Death After Death (#2)

Chapter Fifty

The moonlight glistened against the normally dull gravel; dirty stones brushed with the purest of light, making them bright by association. It was a fitting setting for two men, originally heavily flawed and unpolished, who had been enriched by the light shone upon them since the beginning of the end.   

A depressed, selfish alcoholic turned doting father, against a former coward, turned brave and loyal guardian. A rooftop at midnight seemed like a fitting scene for the final fight in a Hollywood movie, but this was far from that.

Max gently parried away Rodney's jabs, his arms pressed tightly together in front of his face like a boxer. Rodney's punches were half-hearted, as if scared of causing Max some real damage, but the lesson worked all the same.

Rodney eventually grew in confidence, powering up a slightly harder right hook towards Max's temple, however, Max had been expecting this. He shifted his feet nimbly to the side, while swatting away Rodney's right arm. He then stepped forward, using his entire bodyweight to drive his own punch directly through the hole that Rodney had left in his guard.

Max's fist ground to a halt inches away from the bridge of Rodney's nose, who stood in pure shock at the speed in which he had just lost.

"See what I mean?" Max asked rhetorically. "Everyone has a pattern, and generally, they want to punch with their strongest arm. What you want to do is-"

"Be patient, mix up my own attacks, keep my guard up, and wait for my opportunity," Rodney finished, like a well tutored school child.

"Exactly," Max smiled, patting his sparring partner strongly on the back. "Let's go again."

The two men had been training in secret ever since they set up camp in their latest spot, a small apartment block just outside the city. Max and Rodney had volunteered to clear the place out while the others secured a few rooms downstairs for them to sleep in.

There hadn't been many clickers lurking in the dingy rooms; most people had fled early on by the looks of the place; but there had been enough to teach Rodney the basics.

He was comfortable with the clickers being at arm's length, using a long blade or gun, what he wanted Max's help with was when it came down to close combat. When you barely had room to breathe, yet along swing a knife, that's when he felt himself panic.

Max taught him to always put something between himself and the clicker, no matter what, otherwise they would be on top of him in a second.

Grab them by the throat to keep their teeth at bay, use your fore arm to drive them back, or a kick to the chest, anything you can do to create some room for yourself. The once you've found that extra pocket of air, use it, drive your weapon forwards, and go for the kill.

Max had been on hand to jump in if the teeth ever got too close for comfort, but in reality, he didn't have to help for a second. Rodney rolled up his sleeves and gritted his teeth, showing a side to him that Max had never seen. It was as if he was using the thought of George harmed, or left alone to drive him on. Fear for another always trumps fear for yourself.

"What's going on here then?" an excited voice cooed from behind Max.

Karl's head, annoying grin and all, had popped around the fire exit door, which was propped open by a cinderblock. He squeezed through the gap, into the moonlight with ever-growing glee has he spotted the fists of both men raised in a fighting stance.

"Is this a fucking fight club?" he squealed, eyes wide with delight and fascination.

Max sighed, he had wanted to keep this under wraps, and he knew that Rodney desired that even more. A grown man asking for training came with it a sense of humiliation, however misplaced.