Zero Day: Days Left

Chapter 8

The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows over the desolate landscape. Cliff's boots crunched against the gravel as he walked, each step deliberate, fueled by a raw, seething hatred. His rifle hung loosely at his side. He was numb, but full of rage. The Reapers had taken everything from him—everything that mattered. Aubrey's lifeless body was the final straw, and now, all that remained was his resolve to end them.

As he approached the Reaper's main base, a decrepit warehouse surrounded by rusted barbed wire and makeshift barricades, he could hear the low hum of voices—men laughing, unaware of the storm that was about to descend upon them. Cliff didn't bother with stealth. He wanted them to see him coming. He wanted them to know who had come to deliver their end.

The first guard spotted him from a distance and raised his rifle, but before he could shout a warning, Cliff's shot rang out, echoing through the still evening air. The man crumpled to the ground, a dark pool spreading beneath him. Cliff stepped over the body without a glance, his eyes locked on the warehouse.

He could feel the cold steel of his knife pressed against his side, a comforting reminder that when the bullets ran out, he still had options. He was outnumbered, but he was not outmatched. The Reapers had spent their lives preying on the weak, but today, they faced something else entirely- pure, unbridled fury.

The second man barely had time to turn his head before the bullet ripped through his skull, spraying the wall with a fine mist of blood and brain matter. He collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, his eyes wide open in a final, frozen moment of terror. The third man followed almost immediately, his body jerking violently as Cliff's next shot tore through his chest, shattering ribs and tearing through organs. The sound of his dying breath, a gurgling, wet gasp, filled the air for only a second before he, too, slumped to the ground in a lifeless heap.

Cliff moved through the compound like a phantom, his steps eerily quiet, his movements almost mechanical. It wasn't him anymore, not the boy he had once been. That person had died with Aubrey, leaving behind only this hollow shell of rage and hate. His heart was a stone in his chest, each beat fueled by the raw, primal need for vengeance. The world had taken everything from him, and now he would take everything from it—starting with the men who had made Aubrey suffer.

The compound was a maze of rusted metal and concrete, but Cliff navigated it with a cold, calculated efficiency. The screams of the dying echoed in his ears, but they barely registered. He was numb to it all, his senses dulled by the overwhelming hate that consumed him. The blood that stained his hands and clothes, the bodies that littered the ground in his wake—none of it mattered. There was no time for mercy, no room for pity or guilt. Only the single-minded drive to make them all pay.

A distant part of him recognized the shouts of alarm as the Reapers began to understand what was happening, but it felt like he was hearing it from underwater, muffled and distant. Their panic was a dull roar, the frantic commands and calls for backup barely cutting through the haze of his mind. But he could see it in their faces as he moved closer—the fear, the dawning realization that death had come for them, and that there was no escape.

Cliff felt a grim, twisted satisfaction as he watched them scramble, their composure shattered by the sudden violence that had erupted in their stronghold. These were men who had lived by terror, who had thrived on the suffering of others. Now, they were tasting the same fear they had inflicted on so many others. It was justice, of a sort—a brutal, bloody justice that left no room for redemption.

The main courtyard loomed ahead, a wide open space littered with debris and the remnants of past battles. In the fading light, Cliff spotted a group of them huddled behind a rusted, battered car, their rifles trained on the entrance. They were expecting an attack, but not one like this. Cliff's eyes narrowed as he dropped to one knee, steadying his aim with the kind of focus that comes only from utter detachment.