Apocalypse Days: I Rule with Foresight and a Powerful Son
Chapter 203

Chapter 203: 203

The air in the tunnel was still thick—wet, rotting, alive with the smell of mildew and old blood. Marcus coughed once, then bit it back, trying not to wheeze too loudly. Every sound echoed in these damn walls.

And Richard’s boots were dragging. Worse, so were Marcus’s.

"Come on, man, you have to move," Richard hissed, arm locked around Marcus’s waist. "You’re not dead yet."

"Feels like a technicality," Marcus rasped, his voice hoarse, pain spiking through his thigh as his boot scraped uselessly against the floor. "You’re lucky I like you."

Richard didn’t laugh. His grip just tightened.

"Lean forward," he said. "Let me take more of your weight."

"I already am," Marcus muttered, but he did it anyway. The side of his face pressed against Richard’s shoulder, slick with sweat. His ribs screamed with each breath, and his left leg... well, that was more dead weight than limb now. Torn somewhere deep. Maybe even fractured. He didn’t want to know.

The tunnel curved, dipped, then sloped sharply upward. That was both good and bad. Good, because it meant they were headed toward the surface. Bad, because Marcus had about ten feet of stamina left and no painkillers.

Behind them, the dark yawned like a throat. No telling how far back the last of the facility’s twisted guardians had followed. But they’d heard the thing—heard it scrape metal with bone, heard its wet breath as it sniffed them out. It had a scent, like burned wires and decay.

Marcus shivered.

Richard felt it and didn’t stop.

"Save the shaking for later," he said quietly. "Just a little farther."

"Your definition of ’little’ sucks," Marcus muttered. "You know that?"

"You complain like a rich kid. I thought you were supposed to be the calm one."

"I was supposed to stay topside and provide support from there," Marcus snapped. "Then someone said, ’Hey, let’s go deeper, I’m sure the boy’s down there, what could possibly go wrong?’"

"We found his traces, didn’t we?"

"We found his nightmares," Marcus bit back. "Not him."

A beat passed.

Then Richard’s jaw clenched. "He was close."

Marcus didn’t answer.

Not because he disagreed. But because even talking now was hard. Every breath rattled.

Then they heard it.

A soft click. Then another. Wet. Wrong.

Richard stopped cold.

Marcus lifted his head, barely, and turned.

From the shadows behind them, something moved.

It crawled—too fast, too smooth. Like water running uphill. No clear limbs, just glistening shapes in the dark. A flicker of bioluminescent ribs, then an eye. Just one.

Red. Slit-pupiled. Watching.

"Oh, hell," Marcus breathed.

Richard eased him to the wall and pulled his knife. It wasn’t much. But it was sharp.

Marcus reached for the pistol on his belt and grimaced. Empty. Useless.

The thing in the dark hissed. It sounded almost mechanical. A voice box built from bones and scrap.

Richard backed a step. "Don’t move."

"I literally can’t," Marcus said.

The monster surged.

Richard was ready. His knife flashed, slicing across where its head should’ve been—but the creature wasn’t solid. It melted and reformed, jabbing a tentacle-spike at Richard’s side.

He twisted just in time, but it grazed him—just enough to draw blood.

Marcus grunted and swung his useless pistol, smacking the creature’s side. It gave him no satisfaction. The blow bounced off like a fly hitting a car.

"Light," Richard said. "It hates light."

"I don’t have light!"

Richard’s hand shot to his belt and grabbed a flare. "We get one chance."

He held the flare like a grenade, popped the cap, and struck it.

FSSSHHHT—

Red brilliance flared, filling the tunnel with hellish light.

The creature screamed.

Marcus hadn’t even known it could scream. The sound was visceral—like something splitting open inside his head.

It flailed, twisting against the tunnel walls, body smoking. Its outer shell—skin? metal?—bubbled and cracked, oozing black slime.

"Now!" Richard shouted.

Marcus pushed off the wall, hopping forward on one leg. He didn’t scream. Not out loud.

Richard grabbed him again, hauling him forward as the monster writhed and tore pieces off the tunnel. Chunks of concrete and wire fell around them. The ceiling moaned.

They moved fast.

The tunnel sloped steeper now, the ground slick with grime. Richard slipped once, caught himself. Marcus nearly collapsed, arm locked around his friend’s neck.

"Shit, we’re not gonna make it—"

"We will," Richard grunted. "We don’t die here."

"Optimistic bastard."

Above them, the tunnel opened—just a little. The faintest sliver of white light shimmered at the top. Not sunlight. Fluorescents. Artificial surface glow.

Still, it was salvation.

They stumbled the last ten feet. Marcus fell to his knees at the base of a ladder. His vision swam.

Richard scrambled up the rungs. "Come on. I’ll pull you."

Marcus shook his head. "Can’t—"

"You don’t get to quit," Richard snapped. "Not now."

He reached down.

Marcus groaned, set his teeth, and grabbed the lowest rung.

Each pull felt like knives digging into his thigh. But he climbed.

At the top, Richard caught him and yanked him through the hatch.

The air changed instantly.

Cool. Filtered. Recycled but fresh compared to the filth below.

They were in a back corridor. Service level. Pipes on the walls, crates stacked high.

And chaos.

From the hall beyond came the sounds of alarms. Shouting. Footsteps.

"Shit," Marcus breathed. "They’re onto us?"

Richard crouched by the crates, eyes scanning the crowd of moving uniforms through a grated window.

"No," he said. "They’re panicked. This is different."

They watched.

Soldiers ran past, shouting over comms. Scientist in white coats darted between them, muttering to themselves. An officer screamed something about "sector lockdown" and "containment failure."

It wasn’t about Marcus and Richard. Not directly.

The chaos was too widespread.

Something else had happened.

Marcus leaned against the crate, every inch of him shaking. "We need to blend in."

"Yeah," Richard said, already pulling at his torn jacket. "Put this on. Cover your insignia."

"What insignia? I’m covered in blood."

"Perfect disguise."

Marcus smirked, then grimaced.

He pulled the jacket over his torn shirt and gritted his teeth. The pain was a dull throb now—numbed more by adrenaline than recovery.

They moved out, slow and careful. Sticking to shadows. Mimicking the urgency of the others.

One hallway led to another. Then a massive atrium where people rushed around, all shouting. Orders were flying in every direction.

Then, someone bumped into them.

Marcus barely bit back a groan as the collision sent a spike of pain through his leg. The man—young, cloaked in medical white—stumbled back, eyes wide.

"Sorry, sorry—are you—oh god, are you hurt?"

Marcus winced and forced a soldier’s scowl onto his face. "I’ll live."

The healer’s eyes darted to Marcus’s leg. Blood soaked through the torn fabric. "You’re limping. Where were you stationed?"

Marcus hesitated. Richard stepped in smoothly. "Section D. The east tunnels. It collapsed."

"Collapsed?" the healer’s eyes widened. "That explains the energy readings. How’d you get out?"

Richard shrugged. "Crawled. He got the worst of it."

The healer sighed and gestured. "Sit. Let me see."

Marcus blinked. "No, it’s not—"

"Don’t argue," the healer said, already kneeling. "We’re spread thin. If you pass out from shock, I’m just gonna have to carry you back."

Richard gave Marcus a look that said play along. Marcus grumbled but sat, propping his leg forward.

The healer’s hands hovered above the wound, fingers glowing faintly.

Warmth surged through the muscle and tissue. Marcus clenched his teeth against the strange tugging sensation as the skin began knitting itself back together.

After a minute, the healer sat back, wiping sweat from his brow. "There. Not perfect, but better."

Marcus flexed his foot and blinked. No pain. "Huh. Thanks."

"You’re lucky it didn’t go deeper. Another inch and I’d be fishing shards out of your femur." The healer leaned back on his heels, exhaling. "You said you were in the tunnels?"

Richard nodded, glancing toward the growing noise. "What’s going on up here?"

But before the healer could answer, a voice rang out—urgent, strained. "Kirin! I need you, now!"

The healer’s head snapped up. "Shit."

A woman in a bloodied coat waved frantically from a transport van.

Kirin stood in an instant. "Stay low. The upper levels are a mess right now. I’ll—if you need anything—just grab a uniform and stick to a patrol group."

And then he was gone, sprinting toward the chaos.

Marcus and Richard exchanged a glance.

"You thinking what I’m thinking?" Marcus muttered.

"Uniforms. Now."

*****

They found a soldier lingering near the edge of the compound, his helmet removed, attention locked on a flickering datapad.

Wrong place, wrong time.

Richard moved fast—grabbed him, dragged him into the alley behind the crates.

Marcus followed, wincing, but still moving better than before. The healer had done good work.

The soldier struggled once—then slumped after Richard struck the base of his neck.

They stripped him quickly, Marcus shrugging on the uniform and tucking his ruined clothes into a duffel nearby.

"Not your best look," Richard said, handing him the helmet.

Marcus grinned. "You saying I don’t pull off fascist grunt chic?"

"No, it’s not."

"Noted."

They stepped out into the crowd, weaving with purpose. Just another pair of operatives moving between checkpoints. The air buzzed with tension—guards barked orders, screens blared static warnings, and drones hovered just overhead.

They weren’t in the residential area of Sector 2. Their trip through the tunnels had taken them to a strange place.

But were they in enemy territory?

Richard ducked his head low, keeping Marcus within arm’s reach.

They didn’t talk. They listened.

"We can’t find—"

"—comms were working—"

"—containment units all sealed except—"

They ducked behind a column and watched the crowd swirl.

Then someone ran past, shouting at the top of their lungs.

"The boy is gone!"

Everything stopped.

Marcus and Richard turned at the same time.

Their eyes met.

The boy?

"Subject 17?" Marcus whispered.

No, it didn’t seem like it.

"How the fuck does a baby disappear?!"

Richard’s eyes narrowed. Fuck. He knew who they were searching for.