Zero Day

Chapter 7

The night was as dark as ink, with only the faint beam of Cliff's flashlight piercing through the thick shadows. The streets of Syracuse were deserted, and the only sounds were his footsteps echoing in the stillness. His heart raced, not from fear, but from a fierce determination to retrieve what was rightfully his.

I need to get that truck, Cliff thought, clutching the flashlight as he navigated the cracked pavement. Once I have it, I can get back to Jenny and we can finally leave Syracuse for good.

He had waited until Jenny was sound asleep, her steady breathing a comforting reminder of what he was fighting for. He had hesitated for a moment, torn between her peaceful presence and the urgent need driving him out into the night. But the desire to retrieve the truck prevailed.

At around 11 p.m., the world around him was a realm of darkness. Cliff moved with caution, using the dim light to guide him while keeping it low to avoid detection. He was aware of the risks, knowing that The Shelter's people might still be nearby, but he couldn't let that deter him. The pickup truck, with all his supplies still in the back, was worth the risk. If he could retrieve it without being spotted, he and Jenny could escape this place and start anew.

The journey through the darkened streets was fraught with tension. Every creak of a building settling, every rustle of leaves in the wind, sent a jolt of adrenaline through him. His nerves were on edge, the city's ruins a labyrinth of potential threats.

I just need to get the pickup and get back before she wakes up, Cliff told himself, repeating the thought like a mantra. I don't want her to worry.

After what felt like an eternity of creeping through the shadows, he finally reached the parking lot where the pickup had been left—where Joey had died. Cliff paused at the edge, shining the flashlight ahead. The sight that met him was both a relief and a shock. The pickup was still there, but it was a mess—riddled with bullet holes, the windows shattered. Yet it was still intact, still their best chance of escape.

Cliff's breath caught in his throat as he scanned the area, his mind racing. Joey's death still haunted him, and the thought that his friend's body might have been left behind filled him with dread. But there was no sign of him—no sign of anything but the truck and the silent night.

I wish they hadn't taken my pocketknife, he cursed inwardly, moving forward with deliberate caution. The darkness pressed in around him, his flashlight flicking off as he neared the truck, leaving him to rely on memory and instinct.

As he got closer, a low growling sound reached his ears, sending a chill down his spine. It was faint at first, almost indistinguishable from the wind, but as he approached the pickup, the growling grew louder, more menacing.

What the hell is that? Cliff thought, his heart racing. The noise was unmistakable—a walker, somewhere nearby, aware of his presence.

He hesitated, then moved faster, feeling his way to the pickup's door. He grasped the handle, his fingers trembling slightly, and pulled it open as quietly as possible. Slipping inside, he was greeted by the familiar smell of old leather and gasoline. His hand reached for the ignition, his fingers brushing the key still hanging there. Relief washed over him.

Come on, come on, he urged silently, twisting the key.

The engine roared to life, the headlights flickering on and illuminating the parking lot—and the figure standing directly in front of the truck.

Cliff's blood ran cold. There, bathed in the harsh light, was Joey. Or what had once been Joey. His friend's body was reanimated, his eyes clouded and lifeless, his skin a sickly, decaying gray. He growled, the sound deep and guttural, as he stared at Cliff with a hunger that was both terrifying and tragic.