Survivor Song(31)
“I’m fine.” Her eyes fixed on the hallway horizon, Natalie shakes her head no as though her physically taxed and possibly catastrophically compromised body cannot tell a lie. They pass intersecting hallways and signs with arrows pointing to the ICU, cafeteria, Psychiatry, and the Washington Street entrance, which is closed, and Natalie repeats, “I’m fine.”
The Central Street exit/entrance is a service and employee entrance, one not generally used by patients or visitors under normal circumstances. Two armed and masked soldiers guard the glass double doors.
Dr. Awolesi shows her ID and identifies herself as acting chief medical officer. This is news to Ramola, and her use of “acting” and its implications floods her system with pulses of unease. Dr. Awolesi tells the soldiers, with permission granted by the incident commander, she is transferring Natalie and her attending physician to another clinic.
There is no argument as Ramola anticipated there might be. One soldier nods, says, “We know,” and mumbles something about minutes to spare. The other opens the door and closes it as soon as they pass through. Outside the hospital, the wail of the fire alarm is muzzled (but still audible), and the cool air is bracing on Ramola’s sweat-slicked skin. The parking lot is significantly smaller than the sea of blacktop by the ER. A skinny rectangle that winds and tapers by the entrance has only thirty or so parking spots for staff, currently filled with military trucks and other vehicles. Two trucks, parked tail to head, block access from Washington Street. Soldiers guard and maintain one-lane access to and from Central Street.
A large white ambulance with the company name writ in blue cursive on the side panel is parked at the walkway curb in front of the exit. Dr. Awolesi jogs ahead and pounds on the passenger door with an open hand and stands on tiptoes, peering into the window. When no one answers, she opens the unlocked door, pulls herself up into the main cab, and visually inspects the rear of the vehicle. She hops back onto the sidewalk, looks around, and throws up her hands.
She says, “This is alarming to admit, but I cannot locate the other EMT. She might be inside helping. But I don’t know, and now it doesn’t matter.” She hands Ramola the fistful of keys she lifted from the dead EMT. “I’m conscripting you into driving, Dr. Sherman.”
Ramola holds the loose pile of jangling metal in her left hand, out and away from her body as though cupping a handful of sleeping bees. “Are you sure . . .”
“Yes, and before you can ask, I have that power. Come on, Natalie, let’s get you in.”
Natalie snorts a hard laugh. “Yeah, why not?”
Dr. Awolesi walks away from the front cab toward the rear.
“I’m not sitting back there all by myself,” Natalie says. “I’m sitting in the front with Ramola. She’ll need my help navigating.”
Dr. Awolesi, speaking for the first time without her air of authority, says she’d feel better having Natalie in the four-point harness in the back and, more sheepishly, something about regulations against patients being up front.
Natalie says, “Right. Well they can sue me later,” and goes to the open passenger door. The two doctors help Natalie step up into the cab. She settles into the chair and allows Dr. Awolesi to fasten her seat belt. Natalie stows her overnight bag on the floor between her feet.
After they shut the door Ramola asks, “Will I be allowed through checkpoints, roadblocks? I’m clearly not the intended driver.”
Dr. Awolesi assures her that the communications team has already sent alerts and will continue to spread the message throughout state and emergency networks.
They walk around the front of the ambulance. Ramola opens the heavy driver’s-side door, which creaks on its hinges, protesting her coming aboard. Part of her wants to say, I cannot do this. This is too much. “Well, I drove a moving van once,” Ramola says aloud, though she’s really talking to herself. She returns the handheld radio to the doctor.
Dr. Awolesi stares at the device and blinks, empty of expression. She says, “Ames Medical Clinic is on Depot Street, right near Five Corners. Do you know where that is?”
Natalie shouts, “Yes!”
Ramola says, “Yes, I do.”
Dr. Awolesi hands Ramola a small card. “My cell-phone number. Calls have been iffy, but texts have a better chance of going through should you need to contact me.” She says the last sentence like a question for which she doesn’t have a proper answer. “Good luck. Not that you’ll need it. I’m sure she’ll be fine but—keep an eye on her.”
Ramola says, “Thank you, Doctor, I will.” She climbs into the cab and stows her bag behind the seat, and mumbles, “While keeping the other eye on the road? Fucking hell.”
Natalie says, “You and your eye will do great. And use both for driving, please.” She now has her bag in her lap and is rooting through it.
“Do you need—”
Natalie doesn’t look up. “No. Nothing. Drive.”
The ambulance’s design more resembles a tall, skinny delivery van than a truck. Other than its dramatically spacious headroom and the center console with its radio and two rows of chunky black buttons or switches, the front’s interior is similar to a typical automobile. Ramola is sunken into the too-large bucket seat that was not designed with the Goldilocks principle in mind. She roughly slides the chair forward until the tops of her knees are almost brushing the steering wheel. Inserting the key, its hard plastic sleeve as thick as her hand, she starts the engine.