Mad Max Our Daily Bread Novels & Stories

The bitterness of it spread throughout my mouth, making me feel like I'd swallowed broken glass. The drugs soon took effect, and I faded out of consciousness. Everything before me turned blurry and distant. I curled up on the bed, allowing the darkness to consume the last dredges of my consciousness. … The following morning, harsh sunlight dragged me out of my haze. My head throbbed like it was splitting apart, and I saw my phone screen flicker incessantly. I had several unread messages. When I opened them and tapped on the first voice message, Miranda's shrill voice pierced my eardrums.

The footage then revealed even more troubling evidence: confidential records exposing private transactions between the camp commander and Wade, thefts of relief supplies, and refugees being used as zombie feed in exchange for crystal cores. The recordings blasted through the plaza's speakers, repeating over and over, each word striking like a hammer. "Holy hell! That's the truth! Those two actually murdered her husband!" "The commander traded our lives for crystal cores? He's a monster!" "Kill them! Throw them to the zombies!" In an instant, the crowd turned.

A taste of home. With a renewed determination, Maddie began to bake. The familiar motions of measuring, mixing, and kneading grounded her, pulling her back from the abyss of despair. She poured her grief, her anger, her fragile hope into the delicate layers of the croissant, each fold a silent prayer for healing.

Chapter One The phone buzzes against my ear, and I already know what's coming. Sally's voice cuts through the morning air like a knife through butter. "Dabe, are you sure you packed everything?" Her tone is sharp, worried. "Your passport? Ticket? Phone charger? You can be very forgetful sometimes. Check everything before you leave the house." I roll my suitcase across the hardwood floor, the wheels making that familiar grinding sound. "I have everything, Mom," I say, letting the sarcasm drip from my words like honey.

Father and son acted swiftly, and soon, the whispers were wiped clean from public discourse. One afternoon, I sat in the garden having tea with Betsy. She slid a card across the table toward me. “What’s this?” I asked, puzzled. “Just take it,” she replied casually. “Spend it all. When it’s gone, I’ll ask him for more. That old man cried like a child earlier—if I don’t spend his money, he’ll start worrying I’m planning to run away!” This sudden display of affection left me speechless and I begrudgingly accepted the offer.

“What are you doing?” “Energy,” he said, offering her the bag. She took it, skeptical. “You think Cool Ranch Doritos will fix the power grid?” “No,” he said. “But I think it’ll make you 4% less likely to murder someone today.” Brenda smirked. “You always know just how to disappoint me.” But she took the chips anyway. They walked slowly toward the breakroom, crunching in silence. Then Marcus asked, “You good?” Brenda shrugged. “Fine. Minor tech apocalypse. Totally normal day.”

I sighed with frustration over the mental battle that was taking place inside of me as I got Megan a large glass of water to wash down her pain medication and fetched two beers for Max and me. “Wouldn’t coffee be more in order?” Megan asked with surprise. “Brandy would work best, but Angela made light of it the other night and I haven’t replenished it,” I said as I took the cap off of my bottle of beer and guzzled it down. “What day is it?” “It’s about three am on a Saturday morning,” Max replied.

"Mad, you don't have to." "Let it out; it's okay," Mad says, caressing my back. He doesn't know how soothing it is to have someone I know sincerely cared about me. My entire life; I only know mom and Max, and now Maddox seems to really care. I wipe my thoughts away; convincing myself not to linger on something impossible in my world. Maddox and I are two worlds apart. Max fell asleep in my arms before we left him to check on Dr. Mendoza for Max's treatment response. His statement is a weight on my shoulders. According to him, Max's condition is getting really worse. I don't want to listen to him anymore.

By day three, Maya has developed a close personal relationship with the inventory spreadsheet in her head. It has columns. It has projections. It has the grim emotional energy of a wedding seating plan prepared during a hostage situation. “Breakfast,” she says, placing two protein bars on the folding table like she’s serving tiny beige steaks. Dex looks at his. “Half?” “Half.” “It’s breakfast.” “It’s apocalypse breakfast. Very exclusive. Terrible reviews.” He picks it up, frowning. “I’m hungry.”

And that’s when it happened. I hear that unusual sound – Maddox laughing. It got me thinking. Is Craig here? Did he come even after I told him he didn’t need to? Maddox rarely laughs with anyone except me, Craig, Stan, and her few trainees. Curious, I follow the delectable scent of newly fresh bread and reach the kitchen where Maddox has just placed another tray of croissants. “What’s happening here?” I ask in wonder while looking around. There are already about three trays of various breads on the island counter, and more than a dozen cups of coffee.