Apocalypse Days: I Rule with Foresight and a Powerful Son
Chapter 195

Chapter 195: 195

Richard’s boots squelched against the blood-slick floor as he stepped over the ruined corpses, the thick smell of rot and burnt flesh invading his nostrils.

The beam of the old flashlight he’d pried from a dead soldier’s cold fingers trembled as he moved it across the corridor. Some of the bodies bore bullet wounds—clean and final. Others looked like they’d been torn apart by animals. Or something worse.

Time bent strangely in this place. After the collapse of the main tunnel, he’d wandered blindly through maintenance shafts and old labs, hoping to find a map, or even a familiar face.

Richard’s boots crunched over something soft, unidentifiable—he didn’t look down. He couldn’t afford to lose the little he had in his stomach.

He muttered under his breath, the sound absorbed by the broken walls and distant echoes. "This place is a fucking tomb."

He swallowed hard, stepping over a body with its jaw hanging loose, one milky eye watching him.

No.

Focus.

A quick sweep of his surroundings confirmed what he already knew—nothing living here but the ghosts. Each corner looked the same—peeling walls, blinking overhead strips, silent screams in the smears of blood that streaked the metal. Until the flicker caught his eye.

A door hung ajar, its hydraulic lock jammed and sparking. Richard pushed it open, flinching at the metal screech. Inside, dusty monitors hummed faintly to life, flickering images across cracked glass.

A faded medbay. Vials and syringes long dried out, operating tables rusted and overturned. The central console buzzed, still displaying fragmented surveillance feeds.

One caught his attention.

Tunnel 6B?

The fuck was that?

He leaned in closer, watching the grainy footage. Three shapes moved with purpose down a side corridor—Winter’s distinctive gait, Zara’s unmistakable ponytail, and the bulky silhouette of Leo. Relief hit him like a tidal wave.

"They’re close."

He was about to turn and limp out when—

Groaning.

Low. Guttural. Human?

He froze. Sounded like it came from the far room, where a heavy door was shut tight with a reinforced glass panel. He hesitated, every part of his rational mind telling him to get the hell out.

But something about the sound... it wasn’t mindless. It wasn’t like the others.

He stepped closer, wiping at the fogged glass with the hem of his sleeve.

Inside, the room was sterile, untouched by time or carnage. And on the bed, chained but upright, sat someone.

Young—early twenties, maybe. Pale skin, unnaturally smooth, almost waxen. Barefoot, dressed in thin, institution-white clothing that hung off his slight frame. His eyes—icy gray and disturbingly calm—locked onto Richard immediately.

Before Richard could speak, the figure smiled.

"I was wondering when you’d find me," the voice was quiet, level, almost... pleased. "Richard."

Richard’s throat dried.

"...Do I know you?"

"No," the boy said, tilting his head slightly. "But I know you. Or... I’ve seen you. In memories."

A chill crawled up Richard’s spine. His hand gripped the flashlight like a weapon.

"Memories?"

"Yes." The figure blinked slowly. "Someone else’s. They... think of you often. That made me curious."

Richard frowned. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Subject 17," the boy said simply. "That’s what they call me."

Richard’s eyes widened.

The real Subject 17?

"You were in the convoy," Richard muttered. "When it was hit. You... dragged me away."

A nod. "I was curious. You looked familiar, even before I knew why. I felt... drawn."

Richard’s stomach flipped. This kid—no, this thing—was calm. Too calm. Not rabid like the others. Not mutated or screaming. He wasn’t even trying to escape.

He forced the bile down. "So you were human? Before all of this?"

Subject 17 smiled, and something about the expression was wrong, like a doll mimicking emotion.

"Yes," he said. "Before the base. Before the injections. Before Adrian."

"Jesus Christ..." Richard staggered back a step. "You weren’t made in a lab."

"No," Subject 17 said. "I was taken."

Richard leaned against the doorframe, the flashlight trembling slightly in his grip. "What do you want from me?"

Another pause.

"I’m not sure," Subject 17 said after a beat. "It’s strange. Wanting things. I thought maybe... companionship. Familiarity. I’ve spent a long time watching others through glass."

Richard swallowed thickly. "Then why not stay with Adrian?"

Subject 17 blinked. "He’s loud."

The response startled a breathy, shocked laugh from Richard.

"He wants too much," the boy added. "I just wanted to stretch my legs."

Richard’s skin crawled. "Stretch your legs?"

Subject 17 looked at him, tilted his head again—this time at a near-unnatural angle, like his neck had no joints. "I was restless."

Thunk.

A sharp noise echoed from behind Richard in the corridor.

His breath caught.

And then it stepped into view.

The thing that had been stalking him.

Its limbs were grotesquely elongated, arms dragging behind like boneless whips, and its face, melted into a horrific approximation of a scream, gaped open in eternal silence.

Patches of skin peeled away to reveal glistening muscle and jutting bone, as if it had been flayed alive and then reanimated. Blackened eyes, pits of hunger and madness, locked onto Richard with ravenous intensity.

It charged.

He didn’t even have time to raise the flashlight.

Because before he could blink—Subject 17 moved.

The glass door blew outward, ripped off its hinges like paper.

Richard barely flinched before the pale blur was already moving.

Subject 17.

He was on the creature before it could so much as snarl. There was no warning, no buildup. Just a sickening snap—a blur of motion too fast for Richard to track—and then silence.

The monster froze mid-air.

And ripped apart.

Torn into pieces so fast, Richard barely saw it. One blink, and its torso hit the far wall with a wet crunch. Its head rolled across the cracked tiles, trailing black ichor. Limbs thudded to the floor in separate, grotesque rhythm.

The creature’s mangled body crumpled like discarded meat, neck twisted at an unnatural angle, oozing something viscous and dark.

And behind where it had stood—Subject 17.

Hand still outstretched.Expression unsettlingly calm.Eyes unblinking, those pale, cold greys locked onto Richard.

Blood soaked the walls, speckled the floor, and stained Subject 17’s once-white clothing with vivid streaks of red and black. He stood motionless, not even breathing hard. The eerie stillness was more terrifying than the violence itself.

Richard collapsed against the nearest surface—a rusted metal shelf that screeched under his weight, panting, trying to wrap his head around what he’d just seen.

"Jesus... Christ..." he breathed, voice hollow, trembling.

That could’ve been me.

That should’ve been me.

His limbs refused to move, frozen in fear and awe. He looked up slowly, almost afraid to meet those gray eyes again.

And when he did—when Subject 17 turned that look on him, indifferent, quiet, almost thoughtful—Richard finally understood.Not just how powerful this thing was.But that his life, his fate, his entire goddamn existence had been in the hands of this... person? creature? since the moment the convoy was attacked.

He hadn’t even moved during the entire kill.

"What... are you?" Richard whispered.

The boy smiled again. "Still trying to figure that out."

There was a long pause.

Richard’s heart thundered in his chest.

"Why don’t you just... leave?" he finally asked. "Why stay here?"

Subject 17 gave the first genuine reaction—a small, bitter laugh.

It sounded wrong. Like a recording of laughter played back at the wrong speed.

"Escape to where?" he said. "There’s nothing out there. If I remember correctly, I thought this base would be protection. But instead..."

He glanced around the medbay, eyes distant.

"...they cut me open. Injected me. Watched me scream. Saw what I became, and smiled."

Richard didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The silence said everything.

Subject 17 looked at him again, expression unreadable.

"I’m not here because I’m trapped," he said softly. "I’m here because I want to be."

Richard exhaled shakily. "And Adrian? What the hell is he planning?"

The boy’s eyes narrowed. "He thinks he can rebuild the world. Make himself a king. He wants to raise an army—using others like me. To chase away the dead. And that orb in the sky that’s supposedly causing all the mist and death."

Richard stiffened. "The orb? You mean—"

But he didn’t finish.

Because suddenly, the alarms blared—sharp, shrill, and urgent.

Red lights stuttered to life, washing everything in crimson. Richard spun around, adrenaline punching through his haze of exhaustion.

When he turned back, Subject 17 was gone.

Only the bloody sheets on the bed remained, and a faint, lingering warmth in the air.

Richard backed away, nearly tripping on the doorframe. He stumbled into the corridor, every instinct screaming at him to move.

He didn’t know what the fuck Subject 17 was—but whatever he was...

He could choose whether you lived or died. And apparently, Adrian had a lot more like him somewhere in this base?

And for now, Richard had been chosen to live.

He had to get above ground quickly!

He had to find Winter.

Had to find Zara.

Before Adrian found them first.

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