Life After Death (#1)

Chapter Four

Max shut his apartment door behind him, leaving with it the memory of the gut-wrenching horrors he had witnessed in the past hour. He knew immediately that he would never return to this dark crypt, his brothers resting place. It had cast a dark shadow upon everything associated with it.

Max lashed out at the old, wooden door, his body swollen with suppressed rage that he didn't want to show in front of his brother. The wood chipped and splintered with every kick and every punch as Max let out a monstrous scream until his throat was hoarse. He snatched up his baseball bat and swung it as hard as he could, smashing next door's plant pots into tiny pieces, like shrapnel flying through a war zone. He kept swinging, his muscles bulging and straining with every hit, bending the railings on the balcony and causing as much destruction as he possibly could.

It should have been him to die in that apartment, he thought. What did John ever do to deserve this? After everything in sight had been smashed or broken, Max's body ached and he crumpled onto the floor in a heap of trembling tears. He had always struggled showing his true emotions, hence why he lashed out with such force, but he couldn't contain himself any longer. He sat on the ground, still in shock, slowly rocking back and forth while uttering his dead brother's name under his breath.

Max had no idea how long he was sat there, but the icy winter chill eventually crept its way to his bones. He knew it was time for him to leave, and John's last words rang through his ears like crashing church bells. Survive...survive...survive.

"Looking out for me even after you're gone. Only you could do that you little fucker," Max said quietly with a slight smile as he wiped away his tears.

He took one last look back at that splintered green door behind which his brother lay. Then he was gone.

He headed cautiously towards the main road, figuring that this was his best chance of bumping into any other survivors. He doubted he could make it on his own; after all, he still knew very little of what had happened to the world.

He broke into a brisk jog, but as soon as the High Street came into view he stopped dead, his shoes skidding along the gravel ground before he was engulfed by silence. It was like a scene from one of those old western films he watched as a kid; the whole street was deserted. He almost expected a tumbleweed to pass him by in a gust of wind, but there was nothing. Silence.

Every shop window had been shattered across the abandoned pavements, and their shelves were all but empty. Max assumed that as soon as things turned south people panicked and took any supplies they could get their hands on. He clambered through a nearby corner shop and scanned the shelves and floor for anything left that could keep him going. After settling for a few cans of beans at the back of one shelf, and a fallen chocolate bar, he exited through the shop door. The bell above the door let out a high pitched ding as he left, which echoed down the lonely street.

Max decided to take the alleyway to his left. It would take him out towards a usually busy housing estate, where he prayed he would find someone to take him in. Typically Max didn't mind being alone, but in all truth, he was terrified. He needed some kind of companion to guide him through whatever hellhole he had been plunged into. He had so many questions, and no way of finding the answers alone.

He stepped into the shadows of the alleyway as he slid the baseball bat into the top of his bag. He made sure to leave the handle poking out of the top in case he needed it urgently. He then fumbled around the bottom of the bag until his fingers felt the cold touch of metal, and he withdrew a large kitchen knife. Max slipped it into the waistband of his trousers and proceeded through the blackness. A chubby, ginger cat strode along the wall next to him and bounded over the other side.