Chapter Text
“You ready?” Max heard a voice behind him say.
“Jesus GP, would it have killed you to wait until I actually got out of my car?” Max said as he got out of his car and closed the door.
“Yeah yeah- Hi, Hello etcetera etcetera. This is a big one Max, this race will decide whether you’ll win the championship or not. I need you to be focused.”
“I am, don’t worry”
He wasn’t. Not even close. Max has a bad feeling he just can’t shake off. Like something really really horrible is going to happen. But it’s probably just nerves right? Yeah. Just nerves. Probably.
Max could hear the Red Bull garage’s music from two garages away. Charles is right, it is very loud.
Max stepped into the garage, the familiar wall of noise hitting him all at once. The music was loud enough to make the floor vibrate, bass thumping through the concrete like a second heartbeat.
“You trying to deafen us?” he muttered.
A few mechanics laughed. Someone turned the volume down a fraction — not much.
Charles is right, he thought again. Way too loud.
He stopped in front of the car, eyes tracing the familiar lines of it. Everything looked exactly how it should. Fresh tyres stacked neatly. Tools laid out with obsessive precision. The calm before the storm.
GP came up beside him, tablet tucked under his arm. “Same plan as discussed,” he said. “We stick to it.”
Max nodded. “Yeah.”
A mechanic handed him his helmet. Max took it but didn’t put it on yet, turning it slowly in his hands instead. The bad feeling curled tighter in his chest.
“You alright?” GP asked.
“Fine,” Max said automatically.
GP studied him for a moment longer than necessary, then nodded and stepped away.
Max glanced toward the pit lane. Mechanics hurried past, officials weaving between them, all of it loud and frantic and familiar.
And then he saw it.
A man near the pit wall stumbled, knocking into someone hard enough to send them swearing. He didn’t apologise. Didn’t even seem to notice.
Max frowned. The man’s movements were wrong—too jerky, too uncoordinated.
“Max, helmet on,” someone called.
He blinked and looked away. When he glanced back, the man was gone.
Max exhaled slowly and lifted the helmet over his head. The world narrowed, sound dulling, the music turning into a distant thrum.
Nerves, he told himself.
Just nerves.
-
Max barely registered the formation lap. His hands moved on their own—clutch in, short shift, brake—muscle memory carrying him forward while his mind lagged behind.
He had pole position— Of course. The empty track ahead of him felt less like an advantage and more like exposure.
This was the worst part. The slow crawl toward the grid. The waiting. Time stretching until every second pressed heavy against his chest as he was waiting for the race to start.
Max looked up at the sky, it looked grey, grim.
“Are we expecting rain or something?”
“Weather’s stable,” GP said, voice crackling through the radio. “No rain expected.”
“Copy,” Max replied automatically.
There was a pause.
A little too long.
Max frowned. “GP?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” GP said quickly. Too quickly. “Just—uh—checking something.”
Max hummed, unconvinced.
“Clutch bite point?” GP asked.
“Feels good,” Max said.
Around him, cars settled into place one by one. He caught flashes of colour in his mirrors—red, silver, papaya—then forced his eyes forward again.
This was it.
The pause stretched.
His heartbeat synced with the rising revs, the smell of hot rubber and fuel seeping through the cockpit.
Don’t overthink it.
The lights went out.
Max launched cleanly, the car hooking up perfectly as he shot forward, the field compressing behind him into a roaring wall of sound. Turn one came and went without incident. Lap two. Lap three.
Everything was… fine.
Almost disappointingly so.
“Gap behind is stable,” GP said. “Tyres are in the window.”
Max relaxed a fraction. Maybe he’d just wound himself up over nothing.
Then—
“Box, box,” GP said.
Max stiffened. “Already?”
“Plan A. Trust me.”
He didn’t like it. But he trusted GP.
The pit lane flashed past in a blur of speed limit lines and flashing boards. The stop was clean. Too clean. Four tyres, no delay, no drama.
Max rejoined in clear air.
Three laps later, yellow flags lit up his steering wheel.
“Yellow?” Max asked.
Silence.
“GP?”
The radio crackled. “Uh—car off at Turn Seven. Looks like—”
Static.
“Who is it?” Max asked.
No answer.
Max’s jaw tightened as he passed the corner, eyes flicking sideways.
A pink and blue car sat nose-first in the barrier. No movement. No marshals rushing in. Gasly’s helmet was slumped forward, touching his steering wheel.
That was wrong.
Very wrong.
Max was tucked right behind Ocon, who had pitted only a few laps earlier. Under normal conditions, he would’ve lapped him easily if not for the yellow flag slowing the field.
They approached the next corner together.
And then Ocon didn’t turn.
The Haas car shot straight on, tyres screaming in protest before slamming into the barrier. No correction. No attempt to save it.
Max flinched instinctively, hands tightening on the wheel as he steered past the wreck. He knew he hadn’t touched him. Not even close.
It was like Ocon had simply… forgotten what came next.
-
As Max pushed on, the track began to look less like a circuit and more like a graveyard.
Another car in the wall. Then another.
He caught flashes of colour and broken carbon as he passed—Hülkenberg’s Sauber buried in the barrier, Stroll’s Aston stopped at an impossible angle. No safety car. No marshals. Just silence.
At the exit of the next corner, he saw Fernando out of his car. His helmet was long abandoned as he tried to get Yuki out of his car.
Yuki staggered toward him, movements jerky and uncoordinated. He didn’t look injured. He looked… wrong.
Then Yuki lunged.
Not at Fernando’s hands.
At his neck.
Max’s breath caught in his throat as he sped past. His mind rejected what his eyes had just seen, scrambling for any explanation that wasn’t the one forming.
Max risked a glance toward the grandstands.
They were almost empty.
The few people still there stood motionless, scattered far apart, as if they’d been forgotten. Their skin looked grey even from the track, faces slack and hollow, eyes fixed on nothing at all.
No phones raised. No cheering. No movement.
It was like the life had been drained out of them, leaving something behind that only looked human.
The start–finish straight opened up in front of him, a long, brutal stretch of visibility.
Max lifted his eyes—and his stomach dropped.
Cars were stopped ahead. Not spun, not crashed. Stopped. Lined awkwardly along the straight like they’d simply run out of momentum.
His heart stuttered when he recognised the red of a Ferrari.
Lewis.
The car sat at an odd angle near the pit wall, hazard lights blinking uselessly. Lewis had stepped out and seemed to be talking to George and Charles
Max slowed down without meaning to. Lewis didn’t stop on track without reason.
He glanced at his mirrors, then back at the people on the side of the track. No instructions. No flags. Nothing to explain it.
“GP,” Max said, voice tight. “Lewis has stopped on the straight.”
The radio hissed.
No answer.
Max’s finger hovered over the clutch. For the first time all race, he wasn’t sure whether he should keep driving—or stop
Max slowed to a stop and killed the engine.
The sudden quiet felt wrong.
He climbed out of the car and walked toward the small group gathered near the pit wall, pulling his gloves off as he went. When he took off his helmet, the air felt too cold against his skin.
They all looked serious. Too serious.
The tension sat heavy between them, thick enough that Max almost laughed out of instinct — a reflex, really. Humor had always been his way out.
A familiar thought crossed his mind, sharp and ill-timed.
He grinned despite himself and looked straight at George.
“What did you do this time?”
George’s jaw tightened. “Why do you always assume it’s my fault?”
Max shrugged. “Well,” he said lightly, “you do make a lot of mistakes.”
He stopped right in front of him.
George didn’t look away. His eyes were impossibly blue, even now, even here. The same eyes Max had learned to glare into, to compete with, to hate on principle.
It hadn’t started like that.
Max hadn’t meant to make an enemy out of him.
Back in 2019, when the rookies were announced, Max had actually been excited. Curious.
And when he’d first seen George Russell up close, the very first thought that had crossed his mind had been—
Oh.
He’s… gorgeous.
-
2019 had felt strange from the start.
New faces. New expectations. The quiet understanding that things were changing, whether he liked it or not.
Max leaned against the barrier near the hospitality units, arms crossed, watching the rookies hover at the edges of conversations they didn’t quite belong to yet. He recognised most of them from junior series, from headlines, from people telling him this one’s quick or that one’s special.
And then there was George Russell.
Max hadn’t been paying attention until George laughed — too loud, a little nervous — at something one of the Mercedes guys said. He turned without thinking.
Oh.
He was tall. Taller than Max expected. All long limbs and sharp cheekbones, curls refusing to behave no matter how carefully he’d styled them. There was something earnest about him, something open.
Gorgeous, Max thought, startled by the immediacy of it.
He tore his eyes away before George could catch him staring.
“You’re being weird,” Daniel muttered beside him.
Max scoffed. “I’m not.”
“You are absolutely staring at the new Williams driver.”
“I’m scouting,” Max shot back. “Professionally.”
Daniel hummed, unconvinced.
Later — much later — Max found himself standing next to George by accident. Or maybe not by accident at all. They were both waiting for coffee, the machine taking its sweet time like it always did.
“Long wait,” George said, glancing over with an awkward half-smile.
“Worth it,” Max replied. “Sometimes.”
George laughed, softer this time. “Guess I’ll take your word for it. First year and all.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Max said. Then, before he could stop himself, “Williams, huh?”
George nodded, shoulders lifting in a small, self-conscious shrug. “Yeah. Not exactly front-running material, I know.”
“Everyone starts somewhere,” Max said. He meant it.
George’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Yeah. I keep telling myself that.”
He hesitated, then added, “It’s weird, though. Being dropped straight into it. New team, new people. Feels like you’re constantly trying to prove you belong.”
Max hummed. “You get used to it.”
“I guess so,” George said, glancing at him. There was something almost thoughtful in his expression now. “I just have this weird need to get along with everyone you know. Especially my teammate, I think that’s the most important thing y’know. They can help you on the track and stuff.”
Max hummed in agreement, smiling at the younger driver.
George smiled, clearly encouraged. He rushed on before the moment could stall.
“I mean—you don’t really need teammates anyway. You’re kind of known for doing it all on your own.”
Max felt something snap tight in his chest.
He’d heard that before. From journalists. From fans. From people who thought they knew him.
“Right,” Max said coolly. “Good luck this season.”
George frowned. “That’s not what I meant—”
But Max had already turned away.
-
From that point on, everything slotted neatly into place.
The looks became glares. The jokes turned sharp. The respect hardened into rivalry.
And Max told himself he had imagined that first moment.
That whatever had sparked there hadn’t been real anyway.
“Does anyone know what actually happened though?”
Max was pulled back to reality by Charles asking the important question.
“A zombie apocalypse?”
“Yeah right, that only happens in fantasy books.”
“You read books?"
“Maybe robots have finally started rebelling.”
“Oeh what if we’re under attack by aliens.”
“Why do you sound so excited by that?”
“Guys c’mon let’s be serious for a sec.” Lewis finally said.
“Yeah seriously, it looks like a zombie apocalypse. Have you looked at the people in the stands? like the few that are left. They look all grey and sick, and walk around all aimlessly and shit. And see that guy right there?” George pointed at somebody in the stands.
“He has a bite mark on his neck, and the woman over there too.”
As much as Max hated to admit it, George was right.
Could this really be a zombie apocalypse?
A Mercedes came hurtling down the straight.
It braked hard, swerved, then turned around and headed straight for them.
The car barely stopped before Kimi was out of it, helmet still half-on, visor shoved up as he ran toward Max.
“Holy shit—”
He sucked in a sharp breath. “No, no, holy shit. Are you seeing this? Please tell me you’re seeing this.”
He gestured wildly back at the track. “There are cars everywhere. Crashed. Just— abandoned. I saw Bortoletto— I think— I think he’s dead. I didn’t see him move. I didn’t—”
His voice wavered, words tripping over each other.
“Kimi—”
“It’s not just him. There’s so many. Alpines, Aston Martins, even— even a Haas.”
He went very still.
“What if Ollie was in it?”
His breathing turned shallow. “We were supposed to stick together. We said we would. We were—”
Kimi shook his head hard, like he could dislodge the thought.
“I can’t— I can’t breathe. Something’s really wrong. This isn’t normal. This isn’t—”
“Kimi— Calm down okay?”
Max tried his best to calm him.
“Look at me” He softly lifted Kimi’s head to make him meet his eyes.
“Everything is going to be okay. Okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, okay” Kimi murmured, still breathing a little too fast.
Just then Max saw from the corner of his eye a red and white car stopped, and a concerned looking Ollie jumped out
“Kimi?”
Kimi froze.
Slowly, he turned. “Ollie?”
Ollie broke into a run. “Oh my god—you’re here. I thought— I saw all these crashed cars and I—”
Kimi was already moving, stumbling forward before Ollie even finished the sentence. He crashed into him hard enough that Ollie had to take a step back to keep them both upright.
“Don’t ever do that again,” Kimi said, voice shaking into Ollie’s shoulder. “I thought you were dead.”
Ollie wrapped his arms around him without hesitation. “I’m here. I’m okay. I’ve got you. I’d never leave you”
He pulled back just enough to look at Kimi properly, hands still firm on his arms. “You’re okay too. Yeah?”
Kimi nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Yeah, I am now.”
Max was the first to step back. The track suddenly felt too exposed, too open.
“We can’t stay here,” he said. “Whatever’s happening, this is the worst place to be.”
As if on cue, a figure stumbled near the pit wall. Max’s stomach dropped — until he realised the person was moving normally. Running, not limping.
“Over here!” Carlos shouted, waving frantically. Oscar and Lando were close behind him, helmets off, faces pale.
“Thank god,” Lando said as they reached the group. “I thought we were the only ones who’d actually stopped.”
Oscar glanced back toward the stands, jaw tight. “People are… not right. We need to get off the circuit.”
Carlos nodded sharply. “Security’s gone. Gates are open. Or broken. I don’t know. But we can get out through the service road if we move now.”
There was a beat of silence. Too long.
Lewis stepped forward. Calm. Steady. Like he’d already accepted that whatever this was, panic wouldn’t help.
“Then we go,” he said simply. “Now.”
No one argued.
Lando let out a shaky breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Great. Casual apocalypse detour.”
They moved fast.
Not running—not yet—but fast enough that Max could feel the tension buzzing under his skin, like the moment before a start light went out. Helmets were abandoned on the asphalt. Firesuits half-unzipped. Everyone kept glancing over their shoulders.
The service road Carlos mentioned led them behind the paddock, past garages with doors hanging open, equipment scattered like it had been dropped mid-motion.
“Why does it look like everyone just… left?” Ollie muttered.
No one answered.
A scream echoed from inside one of the buildings. Cut off too abruptly.
“Okay,” Lando said, breathless, trying and failing to keep it light. “This is officially above my pay grade.”
“Shut up,” Oscar muttered, but there was no real bite in it. His eyes kept flicking over his shoulder.
Inside the paddock building, the lights flickered. The air smelled wrong—metallic, sour. Max heard shuffling footsteps ahead of them, slow and uneven.
“Other way,” Lewis said immediately, steering them toward a stairwell without breaking stride.
They took the stairs two at a time. Somewhere below them, something slammed into a door. Once. Twice.
Kimi swore under his breath.
At the bottom, the corridor narrowed. Too narrow. Emergency exit signs glowed green at the far end like a promise.
Almost there.
Then the door at the end burst open.
A marshal stumbled inside. His vest was torn, face grey, eyes unfocused. For half a second, Max thought he might be okay.
Then the man lunged.
“Back!” George shouted.
They scattered instinctively. The marshal slammed into the wall, snarling—snarling—and something else poured in behind him. More bodies. Too many.
“This way!” Carlos yelled, yanking open a maintenance door.
They funneled through, one by one, into a storage corridor barely wide enough for two people. Max felt a hand shove him forward. Heard Lando gasp as something grabbed at his sleeve.
“GO!” Lewis barked, suddenly loud.
They burst out into a halfway that ended with daylight—trees, service fencing, freedom—
And then Lewis stopped.
Max turned to see Lewis closing the door.
“Lewis—” Max started.
Lewis didn’t look panicked. He looked decided.
“There’s a manual lock on this side,” he said, glancing at the door. “It’ll hold them.”
“You’re not staying,” George said flatly, like if he said it firmly enough it would become true.
Lewis smiled at him. Soft. Almost fond. “Someone has to.”
The noises from the herd of people chasing them grew louder.
“Lewis, don’t,” Lando said, voice cracking.
Lewis met Max’s eyes then.
Not long. Just enough.
“You know what to do,” he said quietly.
And Max did.
The lock slid into place with a heavy, final sound.
“Go,” he said.
Max pushed George and Lando outside. His hands were numb, throat tight. As he kept glancing back at the door, only looking away for the final time after Lewis stopped screaming.