.

With a heavy sigh, he shrugged off his backpack and unzipped it, pulling out a crowbar. He slid the backpack back on, gripping the crowbar tightly in his hand as he crossed the street, steeling himself for whatever awaited him inside. The front door was locked, so he jammed the crowbar into the doorframe, prying it open with a grunt of effort. The door creaked, resisting at first, but after a few tries, it finally gave way.

The house was eerily quiet as Cliff stepped inside, the familiar smell of the place clinging to his senses. It looked just as it had the last time he was there, months ago—almost as if time had frozen, untouched by the horrors outside. With the crowbar still in hand, he moved cautiously through the house, his heart racing as he made his way to Joey's room.

"Joey?" Cliff called out, his voice low and tentative as he entered the room. It was just as messy as he remembered—clothes strewn about, old posters on the walls, and the faint smell of stale air. But there was no sign of Joey.

Where is he? Cliff thought, a knot of anxiety tightening in his chest. He stepped further into the room, glancing around nervously.

Suddenly, a shout rang out, and before Cliff could react, Joey swung a bat at his head. Cliff barely managed to duck, stumbling backward. "Hey, hey! It's me, Cliff! Chill!" he shouted, holding up his hands in surrender.

Joey's eyes widened in shock as he recognized his friend, and he quickly lowered the bat. "Shit, man... I almost took your head off."

Cliff let out a shaky laugh, trying to mask his relief. "Wouldn't be the first time someone tried to kill me."

Joey forced a weak smile, the tension still lingering between them. He looked disheveled, his blue track pants and green shirt stained and wrinkled, as though he hadn't changed in days. Cliff noticed the dried blood on the bat but decided against asking about it. Some things were better left unsaid.