Fighting you until there's nothing left of me

by softierain

Summary:

Outbreak day

A deathly virus spreads all across the country, no one knows where it came from, but they all know the consequences of it: anyone who's infected dies in agonizing pain, just to be brought back to life minutes later, but as what children commonly call "a zombie."

Almost nine years later, George Russel and Max Verstappen have found their way to survive in this new world they were forced to adapt to. They come from completely different backgrounds, but what happens when rather complicated circumstances lead them to meet?

Or: Max runs into George and together they form an unlikely alliance.

Notes:

DISCLAIMER:(which ngl I think you should be aware of if you're on the tag in the first place lol) This is an entirely fictional work, therefore my descriptions of the 'characters' do not in any way represents how the real people would behave. Any personality trait any of them show is source of my own imagination, and it's just for fun! (Thought I should specify this as I 'villanized' some of them in bad ways. Lol.)

Aged down Max and George, who in this fic are 20 and 19! This will be a series so all the characters listed will appear later on in the story!
I'm trying to do my own world setting, though you could say it's definitely The Last Of Us and All That's Left In The World inspired (if you've read the book this first chapter will have some familiar scenes lol).

I also don't think I've ever written these many words (including my other two rustappen fics) in so little time (8k words in 3 days. What?????) So uh thank god I started watching F1 I guess. Also hello my most creative summary yet !!

Hope you guys enjoy <33

Chapter 1

2556,75 days [7 years] since the Outbreak

George has never enjoyed packing, ever. He'd always secretly ask his sister Cara for help, who was more than happy to do it for him.

"It's just so boring. Why can't mum do it for us?"

Cara chuckles and shakes her head, eyes focused on her brother's bag. "Because you're 16, George. I think she assumes you're independent enough to pack your own bag." George groans and throws his head back, laying down on his bed.

But now Cara isn't there to help him. He doesn't have a lot of stuff to put in his bag anyway, other than his clothes. George doesn't even bother folding them, deciding to just throw everything in without caring about eventual creases that will appear on his shirts. He also brings a bottle of water and snacks, provided by Susie, who insisted he'd take them with him. For the trip, she said.

George knows better than to want a bittersweet goodbye when he leaves. Only Toto and Susie show up at the gates to let him go, the only other witnesses of his departure are the citizens on current surveillance duty. Susie looks at him like a mother looks at his son before he leaves for college. A mixture of pride and sadness in her eyes, and something else he can't quite name. He doesn't try to. She's not his mother after all, no matter how much (and George is sure of this) she wants to be, after everything that happened.

Toto's eyes on the other hand show little to no emotion. George is glad of this, he can't have two people mourning his departure as if he's their child. He never understood why Susie cares so much about him, anyway. Pity? Oh, maybe that's what's different in her eyes.

Toto gives him - or attempts to - a sympathetic smile, patting him on the shoulder. "Are you sure of your choice?" George can tell the word son his on the tip of his tongue, it wouldn't be the first time he'd use the term with George. But it would be the first time he uses it since what happened only a few days before - it feels like years -, so George is glad he doesn't.

George nods, he's never been more sure of something in his whole life. If he stays one day more he's going to die here, he has no doubt about it. Susie is clearly restraining herself from crying, but her eyes are wet. George doesn't waste any more time and bids them goodbye, stopping himself from hugging them both. He's planned this all morning. The perfect emotionless goodbye, no hugs, no, "I love you both", no "I'm sorry I'm so weak". And he doesn't give them time to apologize, either. But Susie is faster than him, and before George can realize it she's thrown her arms around his neck, holding him in a warm embrace.

Toto looks at them, a single tear rolling down his cheek, which he's probably pretending didn't slip out. George sees it but pretends he doesn't, knowing the sooner he's gone the sooner Toto can finally let his emotions flow free.

But as long as he's there, Toto will show no sign of weakness in front of George. He never has, and probably never will.

Susie finally lets him go and smiles at him, holding his face and George is so tempted to give in and lean in her touch, just for a few seconds. But he can't allow himself to. Susie leans away for good, walking backwards to stand next to her husband. Her eyes never leave George's figure as she does.

"Goodbye, Susie. Goodbye, Toto. Thank you for everything." Simple, formal, just like he planned it. And so George finds himself out of the safety of the community he's lived in for the majority of his life, his future unsure. As he directs himself towards the forest George knows that, the second he walked out of the gates, Susie started sobbing in her husband's shoulder as if George is headed towards a certain death sentence. And, to be fair, she's probably notso wrong. But even with that thought, George doesn't change his mind: dying out there is better than barely surviving in here.

 

3286.75 days [9 years] since the Outbreak

Max is absolutely exhausted. He doesn't know for how much longer he'll be able to last like this, gunshot wound on his waist and twisted ankle, wihtout mentioning his own gun has run out of bullets. He mentally curses at himself for not having brought more weapons with him, but quickly rationalises that he physically wouldn't have been able to.

He leans against a tree, panting. He waits a few seconds, and hears no noise. For an instant Max lets himself sigh in relief, a relaxed smile growing authomatically on his lips. He's made it, he outrun them-

"Blood! On the leaves, over here! He's run this way!"

Max starts crying. "Please, God please, I can't do this anymore." He doesn't even try to stop the tears from falling, the pain he feels every time he puts any kind of pressure on his ankle makes it impossible to do so anyway. He leans away from the tree and begins his escape again, headed to who knows where.

In his whole life Max has never felt this kind of desperation before. He lost count of the distance he's run so far, let alone for how long he's been running. Hours? It could have been days and he wouldn't have noticed it. The adrenaline in his body should compensate, at least partially, for the pain at his ankle. But it seems to be doing nothing for it, every step he takes feeling like a thousands of knives against it. He'd do anything to finally lose them, or at least to rest for a few minutes. A gas station, an abandoned house, anything.

And that's when he sees it.

He's arrived at the edge of the forest, the street full of abandoned cars laying out right in front of him. And on the other side of it, a fucking gas station. The tears are falling harder now, but out of happiness. A light of hope sparks inside of him. He thanks whatever God has listened to his prayer and overwhelmed by euphoria immediately runs towards it, barely making it in time before his ankle completely gives out under him. He falls over the moment he steps foot inside the station, but he's still quick enough to look around and then crawl behind the counter. The store is empty of any merchandise, probably already been ransacked who knows how many times before Max arrived. Under the counter he checks for a forgotten shotgun but, as predicted, he finds none.

Max knows better than to let his guard down now. He ducks under the counter as much as he can, making sure he's unseen from outside. He's no fool, he knows that if they found him in the forest just a few minutes ago it won't take long for them to find the gas station. The counter gives him an odd sense of security, as if hidden there he's unvincible. At least now he has time to think of a plan. Right?

He looks around, searching for anything that might help him. The only thing he finds that might be of any help is a bunch of rocks on the floor, probably used to break the windows by whoever has been here before him. Great. Maybe he can throw it against Christian and, if Max is lucky enough, he'll fall over and hit his head somewhere. It's not like he has an actual brain that could be damaged, the stupid asshole.

He hears some noises coming from the forest and soon later he sees them, the whole search group sent against Max, each one of them holding a loaded shotgun and ready to fire.

There's seven of them and, as predicted, Christian stands ahead of the group, seemingly leading them. Max winces but manages to shift around so he has a better view. He can't distinctly hear what they're saying, but Christian motions for them to disperse while he enters the store. Looking both ways before crossing the road, as if there's an actual risk of a car hitting him, Christian reaches the gas station's entrance.

Max can feel the glimmer of hope that had lit up in him starting to fade away little by little with each step Christian makes to move around the shop. Max doesn't test his luck by picking his head up to look where he is located and fortunately the broken glass cracking under Christian's feet is enough for Max to know where he is- more or less. Christian walks to the other side of the shop and, despite how glad he is, Max can't help but think how stupid one can be not to check the counter first. Then again, for as long as he can remember Christian has never been the brightest of men.

"C'mon Maxie, come out come out wherever you are." Christian taunts him. There's a shift in his feet, the glass moving around. Suddenly the steps seem to grow closer, and Max knows Christian has changed direction and is headed straight towards him.

Max bits his bottom lip and squeezes his eyes closed, thinking of a way to get out of that situation. He mentally pictures the shop, trying to recall every corner of it. Photographic memory has always been his special gift, as his mother would say. As a kid it would make him feel invincible, as if he was a superhero. His father was always quick to shut down his super-fantasies of course, explaining it was because Max had, "a slightly higher IQ than the rest of us". His father had managed to take credit of that as well, somehow, by insisting it was because of his genes.

Either way, his gift is finally coming to use as he recalls a shiny silver door right opposite to the entrance, barred by a single wooden plank. And Max knows what it means.

It's a terrible idea. Every single fiber of his body tells him it is, his ankle winces at the thought of it, as if it's a warning alarm. But what other options does he have? It's either Christian or that. And if he chooses the latter, hopefully Christian might go down with him. He sighs and shook his head. The door stands right in between of the counter and the fourth (and last) aisle. He can make it, if he's quick enough.

It's the only thing he can do, he knows it, so he takes a deep breath in and gets on all fours, crawling his way out of the counter. He balances his pace so he's fast, but slow enough not to take too much noise, and therefore not alerting Christian. He stays hidden behind the counter for a second, checking where Christian is, and when he's sure he's out of sight sprints (as much as he can on all fours) towards the aisle. When he's sure he's completely hidden from Christian's sight, he sighs.

From the reflection of the half-broken firdge in front of him he sees Christian finally reaching the counter and peeking behind it, weapon ready to aim. He grunts in disappointment when he finds nothing and turns around, headed to the second aisle. "I know you're in here Max. You can't have gone far with that wound!" Max grimaces and the words have him instinctly covering his bandaged waist. It's not perfect, but at least it stopped the bleeding. Max observes as Christian paces the second aisle slowly, flinching at the smallest of sounds.

A series of possible outcomes start to appear in Max's head, flashing before his eyes like a movie. In each one of them Christian finds him, and a fate worse than death awaits him.

Max shakes his head, refusing to let panic overcome him. He still has time. He waits for Christian to inspect the far end of the store and then he attempts to stand up, wincing. He grabs the wooden bar and pushes it off the door, trying not to think of the pain that the effort is bringing him. He can feel the bandage starting to rip under the pressure, and he can only hope it'll last long enough for him to escape. If he even manages to survive, that is.

"I can hear you, Max…" He turns around. Christian's shadow is approaching, he can see the shape of it on the floor growing as he walks closer to him, only a few meters to separate them now.

Before he can double question his plan - again - Max reaches for the handle and pulls the door open. The noise catches Christian's attention, who skips through the third aisle and is now standing in front of him. Max gulps, the fear overwhelming him before he can help it. He goes down on his knees, feeling like his ankle is screaming at him to not stand.

Christian is aiming the gunshot right at him, no sign of pity in his eyes. "Sorry kid." He murmurs before loading the gun, and Max is sure he's gonna shoot him with no hesitation, if it wasn't for the growl coming from the other room.

Christian immediately tenses upon hearing the noise, and Max slowly backtracks, too scared to even let out a full breath.

"You stupid brat, what have you…" Christian doesn't have time to finish his sentence that a zombie walks out of the room, slowly, wincing when the sunlight hit his skin. It smells of rotten, and Max can't help but wonder how long it's been locked in that store.

Anyone in that situation would have avoided making any noise, walking slowly backwards, and exited the shop without triggering the creature. But as mentioned before, Christian isn't known for his intelligence.

It takes him less than a second to switch target, from Max to the zombie. Christian wastes no time in shooting at it, right in the middle of the eyes. The hole in its head is so big Max can see through it. He dares not to speak, not wanting to alert the creature of his presence, but he'd laugh so hard right now if he could.

You always forget, Christian, Max thinks. It's right between his lungs. Not his eyes.

As predicted not only does the zombie not even flinch, but immediately charges at Christian, who tries to shoot at it again- this time too slowly. As much as Max would enjoy watching Christian's downfall so upclose he knows better than to waste time hanging there. He starts crowling in the room the zombie came out of, and sure enough he finds a door leading outside, decorated with two stained glass windows.

Although he cringes at the odd owner's taste, he breaks the window at the bottom of the door with his still working leg. Although with struggle he manages to snuggle out, deciding to ignore the fact the broken glass has ripped his bandage for good. But as of now he can only think about putting as much distance from the zombie and the rest of the search group as possible.

He can still hear the screams coming from inside, was the zombie tearing Christian apart? Or simply bit him, and now Christian was taken over convulsions before the inevitable death and therefore transformation?

Max doesn't dare looking back. He enters the forest again, and only when the gas station is completely out of sight does he lean against a tree, letting himself finally rest.

The tears come all at once again, before he can stop them. What would his father say if he could see him now? Saying he'd be disappointed would be a euphemism. Max takes a deep breath in and lifts his shirt to inspect his wound.

He groans and removes the now useless bandage, throwing it in his backpack. Searching in it he finds his Swiss knife and uses it to cut his shirt, managing to transform it in another makeshift patch. It's not the best and now it looks like he's wearing a crop top, but it'll do for now.

Using the trees as support to stand up and walk around he starts searching for a stick to use as cane. He's not going much far with that leg, that's for sure.

It takes him longer than he'd like to find one that fits him, but to his surprise no one has found him yet. It makes sense, he thinks. If Christian died (and Max truly can't see how he survived that attack) then they're probably too busy mourning him or burning him to care where Max is.

Then again they'll probably start searching for him tomorrow. By then he's assuming he'll be able to prepare for eventual attacks, but will he really? One of his legs is barely working and if he doesn't medicate his wound soon it'll get infected behind care. He knows what his final goal is, but his current conditions have him doubt for a moment if he'll last long enough to get there.

But giving up has always been against his nature, so Max shakes his head and keeps on walking.

Now that he's not being actively chased he can think more clearly, and the odds are definitely not in his favour. It doesn't mean he's utterly fucked though. He starts thinking about his plan step by step, making a mental list of his goals: first of all, he needs to find a shelter for the night. It's sunset, and he doesn't want to taste his luck by risking to run into zombies at night.

So a shelter is what he focuses on, but finding one is harder done than said. Not that he expected anything different. "A map wouldn't hurt." He says outloud, even if there's no one around to hear his complaint, as if it could fall from the sky upon request.

It must be around 8:00 p.m. when the sun finally sets and darkness falls all around him. Max has never been scared of the dark, but he'd sell his good leg for any type of torch right now.

And then, for the second (or third? He's lost count at this point) time that day, a miracle happens. A light, in the distance.

The closer he gets to it the more the shapes and lines are defined, and when Max is close enough to be able to tell it's a cabin, he stops abruptly. The light is coming from inside, and he can see a shadow moving around.

The cabin is as simple as one expects it, though Max is extremely surprised to see what looks like a small garden on the side of the house, secured by a fence that seems to run all around the property. Not only is it adorned with barbed wire all around it, but Max also noticed a singular string running most likely all around the fence, connected to multiple small bells.

Max can't help but being impressed by the stranger'ssecurity system. He's sure a human would probably overcome it at some point, but it seems to be perfectly safe from zombies.

But even if he wanted to, Max doesn't have the strenght nor the weaponry to attempt an intrusion. He sighs and steps forwards, stopping right before the gate. It's the only bit of fence without bells, Max notices.

He immediately puts his backpack down and takes out his gun, laying it on the ground. He clears his throat and raises the hand he's not using to lean against the cane in the air.

His mother's words come back to him, as if she's right there murmuring them in his ear.

"Rule number 1 Max. If you ask a stranger for help, always start by saying you're unarmed. And if you aren't, lay your weapons down in front of you so the stranger knows you're being honest." Her voice is soft but serious, her hands gently playing with Max's hair as he looks up at her nodding. "Trust no one, it's how people on their own survive. So you need to earn their trust."

Max nods again, leaning in his mother's touch. " Rule number 2. If you're hurt, tell them. Even if they want to rob you, they'll be less likely to hurt you any further if they know you're already incapable of reacting."

Max frowns confused. "Daddy says to never show weakness."

"I know," his mother responds, caressing his cheeks, "which is why these rules will be like our little secret, okay?"

"Hello, whoever's inside?" Max calls out. "I'm unarmed and armless. And hurt, very much hurt. Can I receive assistance? Or at least just a chair, sitting down would be enough!"

No response from inside, but Max can't see the shadow anymore. For good measure he takes a few steps back. "Please, just for tonight." He talks again, hoping to at least earn some pity. "I'll be on my way again tomorrow morning."

He hears a click and the door finally opens, revealing a boy holding a rifle. A boy? Max is smart enough to hide his shook in seeing the owner is someone his age and simply waves at him.

"Hi."

"Who are you?"

"Uh, Max."

"Have you been bitten?"

"No! I swear, you can check."

The boy seems to inspect him from afar and then walks closer. He doesn't cross the fence yet, but looks down to see the gun at his feet.

"I thought you said you were unarmed."

Max gives him an awkward smile. "I am. It's empty, I ran out of bullets. You can check my bag if you don't trust me." Max says, pointing at the backpack.

The boy nods and aims the rifle at him, gesturing at his waist. "Why do you look like a cheerleader?"

Max looks down and remembers exactly what he's wearing. He chuckles. "Uh, as I said, I'm hurt. I had to cut my shirt to bandage the wound."

"Knife or gun?"

"Gun."

"Did you clean it?"

"No resources to do so."

"It's going to get infected."

"I know."

"And the cane?"

"Sprained ankle. I think. It hurts like a bitch."

The boy hums and looks back at his house, rifle still aimed at Max. He looks back at him and nods. "Don't move."

The boy puts the rifle down and steps out of the fence, fidgeting with the string before opening the small gate, probably to avoid activating the bells. He immediately searches Max - probably for hidden weapons - and then his backpack.

When he's satisfied he grabs the backpack and gun, signaling for Max to follow him inside.

"Thank you." Max thanks him.

The cabin inside is cozy, one large room except for a single door, probably the bathroom. There's no bed except for two couches, and the kitchen has only one stove. Small, but this guy probably has the time of his life living here. Max is about to inspect the food shelves when the boy speaks.

"I'm George, by the way." He says, sitting down on a chair he's moved next to the couch. "Sit here, I'll take a look at the wound and the leg."

Max tilts his head. "You're a medic?"

"No, but I have good survival skills and a medikit."

It's not like Max has many other options so he does as asked, laying down in front of George. He checks Max's waist wound for a few seconds before humming and taking out what looks like hydrogen peroxide and cotton whool. Without warning George starts cleaning the wound, and Max winces.

"The good news," George says, "is that the bullet hit your skin but there's no hole, so it grazed you."

"Then why does it keep bleeding everytime I take off the bandage?"

George shrugs, his eyes never leaving Max's wound. "No idea, I'm not a doctor."

Fair enough.

"My guess is that you've put too much physical stress over it. You need to rest." George tells him. Max observes with interest as he takes care of him, careful as if on surgery table, placing another patch over it.

"Is it infected?"

"Not that I was able to see. The wound is clean, and you seem to be showing no symptoms of infection so far. I'll keep you in check for the night anyway."

The thought makes Max blush for some reason he does not want to know, and says nothing. In a normal situation he would have probably categorically refused to be checked on like a kid with a fever but, once again, not many other options.

When George takes a look at Max's leg, he bites his lip and grimaces. "Ouch."

Max rolls his eyes. "Ouch indeed. What's the diagnosis, doc?"

George shakes his and shrugs. "Bruises, swelling… Can I take your shoe off?" Max's eyes widen in confusion but still nods. George proceeds to do as asked and then, much to Max's surprise, asks him to wigglehis toes.

When Max does with no issues George sighs in relief and nods. "It's only sprained, no broken bones. I think." His tone isn't completely sure, but Max thinks he sounds confident enough to believe him.

30 minutes later Max's leg has been medicated with a makeshift cast. He's still sitting on the couch as George offers him the dinner he's prepared. It's just beans soup, but still better than nothing.

"I'm guessing you're not telling me your story, am I right?" George asks as he swallows down the soup. Max nods.

"I'll leave tomorrow, there's no need for me to."

"To go where?"

"North, to find Wolff's outpost."

George looks at him and snorts, probably forcing himself not to laugh. "Something funny?" Max asks, irritated.

"Well, if your plan is to leave tomorrow, with that leg it'llprobably take you months. You might manage to get there by the end of the year."

Max scoffs, putting down his plate. "And how would you know? You've been there?"

George seems to tense but shakes his head. "I know people who have. Trust me, it'll take you ages to arrive in these conditions. Without mentioning you need to change the patch." He points at his wound.

"Can't you give me a bunch of patches for the way?" A weak response, he knows, why would George give him anything of his?

George furrows his eyebrows amused. "Even if I did, what if you met zombies along the way? I seem to recall your gun being empty, unless you expected me to offer you free ammos as well?" Max wishes he could slap the amused grin off George's face.

He knows better than to do so and picks up his plate again, eating in silence. The rest of the night is spent in a similar way, George cleaning up the dishes and then offering Max two pillows before going to sleep, one for his head and one for his leg.

Max mutters a thanks and watches as George shrugs, as if it's nothing. Honestly, as annoying as he seems to be, George is the nicest person he's met in a long time. He wants to ask him why - no one is this nice without wanting something in exchange - but decides not to, at least for now. Max hates owing people, but there's not much he can do in those conditions.

George turns off the light, earning a confused look from Max. "You're sleeping too?"

George grins, "you're not exactly a threat to my safety, if that's what you're implying."

Definitely too smug for Max's liking and oh, how he wishes he could prove him wrong. Still, he shakes his head. "I meant for the dangers outside."

"The bells will wake me if that's the case, why do you think I have them? I'm a light sleeper. Besides I always sleep with my rifle." It's the end of the conversation clearly, as George lays down on the couch without waiting for a response.

Something about this guy just irritates Max, giving him an odd feeling as if he's hiding something. He tries to brush it off and closes his eyes, finally allowing himself to properly rest for the first time since he's escaped earlier that morning.

 

 

 

Chapter 2

Summary:

"Do I smell coffee?" Max mumbles from the couch, voice raspy from the sleep.

"You sure do."

"How on earth do you have coffee?" Max asks in what sounds like utter shock. George shrugs and pours the coffee in two mugs, walking to the couch and offering one to Max. Max seems to inspect the mug before accepting it, and waits until George has drank half of his own coffee before taking a sip of his. George can't help but frown: does he think he's going to poison him or something?

Notes:

IMPORTANT!! I made a few edits so the current story takes place 9 years after Outbreak day!!

Okay so turns out posting chapter 1 right before i had to study for an exam was not a smart idea. Sorry for the long wait!
This chapter might feel a bit like an info drop (which it partially is ngl). I tried to give a little bit more zombie-lore, but if you have doubts about it feel free to ask!! And if you're still confused about Max's and George's backstories, well, you're supposed to. My bad. Enjoy the happiness while it lasts :)

George got little to no sleep all night.

He lays down on the couch, awake, eyes wide open staring at the ceiling. Everything that happened last evening keeps replaying in his head in a loop, from the moment he saw Max outside to when he allowed him to spend the night with him.

George is honestly not sure why he slept so terribly. He wants to blame the stranger currently laying on the couch in front of him, but he hates that he can't tell if it's out of fear for or of him.

George shifts so he's laying on his side, facing Max. He seems to be sleeping just fine, face relaxed as he breaths in and out. George frowns, thinking of what could have possibly led Max to him.

Zombies? Someone after him? If so, who is chasing him? Whoever it is must be terrifying: Max seemed pretty eager about wanting to leave first thing in the morning. And how long has he been walking around in those conditions? George would love to ask Max all of these questions, but he knows he'd get no answer from the other.

George looks up at the window above him, where the sunlight filters through the shiny glass. Max would probably be up soon, and then George would have little time to decide what to do. He couldn't actually give him the resources he needed to get to Toto's outpost, not without running out of them himself. He can let Max leave without anything, of course, but George isn't a monster. He knows himself, and he would never manage to get another night of sleep knowing Max was somewhere out there, dead or about to.

He closes his eyes and tries to clear his mind, forcing himself to come up with any idea. Rationally he shouldn't care, he doesn't want to care. He's met Max not even ten hours ago, for God's sake! What difference does it make if he makes it to Toto or not?

But then George shifts again and watches as Max sleeps so peacefully, and he's overwhelmed by the guilt he knows he'll feel if he lets him go alone. George quietly groans and hides his face in his hands, letting out a tired sigh.

Deciding to postpone his decision George gets up and walks to the kitchen, starting to make breakfast. Shortly later he hears shuffling behind him, signaling him that Max is awake.

"Do I smell coffee?" Max mumbles from the couch, voice raspy from the sleep.

"You sure do."

"How on earth do you have coffee?" Max asks in what sounds like utter shock. George shrugs and pours the coffee in two mugs, walking to the couch and offering one to Max. Max seems to inspect the mug before accepting it, and waits until George has drank half of his own coffee before taking a sip of his. George can't help but frown: does he think he's going to poison him or something?

Technically he could tell Max how he's so well furnished on pretty much everything in the house - including the seeds for his little garden - but Lewis's last words to him were trust no one. In a way he has already broke that rule, by letting Max in in the first place. But his decision hasn't backfired on him- yet. For now, he thinks, it's enough.

The rest of the morning is spent in awkward silence. George tries to keep himself busy by cleaning around and taking care of the garden. He would love to leave the place to get more food - he's running low on beans, again - but let him be damned if he leaves Max unguarded at the cabin. His wounds are real, and he wouldn't manage to run away without George catching up to him. But what if he's waiting for George to leave so he can call someone to help him plunder the cabin? After all, he could have easily lied about wanting to get to Toto's outpost. But then again, he looked truly offended at the insinuation that he wouldn't make it in time… Either way, once he has watered the plants George comes back inside, deciding to simply relax and read a book.

Max, on the other hand, hasn't stopped staring at him the entire time he's been awake. His eyes follow George in silence, as if he's studying him planning his next moves. Their only interaction has been a quiet apologize from George when Max had winced while his bandage was being changed. Now Max is staring out of the window, a sort of pout on his face as he chews on his bottom lip.

"I'm bored." He finally mumbles.

George, without looking up from his book, snorts and furrows his eyebrows. Max's eyes immediately turn towards him, annoyed. "What?"

"You sound like it's your first day of apocalypse."

Max scoffs and crosses his arms. "Well, it's my first day unable to get up from a couch."

George nods and looks up. "Oh, yes, I've noticed your plan of leaving today hasn't been successful so far, hasn't it?"

Max looks he's about to throw a pillow at George but restraints himself from doing so and takes a deep breath in. George thinks he's going to say something back, instead Max stays quiet and takes his attention off George, staring ahead of him. Now that he's looking at him from the side, George notices something about Max features that throws him off. His jaw is tense and his eyes are slightly squinted, as if he's always wearing a natural frown on his face. Now, Max wouldn't be the first person to have a 'rest bitch face', as Cara would call it. But for some reason this feels… different. As if Max is on purpose making the face, always alert and ready to attack. It reminds George of Lewis too much for his liking.

"I still plan on leaving," Max mumbles, still avoiding his eyes, "don't know why you even care."

"I don't." George is quick to specify, maybe too quick, because Max grimaces. "You're just objectively unable to leave yet."

"I'm perfectly able to walk. Slowly, but I am." Max protests.

"Leave the house then. Although I thought you were, and I'm quoting you here, unable to get up from a couch." George challenges him, putting the book aside and crossing his arms. Max holds his stare for a few minutes before he eventually scoffs, rolls his eyes and lays his head against the couch's arm, wincing.

---

Max should just get up and leave. He should and he really wants to. George won't stop him, he's surely eager to get rid of Max as much as Max is eager to start his journey. But anytime he attempts to get up he winces like someone is stabbing his leg.

The confinement on George's couch makes him feel powerless and useless, without mentioning the pit he feels in his stomach every time he takes a look at the wall clock, realizing how much time he's wasting stranded there. George, to be fair, other than the occasional snicker in his direction when Max attempts to move, doesn't do much to 'twist the knife'. Somehow it upsets him even more, to know he's so willing to let him stay there without asking anything in return. All the kindness drives him insane, as if he expects George to snap at him any moment now.

He still has no explanations on how George lives so peacefully and with so many resources available. Where did he find the seeds for his garden? How on earth does he have running clean water? And the coffee- where the fuck did he find coffee?! But if Max asks him anything about it a shadow falls on George's face, he goes silent and shakes his head, saying after two years of apocalypse you learn a thing or two.

Max believes him, truly, but he also knows none of the things George has access to can easily be found laying around, surely not when you're on your own. It took his father a whole year before he managed to fix the Hospital's water pipes, and he had the help of a whole community. George was nineteen and on his own.

The boredom brings Max's mind back to his outpost, to his - though not anymore - community. Max's father had always told him coffee was what they paid him most for. Coffee, of all things. Deep down, Max always had the feeling it was wrong to see his father charge his own community for something that, given how rare yet need it was, everyone would have happily benefited from. He remembers when he was eleven, he had asked his father about it.

"You see Max," his father had said, "people need a sense of normality now days. We charge them for food and drinks because that's what they were used to before Outbreak day. We're helping them getting used to the new world."

Charge them, yes, but not with money.

Zombie's body parts.

For his father's experiments of course. As well organized and well equipped with weapons as they were, his father's community was not a military one. Some knew how to fight, sure, and most how to use a gun. But why bother haunting down zombies when you had a bunch of innocents doing it for you in exchange of fucking coffee?

Now: Max had never once in his life participated - nor witnessed - to the experiments that his father's teams conducted on the zombie's corpse. Out of disgust, mostly. But he knew what they were doing. To be fair Max wasn't sure they could be called inhuman acts, because he was pretty sure those things had stopped being human long ago. Besides, those studies had been what helped them figure out how to defeat zombies in the first place.

The thing about zombies was that yes, they could be killed. But it was a pain in the ass to do so.

If a subjected was infected - bitten - they had from one to two hours of life left, before dying in an agonizing way. Then, during the so called 'death phase', the virus (which already spread all over the body) finally reached the heart. Differently from what one might think it had the opposite reaction of death, and instead revived the body.

"The body." His mother would say. "Not the brain- or soul. Those are long gone by that point."

At least according to his father's studies. But Max had always been oddly skeptical on that part, considering they had never studied a conscious zombie. Either way, once the human had become to all intents and purposes a zombie, it had only one goal: to feed itself. By eating human flesh, of course. Hence the biting, creating a vicious never ending cycle.

While one could temporarily put a zombie down by shooting him between his lungs (not that it was easy, since, differently from the movies' theories, zombies could in fact move fast) the only way to permanently kill a zombie was to remove the heart from its body - stopping the infection from revive it once more. Easier said than done, since the infection changes the zombie's skin to make it more durable, but it was the only way. Max's mother knew something about it.

Max squints his eyes and shakes his head, pushing the thoughts out of his head. Thinking of notions, facts he's known almost all of his life, helps him feeling grounded. At least until his mother sneaks her way into his mind, as usual, sending his thoughts to spiral in a storm of what ifs and if only.

George is the one to snap him out of his train of thoughts, offering him a plate of beans- again. Not that he's complaining, considering his situation.

"Sorry I can't offer you anything better." George apologizes as if reading his mind. "I definitely need to run some errands." He jokes, before going back to sit on the other couch.

"But you don't wanna leave me alone here." Max finishes for him, even if George was done speaking.

George frowns as if caught in a lie, but doesn't respond. Max can't bring himself to be annoyed at him, because he probably would have done the same thing. After all, he's no more than a stranger to George. Even more so the reason why he can't give himself an explanation as to why he's letting Max stay with him, seemingly wanting nothing in return.

An awkward silence falls once again between the two of them, the only noises that can be heard are the quiet sips they both take off their soups as they eat avoiding each other's eyes. A soft breeze hits Max's skin all of a sudden, sending shivers down his spine. He looks down and blushes, realizing he was still in the same attire of the night before. A poorly homemade crop top and ripped jeans. Max looks up at George and clears his throat, bringing the other's attention on him.

"George?"

"Hm?"

Max gulps and avoids his eyes, "could you close the window?"

George frowns and does as requested, humming as he notices dark clouds in the distance. "It's going to start raining soon." He comments before going back to the couch. "How did you know? You got a sixth sense or something?"

Max knows George is just joking, but still nods, looking as serious as ever. "I do, actually. I'm also missing half of my shirt, which means I can probably sense it's freezing before you do, Mr. hoodie." It's George's turn to blush now, as his eyes automatically fall on Max's stomach.

George's eyes widen as his cheeks only grow more red at the sight, and Max can't help but bit his lip as he restraints himself from laughing. "Shit, I, yeah, I didn't even, wait here." George stumbles upon his words, setting down his plate and looking around.

Max couldn't help but let out a soft giggle. A giggle that turns into a choked out gasp when George removes his hoodie and hands it out to him. When Max doesn't move to take it George insists and, reluctantly, finally accepts it. He eyes George for a second before speaking up. "And you're going to be fine with just that?" Max points to his very much naked chest, which George seems to be giving no care to.

"Uhm, I have a shirt." George explains, as if unfazed by the fact he's standing shirtless in front of a very much flustered Max. Wait, no. Max isn't flustered. He's confused and irritated, that's what he is.

Ten minute later they're eating again, George now wearing a plain white tee, but, to Max's surprise, they're making conversation. Not about what Max is running away from, or how George manages to survive like this on his own. But somehow Max has managed to find out George is eighteen, one year younger than him. His favorite movie is 007 and he used to hate pickles in his cheeseburger.

"Still do?" Max asks, but George shakes his head.

"Hypothetically yes. But I'd give anything for a cheeseburger right now, including pickles." Max hums and nods, agreeing with him.

George gives him an odd look before speaking. "Look, I've been thinking about it and… I can help you out if you want."

Max tilts his head. "How?"

"I can give you a few bandages and a proper cane, if you want. So you can be on your way tomorrow."

Max can't believe George's words. His eyes widens as he puts the plate aside, shifting on the couch. "Wait- really?"

George nods. "Yeah. If you still intend to leave, I mean-"

"Yes!" Max exclaims loudly, before clearing his throat. "Yes. Definitely so." A sudden wave of relief washes over him as he realizes his plan is finally in place. And it's not just because of that, he realizes.

As much as he's glad in a little over a month he'll finally be settling in a new, safer, outpost, the sense of newly found freedom overwhelms him all at once. Max doesn't fully want to give in to the illusion that he finally got rid of his father just yet (he knows better than to assume his trip to Wolff's outpost will be easy and without a hitch) but this is the first step to it.

"Thank you." Max says, voice dripping with gratitude. George shrugs, as if it's nothing.

"Don't sweat it. I finally go back to have this place for my own, so it's a win for the both of us."

 

Max nods amused and looks away, staring out of the window. The dark clouds look closer now, yet his future seems nothing but clear right now.

Notes:

reviews and kudos are always appreciated!! If you wanna yap, feel free to dm or go on anon on my tumblr softie-rain !! <33