Max and the Zombie Hunting Squad

“Chief, you should check this out. A Greyhound’s coming.” Max said as he looked out into the adjoining highway. “Hope they’re going to the SafeHouse.”

Only a week ago, Max was hitchhiking from L.A. on a freight truck whose last stop was Chief Blackthorn’s QuickStop in the middle of the parched desert. The truck would turn around back to LA, so Max decided to wait a few days in the gas station and hitch a ride to the SafeHouse with some passersby. By that time, all that were left in his backpack were his cigarettes, colored pencils, and his beloved sketchbook.

“Can you believe it, man?” He asked as he slurped a Coke, “Only the people with the mutation or the vaccine are alive now.
L.A’s a total mess. Looting and shit like that. My whole studio got trashed, which was really just my bedroom. All I have left are the sketches in my backpack. You got the mutation or a vaccine?”

“I got the vaccine.” Chief patted his shoulder. Max wondered why a man like that would even need a vaccine. Chief Blackthorn was a 55 year old former linebacker who ran three miles in the desert each morning just for the heck of it. For Max, exercise meant drawing or straightening up at the Laundromat where he used to work. “What about you, Max? Vaccine or mutation?”

Max scratched his head sheepishly. “Uh, neither. I was too late for the vaccine. Just praying that I have the right mutation in place, ya know.” Chief stared at the young man for a second, but then silently unlocked the front door. Max sighed. He was just glad that Chief hadn't asked him about the vaccine in the past 3 days that he was there. He figured most people would throw him out or maybe even kill him.

Max shook his head. It was hard to believe zombies really existed. Everyone thought it was a really lbad prank when emails from the CDC arrived in their inboxes about how to survive a zombie attack. The media picked up on the flames and turned it into a wildfire of zombie sightings that even led to some homicides. But then, some respectable people, like Max’s father, the head of Chatham Industries, were going to the press about the zombies. Max was kind of oblivious to it all because he was desperately trying to complete the only commission he had gotten in the past three months. Ironically, it was a set of zombie sketches.

The bus pulled up into the driveway. A dozen high school band kids. Some even brought out their instruments. A woman in a spotless white pant suit stepped out holding a mic, followed by a man about Max’s age, who was reluctantly carrying a bulky camera. Behind them were half a dozen families with small kids and then a man in a plaid, unbuttoned shirt. The bus driver.

“Hey, you guys headed to the SafeHouse?” Max yelled.

“Yes, sir. We’re headed to the SafeHouse.” The bus driver said in a thick southern accent.

The reporter immediately strode to Chief and asked a question. He ignored her and went up to the bus driver. “Will you stay the night?” Chief led everyone into the cool of the store as Max held the door open.

“Yes, sir. It’s not safe at night, you see. And we need to keep away from them zombies.”

“Dude, I still can’t believe zombies really exist!” Piped up one of the teenagers. He seemed a little too excited.

"Well, yeah shithead. Why do you think they closed down the city? Duh." His equally pimpled friend.

"Watch your language in my store, son. There are younger children with us."

The teenager flinched, "Sorry...sir," he added as a precaution.

“By the by,” said the bus driver, “My name is Jack Samuels. Folks call me Samuels.”

“I am Chief Aaron Blackthorn. All of you are welcome to stay here as long as you need.”

“And I’m Max,” Max said as the crowd of teenagers pushed past him the QuickStop and made themselves at home.  

"I assume you two have the mutation or have been vaccinated?" The reported asked condescendingly.

"You remind me of my aunt. Never liked her," Max said as he walked away.

After a dinner of Oreos, jerky, ice cream and soda, Chief stood at the window with deep concern on his face.

“You oughta go with us to the SafeHouse, Chief.” Max asked for the third time today.

Much to Max’s irritation, Chief remained stubborn. “Someone has to be at the gas station to wait for any other survivors.”

“In understand, but the city's gotta be nearly empty by now. You still need to look out for yourself.” Max retorted. "We'll put up a sign saying, 'SafeHouse 10 miles that way'. Anyone else will find us."

"Why are you so adamant about this, Max? You've only just met me."

"You're the first person in a long time to help me out. My life was pretty messed up before all of this happened. I mean, it's even more messed up now. The world's gone to hell, but people like you deserve to live."

"I'll live. I got the vaccine remember?"

"The vaccine won't help much if you get eaten by a horde of flesh eating monsters. It's only good for a couple of scratches and stuff."

"I'll survive," Chief said definitively. "I always do."

"How can you know that? What's happened in the past two months is...is insane. No one could have predicted this."

Chief merely pursed his lips and looked sideways at him.

Max asked, "What was that look?"

"You're a smart kid, Max. You ought to know better."

Max considered for a moment, then nodded. "It's a conspiracy. I kn--I agree. That's more reason for you to come with us. The entire city is empty. Either a horde of zombies is going to come eat you or the government's going to come after you and do god knows what."

“End of discussion, young man.” Chief said quietly, in a fatherly tone. Except he was nothing like Max’s father, Maxwell Chatham II.

Max looked out into the driveway again. Brilliant white fluorescent light flowed from the lights above creating an ethereal aura around the gas pumps. Samuels had decided that they would head out at dawn to save time and to keep the bus from overheating. The reporter gave up trying to get a story and sat in a chair brooding and barking commands at her cameraman. Most of the younger kids were still asleep, huddled between their parents, but the teenagers stayed up telling ghost stories with the amber flashlights. “Why don’t you make them shut up, Chief? They’re just gonna scare the little ones.” Max asked.

“Let them be kids for a little longer.” Chief answered gently. Max shrugged.

Suddenly half the lights outside went out. An eerie silence spread over the group. The teenagers froze. Parents clutched their children closer.

“Dammit!” Muttered Chief. “The fuse must have blown.” He grabbed a flashlight, opened the front door and ran to the side of the building.

The rest of the lights went out. They were surrounded by complete darkness.

“Alright, no one panic.” Max said firmly. “Yo! Kids! Turn the lights out to the lot. Hey cameraman, turn your camera light on and point it to the lot.” He grabbed a flute from one of the band girls and brandished it. “Alright, I’m going outside.”

Before he could take one step, the door swung open. Chief stumbled in, panting. “Lock it! Lock it! They’re here!” A murmur went through the room. Children awoke and began crying.

Max helped Chief into a chair. “I was barely 3 yards away when one of them attacked me.”

"Did you kill it?"

"I think so."

“How’d they get here?” A band girl asked.

“A truck must have crashed about a mile away. There could be more on the way.”

“But zombies can’t drive, can they?”

“The government’s been shipping them out secretly. Highly armored trucks.” Everyone stared at Max. “My dad’s a senator. I know things. And its sorta Top Secret so…don't tell anyone.”

“How many, Chief?” One of the parents asked.

“At least fifty more in five minutes. This is an old building; it won’t last long.” He clutched his bleeding shoulder.

“We need to leave right now.” Max stood up at the Chief’s side. “Ok, people. We’ve got a few minutes before dawn. Here is what we do.”

Max, Chief, and Samuels guarded the front of the QuickStop where the bus was parked while the rest huddled in teams ready to leap out into the bus at the signal. The cameraman should’ve been at the wheel prepared to take off, but he was at the back window of the bus, recording the whole scene. The reporter was with him. 

"What the hell are you doing? Take the wheel."

"Ok, sure. Taking the wheel." He ran out to the bus with his camera still in hand as Max guarded his path with an axe.

“Max,” Chief whispered when he returned inside, “Keep your distance. You don’t have the mutation or the vaccine.” Max nodded. He could see the zombies lumbering at them. Chief, Max, and Samuels marched outside.

Samuels hit the first with an iron rod, knocking its head off. Max ripped off an arm with the flute and Chief punched one in the stomach, sending it crashing into another. Samuels kept knocking their heads off, which confused them. “NOW!” Max yelled. The two groups sprinted to the bus.

Soon, the place was overflowing with more zombies than the three could handle, so Max yelled, “SAMUELS, CHIEF, GO! I’VE GOT AN IDEA!” He lunged at the gas pumps. Samuels pulled Chief away, who was still fighting a couple of zombies.

With one hand, Max fought off the creeps and with the other, he ripped out the gas nozzle and sprayed the whole area. "Max, no!"

He grabbed a cigarette from his back pack and lit it.

            Running at top speed toward the bus, Max dropped it as he tore of his soaked shirt and jeans. Behind him, the fire spread, instantly consuming the entire building. With his backpack and flute on one arm, Max jumped onto the bus now clad only in his boxers and caught one last glimpse of Chief Blackthorn’s QuickStop, exploding in a fury of flames.

Starving artist, zombie apocalypse, desert