Wild Strawberry: The Motorcycle Diaries (2 page)

             
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 dressings 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.

             
Jeffrey jolted awake, asking,  “How do you feel?”

             
“What the fuck happened?”

             
“That thing, yesterday, do you remember?”

             
“Yeah, it bit my hand.”

             
“I’m sorry Peter,-” Jeffrey wanted to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but they were too tightly wedged into the tractor, “-but the thing bit off your thumb.”

             
“Why didn’t you take me to hospital?”

             
“Don’t you remember, the whole Country’s fucked?” Terry said with a yawn, waking up feeling stiff and cramped.

             
“Oh Jesus.” Peter closed his eyes.  The pain seemed to be getting worse.

             
“And Doctor Jeffrey-fucking-psycho-Crippen here set your hand on fire,” Terry added.

             
“What?  Yes, I remember the fire.”

             
“I had to stop the bleeding and clean the wound,” Jeffrey explained, “there was nothing else I could do.”

             
“Yeah.  Fucking hell.” Peter was sweating and rocking back and forward as he spoke, “Shit.  My fucking thumb.  Thanks, though, mate, you probably saved my bloody life.”

             
“But,” Joe broke in, “the important question is can you ride?  We need to find somewhere to set up camp properly.”

             
“I, I think so.” Peter looked pale and his voice shook unconvincingly, but they took him at his word, as none of them wanted to stay any longer in the old tractor.

             
They each ate one of the chocolate bars they had taken from the garage, and started up their bikes.

             
This time they kept their eyes on every possible place a zombie could come running from, but nothing appeared.

             
They kicked their bikes into action.  Peter took several goes, his body visibly sagging under his leathers.  He had lost a lot of blood, and the others were worried about him, but they had to start moving.

             
Overnight the situation in the world had deteriorated.

             
Now whenever they entered a village the dead would come running out of houses or cars.

             
Joe was sickened by the sight of a dead woman chewing on the head of a small child.  When the woman saw him she dropped her small meal to chase after a larger feast.

             
Now the bikers started to speed up every time they came near any buildings.

             
Twice they had to leave the road and travel over rough fields.  The first time had been because a crash had blocked the road, and the detour, although bumpy, had been straightforward.  The second time they had been faced with a large crowd of at least a hundred undead, who spilled out onto the road, and blocked their way.  They had only just managed to double back and find an alternative route.  This time the monsters chased them through several fields before losing sight of them, and only then could they slow to a more cautious speed.

             
Now every village was an ordeal, when they read ‘Welcome to Downe, please drive carefully,’ they revved their engines and sped forward.

             
They travelled in single file.  Joe knew the area best, so he rode in front.  Behind him was Peter: in second place so that the others could keep an eye on him.  Behind Peter was Salman, and the others followed on.

             
After they had been on the road for over an hour, Salman noticed that Peter was swaying as he rode.  He was slumping lower and lower over the handlebars, and weaving from one side of the road to the other.