Apocalypse Days: I Rule with Foresight and a Powerful Son
Chapter 190

Chapter 190: 190

Pain woke him first.Then cold.Then darkness.

Marcus inhaled sharply and instantly regretted it. His chest burned like it had been split open and sewn back together with fire. The air smelled metallic—wet iron and rot—and it clung to his throat like a film he couldn’t swallow down. When he tried to move, white-hot agony lanced down his right leg.

"Shit—" The curse came out as a breathless rasp. He barely recognized his own voice.

He blinked. Black. Blinked again.

Faint, flickering green lit the far side of the corridor—if it was even a corridor. The light danced against curved walls, distorted by some kind of fog clinging low to the ground. Was it gas? Smoke? The vapors didn’t rise, only hugged the metal floor like something alive.

His comm on his shoulder sparked once and went dead. The familiar static hum vanished. He turned his head slightly and winced as his HUD lens caught the movement, cracked and useless. He tapped it twice.

No signal. No route marker. No name tags.

No one.

Where the hell was he?

He remembered falling.No—being thrown.A blast. The ceiling gave way. The weight of debris crushing down. Screaming—his or someone else’s.Then nothing.

He was still breathing. That had to count for something.

Where were the others? Were they ok? He hoped they managed to get out without encountering that thing. The creature. The one with too many limbs and not enough face. The mimic.

Fuck.

Marcus shifted, groaning as he dragged his body upright. The pain in his leg was bad. Not a sprain—worse. He reached down, fingers trembling, and pressed along the shin. The angle wasn’t right. Too much give. Too much pain.

Fractured. Maybe splintered.

He couldn’t walk. Not like this.

But he could crawl.

The green glow pulsed again. That had to be a generator or an emergency exit sign—something human. He started moving toward it, one elbow at a time. His palms scraped against rough metal. Something wet slicked the floor beneath him, sticky and thick, catching on his sleeves.

Not water.Too warm.Too slick.

Not thinking about that, he told himself. Just move.

The silence pressed in. No distant gunfire, no comm static, no footfalls. Just his breathing and the scrape of cloth on metal.

Then—

"Marcus."

He froze.

The voice came from ahead. Echoed low and distorted, like it was coming through water.

Feminine. Familiar.

"Ima?"

Nothing.

He waited, heart thudding against cracked ribs.

"Marcus," it said again. Too calm. Too smooth. Like a recording without a soul. "This way."

The green light flickered violently.

He inched forward again, throat dry. "Ima? Is that—?"

Another voice answered.

"Marcus. Stay low. They’re watching."

His heart stopped.

That one sounded like Winter.

But it wasn’t.

There was no breath behind the words. No background noise. No footstep. No rustle. Just perfect mimicry.

He pressed himself tighter to the wall. Cold sweat rolled down his temple.

It was the mimic.

They’d all heard it before the operation went to shit. Creatures grown in the lower sectors—failed experiments. Adrian’s obsessions. Things that echoed back what you most wanted—or feared—to hear.

Sometimes, it was just sound.

Sometimes, it was more.

"Ima," it tried again. But now the voice was fragmented. Repeating itself. "Marcus... Marcus... Marcus..."

"Shut up," Marcus whispered, fists clenched so hard his nails broke skin.

A scraping sound answered him from the dark beyond the light.

Something moved.

His blood turned to ice.

He pulled himself faster now, dragging his broken leg with a muffled whimper, ignoring the tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. His body screamed with every inch gained.

Keep going. Keep—

The corridor narrowed ahead. He hadn’t realized it before, but now the walls curved inward, tighter and tighter, like the throat of something vast. Something alive.

He reached the opening. Just barely big enough for his body.

He hesitated.

Behind him, something scraped metal again. Closer now.

He shoved himself into the tunnel.

Immediately, the space collapsed around him. His shoulders brushed both walls. The ceiling dipped low enough that his head tilted. The air smelled wrong here—chemical and sweet, like melted plastic, like blood left too long in heat.

He dragged himself forward, biting his tongue with every pull. His leg trailed like dead weight behind him. Every breath was shallow and tight. Claustrophobia chewed at his nerves.

Something scraped again.

Closer.

A single word, whispered:

"Help."

No.

No, no, no.

That voice had been his.

"Don’t look back," Marcus chanted under his breath, barely audible. "Don’t turn around. Don’t let it know you’re listening."

A sound answered from behind. Soft... like a breath brushing against metal.

He pressed forward, teeth gritted, ignoring the sharp pain that threatened to black out his vision.

Somewhere in the same forsaken tunnels.He was headed above.

Towards higher ground. Or so he hoped.

Richard moved slowly through the darkened shaft, hand trailing the wall. Every fifteen paces, he marked it—thin white chalk, a habit from field training.

Direction. Distance. Breadcrumbs.

His footsteps echoed too long. The tunnels weren’t meant for people—transport shafts, maintenance ducts, old quarantine routes long since decommissioned. The echo made him feel like he was walking beside himself.

He kept his sidearm loose in his grip, torch off. Too risky to use it down here. Light attracted things. He’d learned that much.

He didn’t wake up where he’d passed out. The rough cavern floor was gone, replaced by cold metal and unfamiliar walls. Someone had moved him.

But no one was here now.

And that made his skin crawl more than he cared to admit.

The dark was safer. Even if every step felt like it was leading him deeper into something waiting.

A noise.

Behind him.

He turned—nothing.

Just stale air.

He pressed forward, breath loud in the narrow corridor, and at the next junction, dropped to one knee to mark the wall again.

The chalk scratched softly against the concrete. One slash.

He started to rise—then stopped.

There, just inches away from his own mark... another line.

Same thickness. Same tilt. Just fainter.

His blood ran cold.

What the hell?

He stared at it, heart thudding in his ears. It was the same shape. Not exact, but close enough that it had to be intentional. He reached out, hesitant, and brushed it with his thumb.

It smeared.

Fresh.

His breath hitched. "No one came this way," he whispered, almost pleading with the dark to agree.

Because that was the truth. It had to be. He’d peeled off alone—he was sure of it. The rest of the crew... God, where were they now? He didn’t know. He’d lost contact after the collapse. He was supposed to mark his way back if he found anything.

But this... this wasn’t right.

Who the fuck had been next to him without him noticing?

His spine prickled. Eyes darting to the tunnel behind him.

He forced himself to mark the wall again. Two slashes this time. Deliberate. Unmistakable.

Just in case.

He pushed on, faster now. Every shift in the shadows made his skin crawl. His leg ached from crouching, but he ignored it, focused only on moving forward.

Then, not two minutes later—another mark.

Two slashes.

His own.

But right beside it—two more.

Same angle. Same depth. Like someone had watched him do it... then copied.

His vision narrowed. The air felt too thin, too stale. His lungs didn’t want to work properly.

What the hell was this?

Not following.

Mimicking.

And close. Too close.

Something had been just behind him. Watching. Learning.

And he hadn’t seen it.

He spun around, scanning the corridor behind him. Empty. Silent.

No sound. No movement.

But his skin wouldn’t stop crawling.

*****

Marcus stifled a groan as he made his way down the corridor.

His fingers were raw. Blood smudged the floor behind him. His leg dragged like a sack of meat. He hadn’t been able to find strong enough metals or sticks to act as splints for his leg.

But he saw the door.

A round hatch, half-open, the green light pulsing from within. A final gasp of safety.

Marcus pulled himself the last few feet and collapsed against the threshold.

Behind him, the tunnel whispered again.

"Marcus. Marcus. Marcus."

No voices now. Just his name, spoken again and again in low tones.

He closed his eyes, forcing his hand forward, gripping the edge of the door.

He pulled.

It gave way.

Inside: a chamber. Metal walls. Dim lighting. A console flickering.

He was in.

He was safe.

Then he saw it.

At the center of the chamber—tubes. Vats. Broken glass.

And one figure standing tall, motionless, bathed in fluid and shadow.

Subject 17.

Its form... wrong.

A torso that split at the waist into tendrils. Limbs that shifted slowly, never quite keeping a consistent shape. The faint curve of a humanoid head, but wrong. Too tall. Too thin.

Its eyes opened.

Reflective. Silver.

It looked at Marcus.

And smiled.

Not with lips. With flesh.

Marcus couldn’t scream. Couldn’t run.

He just whispered, "No."

The door behind him closed.

The light flickered.

Darkness.