Life After Death (Book #1)

Chapter Two

It had been three weeks since Max had lost his job and he hadn't ventured out of his flat for a second; even the curtains remained drawn. He needed to shut himself away from the harsh outside world for as long as possible.

The tiny apartment had always been a dump, but now it was completely unrecognisable. Plates and dishes towered out of the sink, surrounded by colonies of flies, maggots and who knew what else. Not an inch of the floor remained in view, covered by clothes, rubbish and discarded beer bottles.

The foul stench no longer bothered Max; he had become immune to the stuffy, murky smell emitted from every inch of the flat. Frankly, he'd lost all reason to care.

On the way back from work twenty-one days ago, Max had stocked up on the essentials. The last of his dwindling bank balance managed to buy him two bottles of gin, three bottles of whiskey, a bottle of vodka and a whole load of beers. He couldn't remember the last time he had anything close to resembling a fresh dinner but the fridge had been well stocked with ready meals, enough for him to skate by.

As he finished off yet another can of beer, he tossed it in no particular direction; hearing the rustling of crisp packets and the clanging of empty cans as it hit what was supposed to be his floor. He swung his legs round to the side of the bed and stood up, which he immediately regretted. It was less like a hangover and more like being continuously smashed in the temple by the thick end of a hammer, as he hadn't let up on the drinking since his altercation with Mr Thompson.

His head was pounding, the blood crashing like waves against his skull; it felt like knives were being driven into his temples and his eyes were popping from their sockets. Nausea struck him instantly and his vision blurred as he steadied himself against the bed frame.

He waddled towards his bathroom and pulled down his three-day-old boxers. Once he drained his bladder of what he could only assume was now pure alcohol, he sat down at his table and carried out his morning routine. He actually had no idea what time it was at all; he hadn't seen sunlight since he arrived home, and had no plan of changing that anytime soon.

On the table in front of him sat a half-eaten, cold pizza with a few flies buzzing around the greasy pepperoni topping. He flicked his wrist and brushed the flies away before tucking into his breakfast. After five slices of pizza and a swig or two from a nearby whisky bottle, Max stared at the far end of the table. He would do this every three days or so, every time he felt most depressed, when he'd lost all hope.

An old-fashioned looking revolver sat perched on a chair at the opposite side of the table, as if it were part of the family sitting up for a meal. The saddest thing was that the gun was the closest thing Max had for company lately. A sense of loneliness struck him hard as he reached over, picked it up, and twirled the cold metal in his hands.

Just holding the weapon filled him with a kind of purpose and power; it gave him a sense of control he hadn't felt in too long. He would often sit like this for hours, just holding the gun, studying it. He had bought it off a friend of a friend a few years back after a spate of violent break-ins around his apartment block. Back then it was purely for protection; now it was more comforting than ever.

He flicked out the cylinder and stared at the one solitary bullet in the fourth chamber, only reminding him of his own isolation. He spun and clicked it shut again in one slick flick; it was second nature to him now. He stared at the weapon for a minute longer, psyching himself up. He pointed the gun towards his face and edged it closer and closer to the surface of his skin. Gradually he slid the muzzle into his mouth as the familiar metallic taste ran down his tongue and danced around his mouth.

He always took a moment to think about this, as one day it would surely be the last thing he tasted. Whenever he saw people play Russian roulette in films, they always pulled the trigger as fast as possible. He had never understood this. It was always so dramatic, even glamourous, but Max wanted to take in every last moment, in case fate decided that it would be his last. It wasn't really the sense of power or control that kept bringing the gun back into his hands, it was the end result.

He had never been a religious man, but the hollow clicking sound of an empty chamber when he pulled that trigger always made him think that someone up there -God or fate or whatever- was willing him to live on. He shut his eyes and squeezed the trigger, hearing once again the hollow click that meant he had another day to turn things around.

He threw the gun down and jumped back onto his bed, the springs creaking beneath him. It was after these moments that he was in his best mood. He felt alive again. Often it's when you stare death in the face that you discover the most important reasons for living.

Max fumbled under the duvet for the remote, clasping his hand around it and switching the TV on. He was met with a booming voice from the speakers as a newsman read urgently, "STAY IN YOUR HOMES, KEEP YOUR FAMIL..."

"Way ahead of you mate," Max chuckled and switched channels.

He had no interest in the news; quite frankly, it bored him. He sat back and felt relaxed for once, completely oblivious to the outside world, and slowly felt his eyes grow heavy as he drifted back to sleep.

He was awoken again a little while later by an ear-splitting thumping. He couldn't be sure how long he had been asleep, as time blurred when he sat in the dark all day. The urgent knocking emulating from the front door echoed through his skull as he struggled to get onto his feet.

"I'm coming, I'm coming, for f**k's sake!" he yelled towards the cracked, green door.

"Max, for the love of God let me in man!" a familiar voice called back in panic.

Max wrenched open the door. He stumbled back and shielded his face from the excruciating brightness as the sunlight pierced his eyes. The man at the door let himself in and threw it shut in a hurry, thumping his body against it as it shut, as if trying to keep someone out. Max blinked away the white light behind his eyes and looked up at his visitor.

"John? What are you doing here?" he asked his brother. "I haven't seen you in months!"

"Haven't...you seen...the news?" John wheezed out in bursts as he caught his breath.

"The news? What are you on about John? Come here you i***t," Max replied, pulling his brother in for a tight hug.

John's back was drenched in sweat and the stench from his stained shirt was almost unbearable.

"f**k me! When was the last time you showered mate?" Max teased.

The two brothers had always been close, but since Max had moved for work seven years ago, the distance between them meant they couldn't meet as often as they wanted. He often regretted moving at all, it wasn't as if his job had provided much meaning or enjoyment to his life anyway; he had often pondered returning once he had enough money. With no wife, girlfriend, or children, and parents who had passed away when the boys were young, John was the only family Max had left in the world.

It felt good to see him again. Truthfully, it was just what Max needed right now.  As Max let go of the embrace, John leapt back towards the door, drawing the curtains open ever so slightly and peering out of the c***k in paranoia.

"What's going on John?" Max asked slowly, with a clear sound of worry now in his voice.

"Have you seriously not seen the news Max? Where have you been for the last week? I called you over and over but your phone never even rang!" John replied without taking his gaze off the window for a second.

"I've been...around," Max mumbled, looking down at his feet, too ashamed to admit that his phone had been cut off months ago. "Why? What have I missed?" he asked.

"Okay, you need to sit down," John urged, now looking directly into Max's eyes. He was clearly more confident about the situation outside now as he tip-toed quietly over to the sofa and brushed off the mounds of rubbish that lay upon it. He sat down and patted the spot next to him. Max followed suit, now both nervous and confused about what was going on.

His brother had always been the smarter, slicker one of the two, but here his perfect blonde hair was ruffled and his deep blue eyes shone with fear. He had never been as muscular as Max, but even so, his hunched, trembling figure looked slighter than usual.

"Okay seriously J, you're freaking me out now, what the f**k is going on?" Max asked, attempting to take control of the situation.

"I'll start at the beginning," John said, clearly traumatised and still on edge. "About 2 weeks ago, reports started coming through on all the news channels of this new deadly blood-borne disease sweeping its way through Europe. Most people ignored it, saying it was just another craze of paranoia about nothing, but then it started spreading. Within a week there were reported cases in America, Africa, Australia...and now Britain. The government said they had it under control, that there was nothing to worry about, but it just went so badly so quickly. They started issuing vaccinations by letters, but that was scrapped within a day or two and it became first come first serve. Not that they seemed to work. People who got this... this disease, started to change. It was like...like they weren't themselves anymore. Grace caught it, she was one of the early cases. I would have come sooner Max, I really would, but I had to stay with my wife. At first, she just grew weak... I think we both...I think we both knew that she was nearing the end. You couldn't get through to the doctors or hospitals see, you couldn't. I tried Max, believe me, I tried! I was with her at the end, she kind of drifted into a deep sleep, you know? It was peaceful. It was what she wanted. A few minutes passed by, I was still clutching her hand, crying into her chest, when I started feeling her move again, started feeling her heartbeat; she was still alive. When I sat up and looked into her eyes, I could see something was wrong...." John trailed off into a sob, wiping his now bloodshot eyes and blinking back the tears.

"What do you mean something was wrong, John? She made it...didn't she, John?" Max asked uneasily, trying to sound as comforting as possible, but he needed answers.

He couldn't believe what he was hearing, and if it wasn't for the shivering wreck of a man in front of him he probably wouldn't have believed it for a second.

John looked up again and composed himself.

"I looked into her eyes...they were open but there was no life there. They just looked dead, full of nothingness. Then suddenly...it all happened so fast see...it was over before I knew what was going on Max. Believe me, I didn't mean it, I had to..."

"What happened, John?" Max demanded, now grabbing his brother's shoulders to steady him.

John sniffed and composed himself.

"She jolted upright, so fast, with more strength than she had shown in days. It knocked me back into the table and I just sat there, confused and terrified. She was looking at me... I know it sounds crazy, but she was looking at me with those eyes as if she didn't know me, as if she wanted to hurt me. She jumped on top of me, I didn't know what to do, she was trying to bite me, Max, actually trying to bite me. I shouted her name, but I don't think there was any of Grace left in there. I hope there wasn't any of Grace left in there. I had heard reports of this on the news, but I didn't believe it until I saw it. She was gone. I... you have to understand, I thought she was going to kill me, she was trying to tear into my flesh with those teeth, and those eyes looked so primal. I had to do it. I had to end it... I had to," John forced out the last few words but he couldn't continue.

He jumped up and ran to the bathroom, retching into the toilet bowl.

He didn't need to finish, Max understood; what John had done was clear. Max couldn't get his head around any of what he had just heard; he just sat in silence. When his brother returned, now visibly shaking and covered in his own sick, Max knew that now, more than ever, John needed his older brother.

But Max didn't know what to say. How could he respond to what his brother had just told him?

"M--Max, we need to leave, it isn't safe here okay, just trust me," John whispered quietly, clearly still in shock.

Max couldn't argue. His brother knew more about what was happening outside than he did, he would have to trust him.

"Let me pack a bag, John, okay? Just wait here, it's all going to be alright! Look at me, John!" Max said urgently.

John did as he was told and looked up.

"It is going to be okay," Max said reassuringly, despite not knowing himself if it were really true.

He scrambled around the apartment, found a ratty, old green backpack, and threw some random clothes into it along with whatever food he could find left in the cupboards.

John was still in shock, unresponsive and looking paler by the second. Reliving the last moments with his wife had clearly taken its toll. Max hauled John across to the door and edged it open bit by bit, unsure of what to expect. The balcony and stairway seemed to be empty, so he pulled on his backpack, with one arm around John, and shuffled out the door.

"Oh s**t, I forgot something. Wait here okay," Max ordered, propping his brother up against the door frame.

He ran back into the living room, frantically searching underneath the piles of rubbish. He felt a pinch and retracted his hand quickly, seeing a small cut on his little finger.

As he licked the wound, he moved a few empty cans and found a broken photo frame hidden among them. He slipped out the photo, the only family photo he owned of his parents, John and himself.

"Look! We couldn't leave without this could we?" Max exclaimed, waving the photo in the air.

John turned, looked over and smiled for the first time since he arrived. As Max gently placed the photo into the front pocket of his bag, he heard footsteps coming from the hallway behind him.

"Wait for me, John! I'll only be a second!" Max called out over his shoulder.

He zipped up the bag and hopped to his feet, turning to run after his fragile brother. John was still stood in the doorway, barely conscious of anything happening around him. Max could still hear the sluggish, echoing footsteps coming from outside and he opened his mouth to scream for his brother to get back inside, but it was too late.

A silhouetted figure appeared, looming behind John before grabbing his shoulders and sinking his teeth deep into the flesh on the side of his neck. Blood spurted out from the wound as the teeth sank further and further into the flesh. The noise was horrific, like a ravenous dog tucking into a juicy steak. John let out a blood-curdling scream, as the assailant bundled him over into the flat. Max was stunned, but snatched up a nearby chair and smashed it on the ground. He grabbed the nearest chunk of wood, then sprinted at his brother's attacker and cracked the chair leg across his head in one aggressive strike.

The figure didn't even flinch. Max could now see the attacker in the light, and recoiled in horror. The man's hair had all but fallen out, with only a few wisps surviving atop his yellowed head. His skin was dry and peeling, with one gash to the left side of his head where Max had struck him.

The wound looked deep and splinters poked out from underneath the blackened blood. The man was unfazed; he appeared not to feel a thing. His eyes looked so animalistic, focused on John's neck and nothing else as he tore further into the skin, now using his long, dirty nails to tear the flesh away. It was like a lion ripping away at the dead carcass of its prey. But John wasn't dead; he was screaming in absolute agony, powerless to stop what was happening. The cries were ringing in Max's ears, but he remained planted to the spot in a terrifying trance.

Max clicked back into action and tore the man off his brother, throwing him back into the table behind him. He began to pummel the attacker with the chair leg, again and again, harder and harder. Max could feel his own hand splintering and bleeding, but he kept striking the man in the face, until it resembled no more than a bloody, featureless pile of mush. His whole head had caved in, and the man finally stopped moving.

What had he done? Had he just killed a man? Was he even still a man? It was self-defence, Max thought; he had to do it, didn't he? So many questions were rushing around his petrified mind.

Max's hands were trembling as he looked down at his bloody fingers. He dropped the chair leg to the floor, unable to comprehend what he had just done.

It didn't matter now, Max told himself.

He was dead, if you could call whatever he was a few seconds before alive. Max quickly shut the door and turned to his brother.

His eyes were transfixed on his younger sibling's wounds. The bites had split the side of his neck open, and dark, thick blood was spewing from the gash like a fountain. Max's shaking hands clasped around the cut, but there was no stopping the flow of red emulating from John's neck.

Max didn't know how to save him. It was tearing him apart inside.

He had his brother's blood on his hands.

"It's too late Max. I'm a dead man. I'm one of them now," John uttered with an eerie sense of calm.