Wild Strawberry: The Motorcycle Diaries by T.A. Donnelly Page A

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 set 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