For various reasons, I am no longer able to update the Carmageddon Worship Pages (aka Maim Street) as often as I'd like. Therefore I am removing these resources from this server. The UK Players list might end up at carmageddon.com shortly (probably in some vastly different format). But while you're here, why don't you read the first (and unofficial) short story based on the game?
Visit carmageddon.com for the latest on this deadly racing game.
A short story based on the computer game 'Carmageddon' from SCi.
© Chris Foster 1997
I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as you like playing the game. Hmm... who am I kidding? Nothing compares to a damn good maiming down at the beach, am I right? ;) And if you think that SCi should give me a job for their forthcoming sequel, drop them a line on my behalf why don't ya? :) I love to recieve comments, so let me know how much you liked it (or otherwise). Enjoy!
It was night-time in Bleak City.
Max Damage was cruising the financial district - where the streets were straight and endless - in his sleek red Eagle, preparing for the big race the following day.
Up ahead in the road, at the junction with the I76, bollards had been placed to redirect tomorrow's racers into the city centre. Beyond it, down the steep embankment, was the slummy part of town where you'd be ill-advised to venture.
During the course of the night, the police would no doubt take to the streets and round up the mutants and zombies that infested the area, driving them into the city centre to add a splash of green to the proceedings.
Now, though, Max saw as he made a left at the junction, the streets were populated with the red-bloodied pedestrians you and I have come to know and love.
Max smiled at the thought, but knew he dared not run them down. Such a crime came with the somewhat severe penalty of having a portion of the brain removed to guard against future offences. Some drivers were only too happy to pay such a price, but Max wanted to hold on to his mind.
He had to. He knew the truth - knew that the 'Promised Land' was a damnable lie - and one day, he would expose the authorities as the despicable cheats they were, show his beloved race to be nothing more than a convenient solution to the problem with the mutants.
But would you really, Max? Would you really?
No, probably not. Without the race, he would have nothing. His car was his life, and the dream of some day winning a one-way trip to a beautiful Utopia - even if there was no such place - was one worth holding on to.
Max slammed the Eagle into high gear and screamed down the high street, delighted by the roar of his engine. The car was in superb condition, from its 11 litre V12 engine to its protective kevlar skin and titanium studs.
So distracted was he by the joys of watching the speedo spiral upwards into three figures that he did not see the car pull out at the junction ahead until it was too late. He hit the brakes and threw the car to the right. The Eagle couldn't hold the road at such a speed and when it clipped the pavement it shot into the air.
A crowd of people had gathered on the street corner, waiting to cross at the lights. The little man on the crossing glowed red, warning of danger. Seeing the low slung vehicle thundering at them, the people screamed. Max screamed, too. He tried to steer but the front wheels were off the ground, in the air.
There was a lot of blood.
The walls of the nearest building were showered with the forbidden colour. Great gouts of it washed over the car as it ploughed through the pedestrians, maiming and dismembering and, invariably, bringing instant death. One happy shopper - an old lady with a zimmerframe - was flung into the air by the force of the blow. Falling onto the car, the steel razor spanning its length cut her head clean off. Her face exploded on the windscreen in front of Max. Most of it fell instantly away, but one eyeball - leaking an almost transparent goo - remained behind, as if to haunt him.
The car screeched to a halt a moment later. An eerie silence hung in the stale air. Max got out of his car, surveying the mess. Behind him, the pavements were awash with blood. It was gurgling down the drain. Max shook his head in disbelief - as if to deny such atrocity - upon seeing that a pair of red tyre tracks led right to his blood-soaked wheels.
Then, to his horror, he heard the unmistakable sound of a police siren approaching quickly. Ahead of him, further down the road, a Special Forces Supressor raced towards him.
They weren't going to get him. Not now, not ever. Max scrambled into his car, pointed it in the opposite direction and throttled it for all it was worth. He would drive drive to survive. The engine peaked and levelled off at 160. The police APC was gaining fast. Coming closer. Coming for his brain.
Max hand-braked the car into a side street, but the police weren't fooled and maintained pursuit, closing all the time. Swinging the Eagle round a tight bend, Max gasped in horror and hit the brakes.
A crowd of people in the road ahead. No way past 'em. He blasted them with his horn. Revved his engine. But they weren't about to move. The headlights of the cop car embraced his own vehicle as it closed, the dazzle in his rear-view mirror blinding him.
Fuck it, Max thought.
He snapped the car into first and screamed toward the crowd. They didn't try to get out of the way, not until it was too late. They were tossed into the air over the Eagle, crumpled beneath its wheels or mangled on the brutish chassis. Either way, it didn't matter. They died, all of them. If not right away, then soon after.
The six-wheeled police vehicle maintained its hasty pursuit, caring not for the helpless wretches it crushed beneath it. The APC was only stopped when Max lost it in the ensuing matrix of alleyways and emerged behind it when it trundled into a dead-end passage at the rear of a Magnachem chemical disposal facility.
The motoring behemoth was of immense weight and torque, but the power of its reverse gear did nothing to stop the Eagle ramming it forwards, tyres smoking, into the building. The brickwork collapsed under the impact and the Supressor slid helplessly on toward unknown oblivion.
Inside the facility, men in white coats ran screaming in all directions when they saw the police vehicle heading for a mountainous stack of toxic barrels. Max didn't wait around to see its demise. He found reverse and shot backwards, nursing the car around a couple of corners and emerging back on a main road.
The Magnachem workers weren't so lucky. They were caught up in the huge explosion which rocked the entire city a moment later. Fiery, toxic clouds of gas billowed into the sky, pollution which would no doubt gift Bleak City with the birth of yet more mutations in the months that followed.
Slowly, silently, the Eagle slipped away into the darkness of night.
The police vehicle was never found, and the carnage of what was later dubbed 'Maim Street' never explained. But the big race would go on, and if the city was alive with green-bloodied zombies come morning then that would be okay with Max - his crimson thirst was, for now, sated.
In any event, tomorrow was going to be an interesting day.
Tomorrow, it would be do or die time.