Life After Death

by Jenkins, Seb

  He pulled the door shut from the inside until he heard that satisfying click of the latch, then flicking the lock to the left he once again restored security to this stunning home. The Humes finally had the peace they deserved.

  Stepping back to admire his handy work, it was only now that he noticed the old looking door at the far end of the corridor. He hesitantly made his way to it, well aware that it was the only portion of the house he had not yet explored. He slid the baseball bat from over his shoulder, catching the glimmer of that gold inscription as it flashed past his eyes.

  He threw the door open and felt for the light switch on the other side, finding it on his left after flapping his hand repeatedly against the dark wall. A light hesitantly blinked on above his head, illuminating a small garage. At the front stood a classic electric lifting garage door, and just behind it an impressive red pickup truck, clearly well-loved and maintained by its owner.

  Even the one weak ceiling light made the paintwork shine, as if it had just been driven off the production line. On either side of the car stood towering shelves full of what looked like assorted clutter, but hidden behind the vehicle was an old fashioned workbench that brought a smile to Max’s face.

  He had always been one for crafting and building; it was fun to him but also brought with it a sense of tranquillity. The bench was equipped with an array of wood, material, saws, hammers- anything you could ever need. Excitedly, Max set down his bag next to him and began to explore and rack his brain for something he could craft.

  Firstly, Max decided to make a proper holster for his bat out of thick leather material. He emptied the contents of his bag onto the cold stone floor, and began to sew his creation down the centre of the backpack.

  Once he had finished, he slipped on the bag and practiced both sheathing and drawing his weapon. It worked well and Max couldn’t hide his beaming pride.

  Just when Max had given up scavenging, he noticed a leather zip up bag propped against the end of the shelving unit. He plucked it off the ground, enthusiastic as there was some weight to it. He blew off the layer of dust and unzipped the bag to reveal a deadly looking weapon.

  Initial excitement was dampened slightly when he realised it was only an air rifle, but after finding a few boxes of pellets next to the bag, he was more optimistic. The gun looked custom built, with a huge scope fixed to the top, and the entire weapon was painted with camouflage.

  He put the pellets into one of the new pockets on his bag and rested the gun against the bench. He ran back into the house and searched frantically for the keys to his new ride, eventually finding them in a bowl next to the front door.

  He spun back towards the garage, excited to drive the beast of a car, but stopped in his tracks and turned slowly back. Next to the bowl sat one solitary photo frame, and in it a family photo. The three of them were pictured in their living room, sat around the fireplace. Flames licked behind them, and they all wore the same uncontrollable grin plastered across their faces. Max slipped the photo out of its frame and folded it into his wallet. He was determined to remember every single person who helped him as he would be eternally grateful. He owed his life to them.

  Walking back to the garage in a more sombre mood, Max sat the rifle and bag into the passenger seat, raised the garage door and took his seat behind the wheel. He clicked his fingers and prayed for the car to start, which it did, roaring into life with the turn of the key. Max laughed, as if it was ever in any doubt with a car in such good condition.

  Max edged the car out onto the driveway, before closing the door behind him. He took one last second to look back at the house and blessed the Humes under his breath before driving away. It was time Max got as far away as possible from his home town, and all the bad memories that came with it.

  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 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 as 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 than 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 shit,” Max whimpered

  “Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  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; but 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 crack 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 crack 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 accelerating, getting closer by the second, was now barely one hundred yards away. The driver’s window slowing wound down, revealing a tattooed, muscly 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 leaped 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 stamp 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 fuck 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 names Joey by the way, Joey Logan.”

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

  He was alive, for now.

  Chapter Seven

  The van sped along back down the street away from the crash site, and Max sat perched on the passenger’s seat like an excited dog, wondering where he was being taken.

  “I have a little place just at the end of the next road,” Joey explained, as if reading Max’s mind.

  “Great, I could use some…uninterrupted sleep,” Max chuckled.

  “You were asking for trouble sleeping out on those streets mate! You’re lucky the noise woke me up or you’d be clicker fodder right now,” Joey warned.

  “Clicker…?” Max asked inquisitively.

  “Yeah that’s what I call them; zombie seems too much like a dodgy horror film ya know?” Joey explained.

  “Hmm, yeah, Clickers…I like it,” Max laughed as Joey pulled into the driveway of a large cottage.

  “Home sweet home,” he muttered.

  It wasn’t the kind of house Max had pictured when he thought of Joey, but anywhere safe and warm would do him fine right now. He winced as he followed Joey out of the van; every joint in his body ached. Sleeping in the car for nights on end had done him no good, and it was about time he slept in a decent bed. He threw his bag and rifle over his shoulder and hightailed it to the front door.

  Joey pushed down on the handle and let himself in. Max was surprised at the lack of security or locks on the door; they were living in an apocalypse after all. Max made a note to ask Joey about it later, but scrapped that idea as soon as he stepped over the threshold.

  “Welcome to my humble abode!” Joey yelled, stretching his arms out in front of himself and spinning on the spot in a cocky fashion.

  Behind the rickety cottage door with a red and blue stained glass window stood what looked like a homemade bulky metal door with an infinite amount of impressive locks, bolts and chains. The door was attached to an equally large metal post, planted deep into the floor to provide some kind of stability. The thing wouldn’t have looked out of place in Fort Knox.

  Max walked tentatively through the doorway, inspecting the rest of the house as he did so. From what he could see it was a normal cottage home, with low ceilings and a wobbly wooden staircase; but Max was certain that Joey would have other tricks up his sleeve.

  “I have to say, it’s impressive man!” Max said, struggling to find the words.

  “How long have you had that thing installed?” Max asked, nodding towards the door with a slight smile.

  He wasn’t sure what to make of his new companion.

  “Installed? I made this baby myself a few weeks back,” Joey proudly stated.

  Max knew it looked a bit DIY, but he was still impressed. Joey was obviously a resourceful man, and Max had already seen first-hand that he could handle himself well against the clickers. It was definitely a good idea to stick around with this guy.

  “Before I show you to your room, just enough time for the grand tour! This way please…” Joey said eccentrically, walking through an open doorway.

  “This is the living room, fully equipped with comfy sofas and a DVD player for as long as the generator holds out,” he explained.

  The room looked like a typical cottage type lounge, completely contrasting the futuristic looking steel door behind them. The three sofas were arranged to face both the TV and the fireplace which sat next to each other. Even looking at the glorious bricked fireplace, stacked with grand logs of wood, made Max feel warm.

  “This place is beautiful,” Max exclaimed.

  “Thanks man, used to be t
he family home when I grew up and I could never bear to leave the place,” Joey said, letting the cocky façade slip for just a second.

  “Anywayyyy…if you follow me to your right, you’ll find our excellent cooking facilities most impressive,” Joey continued, once again playing the fool.

  The kitchen was far from modern, but Max liked it. The paint was peeling from the aged wooden cupboards, and the dark tiled floor gave the whole room an old fashioned vibe. Beams ran across the ceiling and a huge stove sat in the corner of the room. Max had always dreamed of living somewhere like this; it was so peaceful and simple.

  Joey continued to show Max around room by room, from the kitchen to the bathroom, to the dining room, finally stopping at a stone staircase which plunged into the darkness below.

  “Now this is my favourite,” Joey beamed, releasing no further information as he flicked a light switch and bounded down the stairs.

  At the bottom of the staircase, two doorways stood opposite from each other to Max’s left and right. He followed Joey through the right-hand door and was immediately both astounded and unimaginably impressed. The walls were lined with what Max assumed were again homemade wooden racks; every single one of them filled with various weapons and equipment.

  “Oh fuck off!” Max laughed, unable to think of anything more appropriate to say.

  Joey continued to beam.

  Max circled around the room, studying each rack as he went. The first held a sumptuous supply of blunt instruments; clubs, bats, golf clubs, things like that. On the next wall hung some more deadly weapons, a thin sword, a long sharp spear, and an empty slot where Max assumed Joey kept his machete.

  The far wall was mainly filled with a hanging bow, the string looking fresh; maybe never even used. Beside it stood a case filled with different shapes and sizes of arrows; Max wondered if Joey could even adeptly use this weapon or if he was just showing off. He definitely seemed like the theatrical type. In the centre of the room stood a sturdy stone table, and on it a vast glass display case.