Zero Day

Chapter 6

Days had passed, though time had lost its meaning in the darkness that consumed Cliff's world. He was confined to the bowels of The Shelter, or so he had been told by the faceless tormentors who occasionally descended into the basement to tear at his body and soul. The air was thick with the stench of decay and filth, mingling with the metallic tang of blood that clung to his shredded Pantera shirt, now a tattered remnant of his former self.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, the line between reality and nightmare blurring. His mind, once sharp and defiant, was now dulled by pain and despair. The darkness pressed in on him, suffocating and absolute.

Where am I? The thought flickered weakly as he clawed his way back to awareness. His body ached with a pain so profound that it was no longer localized; it was simply a part of him, woven into every fiber of his being.

A shadowy figure materialized in the gloom, seated on a rickety stool just beyond the reach of the dim light filtering through the cracks in the walls. The figure was still, but its presence was palpable, a haunting specter in the darkness.

"Hello?" Cliff's voice was raspy, barely a whisper, but it echoed in the oppressive silence.

For a moment, the figure remained motionless, and then, in a voice that sent a shiver down Cliff's spine, it spoke. "C-Cliff?"

The voice was familiar, achingly so. It was Joey—or at least, it sounded like him. But Joey was dead, a fact that gnawed at the edges of Cliff's fractured mind.

"Joey?" Cliff called out again, desperation lacing his voice. "What happened, man?"

The figure did not respond immediately. Cliff struggled against his bonds, the ropes biting into his wrists as he tried to see through the darkness. "I-I don't know," he murmured, more to himself than to the apparition.

But when he looked again, the figure was gone. Only the empty stool remained, a chilling reminder of his isolation.

"Joey?" His voice broke, the name lingering in the air like a plea to a ghost.

The sound of footsteps interrupted the stillness, the heavy tread of boots descending the stairs into the basement. Cliff's heart pounded as the familiar figure of Bates emerged from the shadows, a beam of light from a flashlight piercing the darkness.

"Joey?" Bates's voice was mocking, dripping with cruel amusement as he approached. The light swung upward, blinding Cliff as it was shone directly into his eyes.

Cliff squinted, turning his head away, but there was no escape from the blinding light or the man who wielded it.

"Sorry, didn't mean to blind ya," Bates sneered, the flashlight clicking off as he took a seat on the stool, its creak the only sound in the suffocating silence.

Cliff's head hung low, his strength sapped. "What do you want?"

Bates leaned back, the flashlight's beam tracing over Cliff's battered form, lingering on the bloodied wounds that marred his skin. "You're pretty fucked up, huh?"

"I don't remember..." Cliff's voice was faint, as if admitting the truth would make it easier to bear.

Bates chuckled, a cold, hollow sound. "Exactly."

Cliff's breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale a struggle. "I didn't want to do this to ya," Bates continued, feigning regret.

"Yet you still did," Cliff replied, his tone devoid of emotion. He was too tired to care, too broken to resist.

Bates leaned in, his voice a venomous whisper. "You did it to yourself. You got your friend killed, got yourself taken away from that free life out there... and let's not forget—you killed your brother."