Survivor Song(30)
Dr. Awolesi and Stephen spill out of the stairwell door. Stephen is walking under his own power, but gingerly, as though each step is a new experience in pain. If he has suffered a wound or physical trauma beyond the electric shock, none are visible. He is not in possession of his Taser gun.
Dr. Awolesi says, “Where did the driver go?” She spies the EMT in the hallway and rolls her eyes and shakes her head. She says to the group, “Quickly now, or they won’t let you out.”
Everyone moves at once. Ramola picks up her pace so as not to be in the rear this time, pulling on Natalie’s arm a little, goosing her forward. Within the wider space of the main hallway is a cacophony of shouts, cries, barked orders and questions, crackling radios, individual voices. Dr. Awolesi sprints ahead. The EMT still points and Ramola can’t help but briefly imagine him as the Wizard of Oz Scarecrow ineffectually directing Yellow Brick Road traffic. He flashes Ramola a crooked smile, perhaps a traitorous one born of shock or nerves, or one that speaks to incompetence and incongruity given the graveness of their situation, or it is a wholly appropriate and commiserative Can you believe this bullshit?
There is no parsing which comes first; the sights and sounds are simultaneous. The EMT’s head jerks to Ramola’s right and toward a garish splash of blood and gray matter scarring the wall. The gunshot crack is followed by a second, or is it a third? He accordions into a boneless, grotesque collapse, his body pooling on the tile. What a world, what a world.
More gunshots, and Ramola instinctively ducks but then straightens, shielding Natalie as much as she can with her slight frame. They drift up against the wall. Dr. Awolesi rushes to the aid of the EMT. The fire alarm changes its rhythm and pattern, from two short blasts to a single protracted one with a heavier weight of silence between, the length of which is almost impossible to anticipate.
A man jogs from the direction of the ER waiting area, indiscriminately firing a pistol. One bullet burrows into the drywall a foot or so above Natalie’s head. Behind him, other people are motionless, huddled or splayed on the tile floor, and Ramola cannot tell if they’re taking cover or have been shot. The man is shaved bald, older, and wears a tight T-shirt that shows off his considerable upper-body musculature. His forward movement slows and he weaves and wavers, weight shifting left and right randomly, as though he’s fighting against hurricane-force winds. The flashing lights blur and muddy his movement.
He fires off more shots without aiming, then he talk-yells, like he’s delivering a sermon. “You want to be a sickle you must bend yourself. I can’t help you. I won’t be burnt with you.”
Instead of sidling away from the man and heading deeper down the hallway, Ramola considers going forward and back into the elevator vestibule, where Stephen crouches and carefully peers around the edge of the hallway. They would be covered but also potentially trapped. The stairs offer no safe exit (Is that boy still there waiting for them on the platform? Is he moments away from opening the fire door?) and she’s unsure if the elevators are operable.
A commotion approaches from the other end of the hallway; clacking boots and shouts of “Stay clear!” Three members of the National Guard in full fatigues: one carrying a gun-metal-colored shield, the other two clutching automatic weapons. They quickly overtake and pass Ramola and Natalie. The soldiers shout unheeded commands at the man, each soldier taking a turn, as though singing in rounds. A hail of gunfire drowns out their infinite canon. The man with the pistol screams and falls to the floor. Most of Ramola’s view is blocked by the circling soldiers, particularly the one with the shield, as the man uses his hands and arms to crawl forward on his stomach, his motionless legs trailing red smears. He hisses and gurgles, and drums his lips together like a child might when imitating a car engine. His bloody, foaming mouth is a leer and he lashes out with a hand, reaching for the ankle of the shield carrier. A single gunshot discharges from one of the soldiers’ guns. The man goes still. After the briefest moments of silence, that end of the hallway explodes into argument and recrimination between approaching medical staff and the soldiers.
Dr. Awolesi has flipped the EMT onto his back. She explores his midsection for a reason Ramola cannot determine. He is most certainly dead; the left half of his head is a sizable trapdoor left ajar, hair and scalp misshapen and jellied with gore. Dr. Awolesi climbs out of her crouch, dangling a set of keys in one hand.
Ramola and Natalie follow the doctor down the hallway, swimming upstream through waves of more soldiers and, now, firefighters. Stephen the guard doesn’t continue with them. He stays behind, leaning on the corner of the elevator vestibule and hallway, talking to soldiers and pointing, presumably, at the door to the stairwell.
Ramola walks side by side with Natalie while looking every direction at once. They do not talk. She tries to catch Natalie’s eye, to give her a nod or a smile, whatever either expression is worth, an opening to perhaps ask the dreaded How are you doing, how are you feeling? Natalie grimly keeps her gaze pointed forward, to the finish line they cannot yet see. Her gait is hitched and her right arm is scaffolding under her stomach. The overnight bag bounces off her hip with each step.
A few paces ahead, Dr. Awolesi talks into her radio. The keys jingle as she gesticulates, flashing her right arm out to her side and pointedly jabbing it forward.
Natalie asks, “Who’s driving us? Is she driving us?”
“I don’t think so. EMTs work with partners, don’t they.” Ramola doesn’t mean it as a question, but as emphasis. “How are—”