The Wild Strawberry
A Zombie Holocaust
Part 2 Deleted Scenes:
Motorcycle Diaries
by T.A. Donnelly
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Books of the Dead
40 Dartmouth Row, London SE10 8AW
The Wild Strawberry
A Zombie Holocaust
Part 2 Deleted Scenes: Motorcycle Diaries
by T.A. Donnelly
copyright T.A. Donnelly 2012
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author
ISBN 978-1-291-25546-1
For Fiona,
without your help
none of this would make sense.
Wild Strawberry 2 Deleted Scenes:
Author’s Note:
I cut thousands of words from my first drafts in the editing process, and most of what is removed doesn’t deserve to see the light of day (I blush when I think of the sex scenes in Book Three!). ‘The Motorcycle Diaries’ are different. This strand from Book Two was deleted because there was ‘too much going on’ and the book was losing focus. Book One has several strands that ‘go nowhere’ as humanity falls to the zombie virus; I wanted book Two to spotlight the survivors who end up in the Bunker. I liked the bikers and I liked the situations I placed them in, but they were a distraction from the main story.
At almost 11,000 words it made up around 20% of the novel! So here, as a separate story (perhaps best read as an interlude between Books One and Two) I present the Motorcycle Diaries:
Wild Strawberry 2: Deleted Scenes
Motorcycle Diaries
Joe was a biker. But he was as far from the unshaven ‘Hell’s Angels’ cliché as it was possible to be and still ride a bike. Joe belonged to the ‘midlife crisis biker fraternity.’ His hair was short and neat, he wore expensive and fashionable glasses. The friends he hung out with were all businessmen, all wealthy, and all also owned a family car.
On the day the world ended he was to meet sixty or so of his biker friends in a service station off the M25 in Surrey. Only twenty-three turned up and all had strange stories to tell.
“The motorway is solid by junction twelve, and there’s rioting on the road.”
“People have gone crazy.”
“I swear I saw him take a bite out of the driver. I swear he took a bite out of him.”
“This fucking lunatic with blood all round his face chased me.”
“It’s like the end of the bloody world.”
Joe could not believe his ears. Riding a motorbike was the only wildness he could cope with in his ordered life.
The radio had advised people to stay indoors, board up their doors and windows, and avoid all unnecessary journeys.
Joe tried, without success, to use his mobile phone. No one’s phone was working, so as a group, they took to the road to return to their families. They found that the motorway had been totally overrun by rabid lunatics who had attacked the bikes before they even left the slip road. All those who could, turned round to return to their meeting place. Of those who had originally turned up for the meeting only fifteen managed to return.
Joe was shaken, and several of his friends were bloodied. A crazed, middle-aged man had leapt out of a car and tried to pull him from his bike. The man, who had been all wild grey hair and teeth had taken a bite out of Joe’s leather jacket, then had clung on to Joe himself as he revved the bike and shot away down the grass beside the road. The deranged man had then leapt from the bike in order to pounce on a woman standing, looking dazed, beside the crumpled wreck of her car.
Joe had glanced back over his shoulder to see the man bite the dazed women in the neck, and her blood spray impossibly far.
Of the fifteen who had returned nine made a second attempt to find their families. Six had remained for a variety of reasons: judging the journey too dangerous, having no families, or just not wanting to take any journey alone.
Joe’s family had been on their way back from Cornwall. He had returned a day early from the family holiday so that he could attend his biker’s meeting. He had no idea how far they had progressed on their journey, and he hoped they had been listening to the news and wouldn’t try to get home, as London seemed to be the centre of whatever was going on.
Joe considered going to his wife’s parents, but he didn’t think Lucy would inflict that on the children, and he didn’t think he could bear to sit out this crisis in his in-laws’ flat.
So while he considered his options he decided to stay with the remaining bikers. There was Salman, a stocky man with very crooked teeth, who was divorced, and whose desire to be with his children was perfectly balanced with his desire to keep away from his ex wife.
Troy and Jeffrey were partners, and their only family was each other; Troy was younger, dark-haired with a short, stubbly beard; Jeffrey was thin, grey-haired, with a luxuriant grey moustache.
Peter was a somewhat overweight, bespectacled bachelor.
The sixth member of the survivors was Terry, close cropped hair was a grey stubble. He was also divorced, and his only son, Elvis, was in a prison for young offenders.
The electronic tills had stopped working in the garage, but the cashier showed Terry how to switch on the pumps and then left, having emptied the till, to find his own family.
So the bikers filled their tanks and took some containers from the shop, which they also filled.
The bikers and a few other drivers nervously looked at the security cameras as they emptied all the food cabinets.
Thus prepared they set off to try and find somewhere the plague of madness wouldn’t reach.
“My son’s in prison,” Terry said, “it would be the perfect place to wait this thing out.”
Salman shook his head. “Isn’t that a bit drastic? The police and army will have this sorted in a couple of days. We just need to find a bed and breakfast.”
Joe had his head in his hands. “I just don’t know. I think this is this serious: really fucking serious.”
Troy and Jeffrey sat with their arms around each other, saying nothing.
“What do you guys think?” Peter asked them.
Troy shrugged.
Jeffrey stroked his moustache. “I don’t know. I saw those things on the motorway, I don’t know if the police can deal with them. Or the army. It’s some kind of infectious madness, what’s to stop the police and army getting infected themselves?”
“So,” Peter asked, “what do you suggest?”
“I suggest we get away from people: no people, no contagion. We should find a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere and wait for the disease, or virus, or whatever it is to burn itself out.”
“That’s not only a good idea,” said Joe, “but it appeals to my sense of wanting to get the hell away from here right now.” While he spoke he fingered the hole the crazy man had bitten in his leather jacket.
“What about the coast?” Peter suggested, sweating, his eyes wide.
“If people panic we won’t be the only ones heading for harbours; there’ll be too many people for my liking,” objected Jeffrey.
“Not only that,” Joe added, frowning, “but it gives us one less direction to run if those nutters come charging.”
They opted to explore the countryside between Salisbury and Winchester.
“It’s not as remote as the Lake District, but it involves a lot less travelling, and I suspect the roads are going to be getting more and more dangerous as this goes on,” concluded Joe.
And so they s
et off, riding in single file, sticking to small roads and maintaining a steady pace, rather than racing. They passed several car crashes, burning buildings and several times they were chased by the infected lunatics.
Troy had a radio in his helmet, and when he heard a news broadcast at five in the evening he signalled to the others to stop. They were in a country lane, with no visible buildings or cars, and they pulled over into a small lay-by that led into a field of cows.
Troy pulled off his helmet. As they clambered off their motorbikes to stand in a circle, he called to the others, “Guys this is so fucking unreal you are not going to believe it!”
“What?” the others asked in almost-unison.
“It’s on the news,” Troy explained, “the BBC news!”
“Just get on with it!” snapped Terry.
“This infection. Those crazy people.”
“Yes?”
“They’re dead!”
“Fuck off!” shouted Terry.
“No, really - on the BBC - they said. The virus thing is causing the brains of the dead to keep working. But all they do is want to kill other people, and if they kill you, you become one of them.”
“I don’t know what you’ve been listening to, mate,” said Terry, “but it sure as fuck ain’t Radio Four.”
“I swear to God, it’s what the news said.”
“No,” said Jeffrey, “it makes sense. Did you get a good look at those creatures on the motorway? They were covered in blood, some of it their own.”
“Jesus,” muttered Peter, as he took off his glasses to clean them on the sleeve of his jumper, which he had pulled down from the sleeve of his leather jacket.
Joe shook his head. “So what do we do now?”
“It’s seriously fucked up,” said Jeffrey, “but it doesn’t change our plan: find somewhere far away from the living, and where the dead aren’t likely to be around either.”
“The only difference,” added Joe, “is that when we find somewhere we make sure it’s secure, and we don’t let anything know we’re in there.”
“Agreed.”
They re-mounted their bikes and noisily kick-started them.
Joe was at the front of the group, and as he started his engine, he looked back to see Peter, at the rear, also kicking his bike to life. Then he noticed, with alarm, a shape moving behind Peter, running towards him across the field with unnerving agility. It was hard to tell the runner’s gender as its body, although naked, was caked in mud and blood and was distorted by dozens of bite-marks; chunks removed from the pale body.
Joe screamed for Peter to look out, but Peter could not hear over the engine noise.
Frantically, Joe tried to point, but Peter misunderstood the gesture and gave him a cheery ‘thumbs up’ in return.
Joe’s voice was hoarse with shouting, as Salman, almost beside him on his revving bike, finally heard the agitated cries and looked back towards the figure approaching Peter. Troy and Terry only realised what was happening when the creature came within twenty feet.
Joe tried to dismount, but he was shaking, and tripped over, landing in the soft mud beside the road.
Peter had started to laugh and point at Joe struggling in the mud, but then began to realise that everyone was staring at somewhere just behind his shoulder.
He wheeled round when he felt hands on his him but the thing toppled him head-first into the mud before he had realised what was going on.
He heard the creature’s teeth scrape and crack against his helmet as he went down. His visor was covered in mud, so he was blinded as he grappled wildly.
Then he felt biting at his leathers, on his shoulders and back.
Peter tried desperately to get back on his feet, but the mud was too slippery, and the creature’s weight was pinning him down.
With a push he managed to roll over, the creature still on his back; so now he was on top of it , face up.
It continued to scramble and bite at him, and as it twitched and turned, it caught home of his arm.
With a wild strength, the monster pulled down towards Peter’s gloved fingers, closed its mouth around them, and bit down.
Peter was wearing leather gloves, but it felt as though his fingers were being crushed in a cold vice. He screamed as the creature tried to tear away his fingers, but it only succeeded in pulling off his glove.
However, the monster was not satisfied with the cold, bland leather; it spat it out and snapped again, this time managing to get Peter’s thumb in its mouth.
Pain exploded down the length of his arm, as he felt teeth sink into his flesh. The creature latched on, and Peter could not pull free.
The mud on his visor almost completely blinded him, but he could see shapes moving above him. He wondered if they were more of these undead creatures. He heard a crashing noise and swearing, but his brain could take in little more than the pain in his hand: the teeth of the creature were twisting, and burying themselves deep in his flesh, finding the joints between the bones.
Another crash, and he felt someone fall on top him.
Whoever it was, was flailing wildly, but not at him.
Peter’s visor slipped back, but he could not see that Joe had taken off his helmet and was using it as a club to smash the skull of the zombie that was biting his thumb.
As the front of the zombie’s head caved in from the pummelling the remains of its head jerked back, taking Peter’s thumb with it.
Blood shoot out of his hand and Peter screamed.
Jeffrey had been first aid trained, but this was beyond his expertise and, besides, he had nothing but a rudimentary first aid kit. He thought rapidly: he already knew that mobile phones were not working, and that right now hospitals were probably amongst the most dangerous places in the country. However, Peter could die from loss of blood unless he did something drastic and quick.
All this time, Joe had been reducing the creature’s head to a grey and red pulp, which mixed into the mud, and he noted with satisfaction that it had stopped moving.
The creature that had succeeded in biting Peter was filthy, and probably infectious. The wound would have to be cleaned and the blood flow stopped. He had heard about the cauterising of wounds, but had no real idea how to do it properly. There was no time for discussion so he had to act as though he knew what he was doing.
He grabbed the spare tank of petrol from his bike and ran to Peter. He held the hand upwards, while Peter lay down in the mud. With one hand still holding Peter’s arm in the air he used the other arm to unscrew the petrol can. He poured petrol into a hollow in the churned mud, making an oily puddle, into which he dipped Peter’s hand.
Peter screamed as it stung, his face loosing colour.
Next, Jeffrey held the stump of Peter’s thumb at the edge of the puddle and fumbled for his lighter.
“No!” bellowed Joe as he realised what Jeffrey was about to do, “you can’t!”
“No time to argue, unless you got a better idea!” Spat Jeffrey, despirately.
He thumbed the lighter and held the flame towards the petrol.
Fire leapt up, singeing Jeffrey’s eyebrows and hair; he cursed and ducked to one side, still holding Peter’s hand to the edge of the flame.
Fire flickered around the wound, the mangled flesh turning black, bubbling in the heat.
Peter stopped screaming, as he was embraced in a merciful unconsciousness.
Once Jeffrey was convinced that the wound had closed he took Peter’s limp hand from the fire.
The clumsy cauterisation had burned much of Peter’s hand, but it had stopped the bleeding, and hopefully cleaned the infection.
“Here,” Jeffrey he said to Troy, who had been looking on in horror, “hold his hand up like this, really gently.”
Jeffrey ran, slipping and sliding through the mud, to his bike, and fumbled in the pack for his first aid kit. There were sterile wipes, which he used the first on his bloody and muddy hands. He had learned from his course that sanitary towels made excellent dress
ings for wounds, and a lesbian friend who had attended the course with him, had insisted he take three of her towels. They had been in his kit for over year, and Jeffrey hoped they were still clean enough.
The size was right for the wound; he fastened one to Peter’s hand with surgical tape, then wrapped the whole thing in a bandage.
“That’s as good as I can do,” declared Jeffrey, as he surveyed his friends’ faces, hoping for support or sympathy, but instead he was met with expressions of disgust and horror.
In a far corner of the field was a rusty tractor with flat tyres. Long grass and weeds grew around its wheels. It looked as if it had been there for years.
Jeffrey pointed to the wreck, “we stay the night there.”
The others argued, “We’ve got to get out of here, what if there are more of those things…?”
“We can’t move Peter far, and even if we could we can’t afford to leave his bike with all the supplies we’ve packed onto it…”
They wheeled their bikes to the tractor, and pulled the rusty and protesting door open.
There was room for three to be comfortable, but the six of them were able to squeeze in.
The rusty door was no longer a good fit, so the wind outside created an unpleasant draught. Stuffing protruded from several holes in the chair. The whole thing smelled of recent urine and old manure.
Slumped in the seat of the derelict tractor they slept fitfully. Only Terry had a good night’s sleep. Joe was next to him, and had to nudge him several times to stop him from snoring.
At around two in the morning Salman and Joe were the only ones awake. Peter was groaning in his sleep, and Terry was snoring gently. The two men saw the headlights of a car driving along the road they had left earlier that day.
“Should we?” Asked Salman in a whisper.
Joe sighed, “by the time we get there they’ll be gone.”
They looked at each other. Feeling hopeless and guilty, they both shrugged and closed their eyes.
* * *
Peter woke with a jolt. His memories of the day before were hazy, and he felt cold; his biker’s leathers were heavy and tight on his body. He was weak and it felt like someone was squeezing his hand. “Oh sweet Jesus!” He cried as he looked at the bandage and the place where his thumb used to be.
Wild Strawberry (Book 0): The Motorcycle Diaries Page 1
