CHAPTER TWENTY ONE: TOP GEAR

Roger Winston, upon first glance, didn't seem like the sharpest tool in the shed. One of his few redeeming qualities was a degree of self-awareness. Yeah, he wasn't clever, but that didn't mean he couldn't make himself a nice living. So he started driving. First, it was just the occasional cabby gig—something he did on the side to make ends meet. It was only after he ditched his job as a PE teacher that he began to take it seriously. With such a career, he could have done many things—coaching, sports, physio. But, he chose the humbler, yet respected job of getting people places.There's dignity in a job well done, even if that job happens after cleaning puke out of his Chevrolet's back seat. God, that car was home sweet home to him now. Roger and his yellow Chevvy, only a tenner if you wanted to get to Heathrow. That was how he met Roland—a return trip from Heathrow to "the nearest bloody inn."Oh, were they good times. Something about Roger must have caught the big guy's interest. It was only a day later that he called him for a long haul job to Hastings. Apparently the guy had a friend near the coast he needed to talk to. And give a duffel bag full of something he wouldn't elaborate on. Roger was quick to fill in the blanks."Look mate," He said, hitting the brakes. "I know whatever the hell you got in there is probably gonna be worth twenty times what I'm making off this trip.""How did you know that?""You don't grow up in Camden without learning a couple of things. I'm doubling the rate on this drive, yeah?""Suit yourself. As long as you stay quiet." Roland shrugged.----------------------------Mr. Louie St. James, better known to his friends as Doc Mercy, was feeling something he hadn't had the luxury of feeling in two years. Boredom. No patients, no meds to take in for safekeeping, nothing. Just him and the skeleton in the corner of his clinic. He could just do the same thing he did whenever he felt bored. Take a walk, maybe read a book. But he was getting this nagging feeling, restless and niggling at him from every angle. It was that sort of feeling that begged for a change of scenery, under threat of further restlessness. He supposed it might be cabin fever—he could barely go out if he wanted to go, with all the bandits and blighters about. Sure, as he told Arthur, he did have a role to play, but he'd be damned if it was getting boring. He supposed there was only one place to go, where the party was at—London. He knew a friendly face or two there. It couldn't hurt, could it?As he packed his bag, he decided that it couldn't—not with the ungodly amount of painkillers he fit in there, at least. He was worried that he was quite underarmed, however. He had a knife and a rusty hatchet that could just barely cut firewood. Ah. But he also had a manual bonesaw. And a few scalpels.But better yet, he had an idea.It took a few hours, but he got something nice when he replaced the hatchet blade with that of the saw. And put the scalpels facing the other way. Even if it was ineffective, which Mercy thought it was, it must have at least some sort of fear factor to it. He could make it work.---------------------------Randall Crane still relished the quiet of his garden. He remembered the day spent forgetting his predicament, where he could be at peace with himself and his actions. Unfortunately, today wasn't to be one of those days. He was too busy dispatching blighters for any of that right now, aware of them—at least ten. The most he had documented before this was seven, and that was consecutive incidents within a two hours. Once again that red mist descended. It was like an out-of-body experience. He saw it all—every head getting caved in, heard every muted screech, every dying gargle sounding deep in their throats—but he didn't register it. It simply happened, like a montage in a movie. These sorts of moments ended so abruptly—often going from abject bloodlust to him heaving up his breakfast in what felt like an instant. It's like "Apocalypse Now," he thought, only the apocalypse is now. While not the most intellectually stimulating or demanding link to make, it was still food for thought.As was the mystery gash on his arm. That hadn't been there this morning.As soon as he connected the dots, he understood that ignorance meant bliss, and that his days were numbered. Again, not the hardest link to make. Especially when there was still a tooth, rotting and brown, lodged in his forearm."Oh dear," Crane muttered to himself. "Oh dear, oh dear."No witty joke, no snide comment. He remembered hearing that 9 out of 10 cancer patients make a joke upon their diagnosis. How he envied them.--------------------------Dr. Graham Derwent hadn't seen the sunlight in roughly two years. How he missed it—walking through Salisbury and into London was positively breathtaking. Until he reached the urban jungle, that blight upon the land."Oh, Anthony," he said, talking into a walkie-talkie—as one did. "It's such a shame what people do when they see greenery, isn't it? They just use it as a place to dump all their concrete and clay. Tragic, I tell you.""I'm sure it's fine. In London, treating you all right, doctor?" Dr. John's voice rang out from the speaker."Apart from hurting my eyes, yes, it's lovely. What were you expecting, Ant? For me to get mugged by garden gnomes?""No. And people don't have garden gnomes anymore. But I was expecting you to get hanged, drawn, and quartered. You know. For starting all this.""How very optimistic of you. But no, don't worry your little head about that. You can't kill what's already dead.""I suppose you're right.""Doctor, you don't suppose, you know I am right. Now I've got to go; I see a funny little stranger up ahead. I shall resume our conversation shortly."