Survivor Song(43)

It could be worse?

Yes, I’m crying now.

I hope to at least hold you before I’m gone. But I don’t know, it’s starting to feel like I’m never getting to a hospital or if I do get there, it’ll be overrun like the others or it’ll be too late for me to still be me by the time they yank you out and plop you into the middle of this hopeless, hellish existence.

Yeah, I’m fun. Sorry. Things are kind of darkest right now, and I’ve always been a bit of a pessimist. Glass not full. No messing around with halves and halve-nots. Again, not my best joke.

Okay, now I’m gonna trust my gut. Or bladder. I’m going outside. I gotta pee.

Love you.

Sassafras and lullabies.

Rams

Josh says, “Is she, like, pregnant?”

Luis groans. “Guy. Doctor Who already said she was pregs.”

“Right, but it’s a shock seeing it, you know, right there, in your face.”

Natalie says, “Rams, it’s a shame you couldn’t save those two from turning into zombies. It’s so sad. Almost a tragedy.” She shuffles toward the group while looking past them at the dead man on the road.

Josh says, “We’re not zombies.”

Luis groans again. “Guy. You are the bad.”

Ramola says, “Please don’t encourage them. Josh and Luis, this is Natalie.”

They say, “Hey,” and both lazily raise a hand in quarter-hearted greeting.

For her own comfort as much as her friend’s, Ramola takes Natalie’s left hand, careful to not tug or pull, anything that would put pressure on her wounded forearm. Natalie’s skin is warm going on hot despite the autumn chill. A fever could mean she is infected or it could be a side effect of the vaccine, if she does in fact have a fever at all; Natalie has always claimed she runs a little hot.

“Your hand is cold,” Natalie says, challenging Ramola to say otherwise.

Ramola pulls her hand away and hides it in her coat pocket, in case it decides to tell the truth.

“Okay, what’s the plan? No fucking around.” Natalie recounts her inability to get through to 911 or the Ames Clinic, and Dr. Awolesi hasn’t responded to her texts.

The teens investigate the old man’s car, reporting both front tires are flat and the driver’s-side front rim is bent. Even if they could separate the two conjoined vehicles, the sedan isn’t drivable. Ramola chimes in to say the obvious; the ambulance isn’t going anywhere either.

The teens jog back to their roadside hiding spot for their bikes and backpacks.

Ramola stands in front of Natalie so they are face-to-face. Were the sun shining, she’d be completely engulfed by her friend’s shadow. She says, “You know what I’m going to ask.”

“I feel worse. It’s like the flu. I’m cold and hot at the same time. Light-headed. My arm kills. My head pounds. My throat burns.” Her voice is froggy and her skin is pale, wan, and purple and puffy under her eyes.

Despair swamps any and all thoughts of hope and reason. Ramola breaks eye contact and stares off into the woods. She wipes a hand across her forehead, as though checking her own temperature.

Natalie adds, “Don’t worry. I promise not to bite anyone. Unless those two really piss me off.”

“No noshing the teens, please. With that rough segue in mind, are you hungry? Did you pack any snacks?”

“Only a couple of infant-formula travel packs. I’ll pass.”

The teens rejoin the women, coasting in circles as they stand on their pedals. Josh’s staff juts out of his pack, a flagpole without an emblem.

They say, “We got you” and “Your protection” and “Lots of zombie animals out there” and “We’ll scout the road ahead” and “You’re lucky we’re here” and “We’re experts.” They sound as ebullient and full of bravura as they did before the old man emerged from the car. They drone on in their endless, witless banter. “This is the part in the zombie movie when the heroes team up with randos” and “They fight to survive together” and “Can’t do it alone” and “The first rule of the zombie apocalypse” and “But then the group has a hard time getting along” and “From different walks of life and shit” and “Sometimes they break up” and “Sometimes they don’t” and “Then randos get picked off one by one” and “It always happens” and “The brown guy always goes first” and “Guy, you aren’t brown” and “The fuck I’m not” and “We’ll be all right. We’re the heroes” and “Nah, heroes always die” and “Hey, this might sound crazy but we could give you two a ride. Sit on the handlebars” and “Guy. Let them stand on the rear pegs” and “Right. We’d go slow. Totally safe” and “We used to—”

Natalie says, “You’re right. That sounds crazy. So, what are we going to do?”

After a brief discussion, Ramola and Natalie decide one of the teens should bike the two miles ahead to the clinic and send back someone to pick them up.

Josh says, “Makes sense but ‘don’t split up’ is, like, the number-two rule of the zomb apoc.”

Luis says, “Guy. Don’t. I hate it when characters say ‘zombos’ or ‘walkers’ or something else so writers’ room. Just fucking say ‘zombies.’”