Life After Death (Book #1)

Chapter Six

It had been a week since the events at the house and Max had been driving endlessly and randomly ever since, stopping each night to sleep in the car. He had been able to siphon gas from abandoned vehicles along the way, leaving the nasty taste of petrol plaguing his taste buds. He had no idea where he was or where he was going; he just wanted to be as far away from home as possible. He still couldn't quite believe that things were this bad across the whole country, but from what he had seen so far, the future was bleak.

Max was finished driving for the day; the sun was setting and his eyes were drifting shut. How ironic it would be to be killed in a car crash in the middle of an apocalypse. He found an empty, secluded street and parked up. He jumped down from the car and fetched the vast black sheet he had found a few days ago from the back.

He had taken to draping this sheet over the car when he slept to keep himself hidden from the undead. He had no idea if it worked, but somehow it comforted him anyway. Clambering back into the driver's seat, locking the doors, and reclining the seat, Max quickly slipped into a deep slumber.

He awoke later that night to the sound of tapping. Light, repetitive tapping. Max felt for the door handle to investigate the noise, but halted immediately. He was far too cautious for mistakes like that these days. He instead opted to flick on the windscreen wipers, which caught of the sheet, ripping it off the car. It was clearly still deep into the night, as the pitch blackness prevented Max from seeing the source of the tapping.

The noise was soft, it didn't fill him with immediate fear or any sense of danger. Yawning and stretching, Max twisted the ignition key and turned on his headlights. His vision was tired and blurred, and he rubbed his eyes to wake himself up.

Max peered out of the windscreen and flew back in his seat, scrambling for some kind of purchase. Surrounding the car from all sides was a group of twenty undead; the sudden petrifying realisation sank in that the soft tapping sound was, in fact, the noise of a series of chilling, muffled clicks.

"Oh s**t," Max whimpered. "s**t! s**t! s**t! s**t! s**t!"

He bolted upright and fumbled for the keys as his hands shook uncontrollably. The undead, now alerted to Max's presence, began to swarm around the car. Everywhere he looked was a sea of rotting flesh and biting yellow teeth. Dozens of wrinkled dead hands clawed and smashed at the windows, desperately trying to break their way into the vehicle, all the time never taking their eyes off Max. Their eyes were locked onto him, already tasting his living flesh. Max turned the key, immediately realising that the engine was already running.

The undead bodies were now completely covering the car; all he could see out of the windscreen was skin and blood. He wrestled the gear stick into first and hit the accelerator as hard as he could, desperate to escape the hellish situation he was in. The whole car jolted forwards and Max smacked his head on the steering wheel as the car stalled. Sweat was gushing down his face as he scrambled to restart the engine.

He eased onto the accelerator more carefully and drove off, still carrying the disgusting creatures on the front of the car. He heard an ear-splitting c***k as he ran over a fallen undead, and the car swerved violently to the left as the broken bones and carcass of the body jammed in the wheel arch.

Max braced himself as the car veered off the road and crashed with a sickening metallic crunch into a thick lamppost by the side of the street. The evil scene before his eyes was temporarily shielded from him as his vision blurred from another hefty whack to the head. Max rubbed his eyes and clutched his pain-stricken neck, as smoke poured out from underneath the bonnet.

He desperately searched for a way out, but the undead were already upon him and the windscreen was now a shattered mess. The passenger door was blocked by a brick wall next to the lamppost, with the front and driver's side now overrun with bodies. Hands and arms flew into the smashed windscreen, clutching the air and straining to rip their nails into him.

"Not now, not now!" Max shouted to himself.

Max had always toyed with death; he wasn't a stranger to it. He was depressed, alone and scared, but he needed to find more survivors. He just had to know what was going on. He had to know why his brother was dead; he just had to. Maybe eventually it would all be too much for him; maybe he would take his own life, but Max knew he didn't want to go like this if he could help it.

One arm pushed through and slowly scraped down a jagged piece of glass, leaving a nauseatingly deep gash down the wrist. All they were interested in was tearing Max limb from limb and they wouldn't stop at anything until they did so. The window to his right was beginning to c***k under the pressure of five undead trying to smash their way in.

Max took a deep breath, accepting that this could well be the end for him. He rummaged through his backpack until he found his old, trusty revolver, and clicked the bullet into the first chamber. After clicking the safety off, he raised the gun to his head, trembling as he did so.

He was desperate to find out what had happened to the world. He needed to know why his little brother had to die; he needed someone to blame; he needed closure. He wasn't going to get that anymore.

Max's hand dripped with sweat as he struggled to keep a tight grip on the gun. This was all so much easier in his apartment, when it was on his own terms. Back then he had a choice over life and death; this was just his only way out.

He pictured John, playing in the street. He pictured his parents in the family home, all crowded around the dinner table. He pictured childhood friends, past lovers, but his future was slipping away.

Then he thought of John again. He thought of John bleeding out on his apartment floor, and he pictured him turning into one of those things.

He pushed the gun hard against his temple. This was a lot harder to do when you knew there was no hope of survival, but he couldn't turn into one of those monsters. He just couldn't. Max's eyes filled with bright light, panicking him as he thought he may be passing out.

However, the bright light was shortly followed by a loud rhythmic beeping. Max shielded his eyes and craned his neck to see between the endless undead limbs. A small yellow van was hurtling down the road towards him, beeping its horn as it went. The undead remained unfazed, barely noticing the turn of events. They were so close to Max now, nothing could take their attention off the potential feast.

The van accelerated, getting closer by the second, was now barely one hundred yards away. The driver's window slowly wound down, revealing a tattooed, muscular arm wielding a deadly looking crowbar. The van veered to the right, aiming straight for Max's car. Without thinking, Max threw his arm backwards, groping for the seatbelt and swiftly clicking it into place. He couldn't afford another blow to the head if he was to make a quick getaway.

The crowbar wielding arm swung sharply through the air, cracking the skull of an undead scrambling towards the front of the car. The side of the van scratched down the side of Max's car at tremendous speed with a piercing scraping noise, but obliterating every figure to his right. Max glimpsed the driver for a split second as he hurtled past. The van then screeched to a halt, as the driver's door flew open and Max's saviour leapt out. The smell of burning rubber and rotting flesh was thick in the air.

The man had dark skin, and short, shaved black hair. His tall body loomed over the nearby undead, and his arms were thick and muscular. He wore a black tank top and old, ratty blue jeans, with weapons hanging from a loose brown belt. Max could see a hammer, spanner, knives and even a machete hanging by the man's waist. He slashed and carved his way to Max's car, splitting bone after bone with his lethal crowbar.

After reaching the front of the car, the mysterious hero plunged into the smoke, tearing bodies off the bonnet with his bare hands and imploding their skulls with a ferocious stomp of his boot. Max suddenly realised that the way to freedom was now clear for him, as he clambered out of the car, being sure to grab both his bag and rifle as he did so. His new friend was finishing off the last few undead, smashing at their faces and collapsing in their skulls.

Max pulled out his bat and weighed in, jabbing the last attacker in the face, followed by one anger-filled swing to the head. The body fell to the floor, joining the river of bodies and blood that surrounded them. Max took a second to catch his breath before turning to look his rescuer in the eye.

"Well thank f**k you were here, man! I'm not sure I could have handled that last one!" the man sarcastically chuckled. "C'mon, get in the van, you can thank me later," he urged, heading towards his vehicle.

He turned back briefly and looked at Max; extending his hand to shake, "The name's Joey by the way, Joey Logan."

"Max Dalton," Max replied grinning from ear to ear with pure relief.

He was alive, for now.