Survivor Song(13)
Natalie exhales deeply. Ramola assumes Natalie swallowed a snarky I-wasn’t-looking-at-the-clock response. She says, “Oh Christ, a half an hour ago, maybe?” Before Ramola responds Natalie leans forward and grabs something from the cup holders within the center console. It’s her cell phone, which remains attached to a battery charger plugged into the car’s cigarette lighter. She says, “Paul texted me when he left the grocery store at”—her face glows in the phone’s ghostly light as she manipulates and searches the screen—“11:15. He got home about five minutes later. It wasn’t long, five more minutes or so, before we were attacked, and I—” Natalie pauses and clicks off the phone screen. “I don’t know how long that lasted. It fucking felt like forever, but it was—I don’t know—maybe another five minutes, maybe more, maybe less. The guy bit me before I stabbed him. Yes, definitely before. But then he staggered away into the house and I left, and I just left. Paul was—he was gone. So I had to go. Right? I didn’t want to leave him there, but I had to.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I got to my car as quickly as I could and I called 911 a bunch of times but I wasn’t getting through. I’d already heard earlier that Brockton Hospital was closed so I started driving toward Canton. It took me three tries before my call went through to you. So, wait, how long is all that?”
“Let’s say that you were bitten at approximately 11:30.” Ramola looks at the clock on the dashboard. It’s 11:56.
“How long before it’s too late for me?”
“I’m not sure. No one is. We’ll get you treated as soon as—”
“You must know something. Tell me.”
“All we know for sure is that the usual timeline of infection has been greatly accelerated. No longer weeks or days. The CDC reports that infection is occurring within a matter of hours—”
“But . . .”
“I didn’t say ‘but.’”
“You were going to.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Rams! You have to tell me everything. What else do you know? What else have you heard?”
“I know of one patient who reportedly presented symptoms within an hour of exposure—”
“Fuck.”
“But that quoted timeline wasn’t corroborated. I don’t know where she was bitten or how she was exposed or how far the virus had to travel within the nervous system to pass into her brain. The time of symptoms onset is dependent upon how close to the head the bite or exposure site is.” Upon finishing she regrets allowing Natalie to talk her into sharing hearsay from a harried text exchange. How does that maybe-information help Natalie? She needs to be making better decisions than that.
Natalie says, “Please hurry.”
“We’re not far away now.”
A few hundred yards ahead is the Neponset Street rotary, which passes over the Route 1 commercial highway. There are two state police cars parked at the entrance to the rotary, their blue lights flashing. Two officers standing adjacent to their vehicles are dressed in riot gear and carry automatic weapons. They hold up their hands, motioning the SUV to stop.
“Goddammit, we don’t have fucking time for this.” Natalie continues ranting and swearing as Ramola stops in the mouth of the rotary. She opens her window.
The officers slowly approach, flanking the SUV. The barrels of their weapons are pointed at the ground but neither removes a hand from the gun.
“Ma’am, I need to ask where you’re going. We’re under federal quarantine and the roads are to be used in the event of an emergency only.” A white respirator covering the lower half of his face muffles his voice. According to emailed procedures Ramola received the previous evening from the infectious disease specialists and chief medical officer at Norwood Hospital, the N95s were to be distributed and fit-tested only to medical personnel identified as being at the highest risk to exposure. What the police officer is wearing is more likely a painter’s mask picked up at the Home Depot about a mile down Route 1 South. As nervous as the automatic weapon makes Ramola, she’s more bothered by the mask, which doesn’t bode well regarding the clarity of communication between local government agencies and emergency-responder groups.
Natalie shouts, “We’re going to the hospital! I’m injured and wicked pregnant. Can we go now, please?”
The officer at the window attempts to respond, but Ramola politely interrupts him. “Excuse me, Officer, I’m Dr. Ramola Sherman”—she pushes her medical ID badge toward him—“I’m taking my friend to Norwood Hospital. She’s more than eight months pregnant and was bitten by an infected man approximately thirty minutes ago. She needs immediate medical attention. May we pass through?”
The officer blinks rapidly as though having a difficult time processing the information and the dire implications. “Yeah, okay, Doctor. Head to the emergency-room entrance on Washington Street. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes.”
“You can take either Washington or Broadway to get there, but you can only use the emergency entrance. All other entrances have been closed.” He steps back, says some sort of code into his two-way radio attached to his chest harness, and waves his arm as though there’s traffic behind them waiting for the go-through signal.