Survivor Song(41)

The teen holds the bottle out in front of him, a vampire hunter holding forth a cross. Water sloshes over the bottle’s rim and splatters on the pavement.

The old man’s arms jerk. His body shakes and convulses. He coughs and retches.

The taller teen says, “Oh shit, it really works. He’s freaking out. The power of Christ compels you!” He laughs, lunges forward, and splashes water onto the old man.

The old man recoils, stumbling back into his car, but he rebounds and propels forward. He lashes out with a closed fist, knocking the bottle out of the teen’s hand.

The teen panics, his arms windmilling as he scrambles backward. His staff falls and clatters to the pavement. His feet get tangled with each other, crashing him to the street. His helmet pops off and rolls past Ramola. She runs to his aid.

“All gone! All gone!” The old man’s voice is deep and ancient, the weary, inevitable groan of tectonic plates. His broken strides, like those of the coyote, impossibly carry his bulk.

Ramola crouches, grabs the prone teen’s left arm, and attempts to pull him onto his feet and away from the approaching old man. The teen half sits up and crab-walks backward. She instantly calculates he is not moving quickly enough for him to get away. Ramola lets go of the teen’s arm, reaches, and grabs one end of the wooden staff. She flicks the other end up and pushes it between the elderly man’s ankles. She pushes hard right on the staff, as though flipping a lever.

The man’s right leg crumples, and the old man lists and falls left. As he does so, the shorter teen rushes in, swings the bat with two hands. Had the old man remained upright, the bat would’ve struck him in the head; instead, with his right leg giving out and his body already in the process of collapsing, his head dips and his left shoulder rises up, which is where the teen lands the blow. The contact is solid but happens later in the swing’s arc, which throws the teen off balance. He falls hard onto one knee but is quickly able to gather himself and regain his feet.

The blow spins the old man to his left, sending him careening into the ambulance. His head bounces off the side panel and he slides to the road.

Ramola rises from her crouch, the staff held in both hands.

The taller teen scoots backward until he’s behind Ramola. He laughs and shouts, “The staff is the good!”

The shorter teen limps around in a couple of tight circles, shaking out his lower leg. He swears and talks to himself. Tears stream down his cheeks.

The taller teen stops laughing, serious now, and says softly to his friend, “Hey, guy. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“Fuck you! Fuck this!” He wipes his face on his sleeves.

The elderly man rolls over onto his back. A gash has opened on his wide forehead. Hands flutter at his eyes and they smear the blood around, turning his face red. His breaths are watery and hiss like a tire leaking air. Mixed in are heartbreakingly clear ows and whimpers. He attempts to get up, putting weight on his lower leg, which is bent at an unnatural angle at the knee. He screams and melts back to the pavement.

The taller teen asks Ramola, “Hey, um, can I have my staff back?”

The shorter teen stomps toward the old man, bat cocked. He’s still crying but he’s also grunting and breathing heavy like a bodybuilder gearing up for the big lift.

Ramola, staff in her hands, intercepts him. “Stop. Slow down, wait. Hey, what’s your name? You can keep calling me Doctor Who if you like, but my name is Ramola.” She hopes to calm him down with an exchange of names, a reminder of their humanity.

The teen pauses his advance. His bat is still cocked but his snarl is gone. He says, “Luis.”

“Hello, Luis. And your friend’s name?”

“Josh,” answers the other teen. He retrieves his helmet and holds it in the crook of an arm.

Luis lunges forward. He says, “We need to do this. We have to—”

Ramola fully steps into and blocks his path. “Look at his leg.”

Josh says, “Oh, that’s nasty.” He half covers his face with a hand, groans, and makes assorted that-is-so-gross noises.

Ramola continues, speaking in pointed and short sentences, as though she is delivering difficult news to a parent of one of her sick patients. “He’s not getting up. He will not come after us. You don’t need to hit him again.”

Luis flutters looks between Ramola and Josh. He says, “He’s a zombie. We need to kill him.”

“No. He is not a zombie. He is a man. You would be killing a sick man. You’re not a killer, Luis. You and your friend Josh aren’t killers.”

Luis shakes his head. “We killed someone before—”

“Hey, guy, hey, no . . .” Josh says, and puts the helmet on. His head sinks between his shoulders and he pulls the helmet’s crown over his eyes, as though he can’t bear to watch.

Luis says, “He was old.” He isn’t looking at Ramola, but he isn’t looking at the old man either. “Wasn’t all our fault. We didn’t know what we were doing.” The defeated tone of his voice belies the boast or threat inherent within the we-killed-a-guy confession regardless as to whether it is the truth or a lie. Is he saying they killed another infected old man?

She says, “This would be different, Luis. You know what you are doing because I’m telling you. You’d be choosing to kill a man now. There wouldn’t be any doubt or question.”