A.S.D Pt3- Gobby.

Gobby a.k.a The Suicidal Fucks.

How we came to cross paths is interesting but, at this point, of no tactical relevance so I'll forego that particular tale.

Perhaps another day.

Gobby is in fact two people- The fast-talking, expletive spitting lad we call Gobby and his, well... let's just say "partner" for now.
In harsh contrast to Gobby his partner says nothing... ever. I've seen him whisper in Gobby's ear before but only when he thinks no-one is looking and certainly never in front me.
I don't know if this is because he's a massive social recluse or if he has autism or fucking what. I don't know and Gobby won't tell me.

I asked Gobby his name the day we met. He said (unsurprisingly) "My mates call me Gobby, don't they, eh?"
I looked at his partner, "What's your name, fella?" I asked.
"He ain't got a fucking name, has he. He don't fucking need one. If you want to fucking talk to us, then fucking talk to me, eh?"
"Fair enough." I said.

And that's how it's been since. In all briefings, I'll talk straight to Gobby.

It's weird because if I look at his mate or address him in any way he'll look straight at the floor and won't even make eye contact with me, but if I just address Gobby as if he's the only one in the room then I can see, out of the corner of my eye his buddy will be staring straight at me, unblinking, like he's taking in everything I'm saying.
I was a bit freaked out by this behaviour to start with but as time went on, I realised this is just his way and I've never doubted his loyalty to Gobby, even if I think he'd kill me as soon as spit on me.

Gobby would never let that happen, of course. He's got it too easy here with water, food, shelter and as many fucking zeds as he and his Silent Bob can re-kill.

They got their nickname "The Suicidal Fucks" from the first clearance they came on.

It went like this- we were all kitted out with machetes and leathers (we'd "visited" a motor bike emporium) and we had to clear a block of flats before re-habitation.
Between Tongs and Gobby we'd picked up two more stragglers and we were packed in to Wanker's Volvo and a Ford Transit that we'd hotwired a few days back.
Gobby and his mate both ride scramblers and this is what they were on now. They're only 125cc dirt bikes and, fuck me are they noisy, but these buggers can go almost anywhere on them and they have a huge advantage over the 4-wheeled vehicles that we were lumbering along in.

So, we all arrive at this block and everyone is giving themselves a final going over of their equipment before we all get out, but before we know it Gobby and his partner are in the doors, on their fucking bikes, and they're steaming up the stairwell to the next level!
They didn't stop there either. I found out that they'd gone all the way to the top fucking floor to start their own little clearance of any zed's from the top down while we were clearing the apartments from the ground floor up!

An excellent tactic but given that there were only two of them up there, nigh-on suicidal.

What we also didn't bank on was that the noise of their bikes had brought every fucking zed out that wasn't stuck behind a locked door.
Strange though it sounds (and after plenty of cussing!), this actually seemed to work to our advantage as it meant there were less of these fuckers hiding behind doors and in dark corners and all the places that would make you physically shit yourself if you weren't ready for them.

It made the clearance easier!

There were 10 floors in this particular block and by the time we'd made it to the sixth we heard Gobby and his mate come biking down the stairs.

"FUCKING WANKERS!" Gobby was screaming. "FUCKING MACHETES ARE SHITE!! I'M NEVER USING A FUCKING MACHETE AGAIN!!"
"SLOW THE FUCK DOWN, GOBBY!" I shouted over the racket of his bike. "EVERYBODY OUT.. NOW!"
I wanted to know the problem but I wasn't discussing it here.

We got outside, the streets had been cleared by the Squads the previous night so we were relatively safe for the moment.

"What's the fucking problem, Gobby!?" I asked. I could see his mate was his cradling his arm like it was hurting him big-time.
"He got fucking BIT! That's the fucking problem! Them fucking machetes are too fucking big and we didn't have the fucking room to swing them! Fucking bollocks!! Lucky it didn't get it's teeth through his fucking leathers but his arms fucked now!"
"Well, that's what happens when you fuck off on your own, you suicidal fucks!!" I shouted.
I don't often resort to name-calling but I was rattled about the bite and, to be fair to him, a couple of us had hit walls and shit trying to swing our machetes so I could sympathise with him at least.
I took a breath and asked "So what did you do, Gobby?", all the time I was eyeing up his mate for the slightest trace of fresh, red blood.
"We got some fucking knives from one of the kitchens and started slamming them into their fucking heads, didn't we, eh? They soon started dropping then, the fucking fucks! Either way, I'm not using a fucking machete again, and neither is he!" he said, pointing the gunk stained blade of a kitchen knife at his mate.
"Alright fella." I said, in a calming tone "Not a problem. We'll sort something out and if you ask Tongs really nicely, I'm sure he'll knock something special up. Just for you two."
He took a deep breath and looked at me. A big smile broke out on his face "Sweet, eh?" he grinned.

The "something special" Tongs made for them was the Twist Knife and I'll explain this unusual weapon in a later post.

For now though, I think this particular introduction is complete.
Gobby and his mate (Brother? Friend? Lover?) work together. When I give him instructions, they're instructions for both of them. Where one goes, they both go.

So, remember... when I talk about Gobby, he comes as a pair.