Survivor Song(44)
Ramola shouts, “There are no zombies! This is not the apocalypse! You must stop saying that. It’s not helping.”
Josh ignores her and says to Luis, “Shrugs, guy. Shrugs.”
Luis says, “Whatever. So which one of we is going to the clinic?”
The two of them argue. Luis makes a crack about leaving Ramola the staff because she knows how to use it better than Josh. Somehow they achieve a bro-speak consensus ratified with a complicated handshake routine.
Josh says, “Tell me to keep off the moors and stick to the road,” quoting lines from a movie that’s more than twenty years older than he is.
Luis obliges.
Josh pedals down the road flanked by towering pine, birch, and oak trees, the highest branches shivering in the wind, peacocking their greens, reds, and browns. Leaves fall, whirling in invisible eddies, their individual paths balletic, unpredictable, until they land, as they must, and join the autumnal mob usurping the shoulders of the road, massed against stone walls, blanketing the forest floor. Ramola, Natalie, and Luis silently watch until Josh disappears around a bend.
Ramola checks her phone and is unable to connect to the Internet or get through to 911. Her texts to Dr. Awolesi also go unanswered. It appears they are relying on Josh. If it takes him ten to fifteen minutes to bike to the clinic; maybe another five to ten to convince someone to send a vehicle back in their direction; a fiveish-minute drive down the narrow, windy road; another five to ten minutes (estimate includes crossover time spent getting her and Natalie into the vehicle) on the return to the clinic; and then however long to be screened and prepped for the C-section, they are looking at, all told, close to an hour total. If Natalie is indeed infected (the memory of the warmth of Natalie’s skin is a physical one), do they even have an hour? What is she going to do if Natalie succumbs to infection prior to arriving at the clinic? She imagines Natalie with eyes as dead as a cadaver’s, her mouth an animal’s snarl, and saliva running down her chin. Maybe riding on the handlebars isn’t such a ridiculous idea.
As though reading her mind, Natalie says, “Fuck this. I’m not waiting here. Come on, Rams, grab our bags.” She steps out into the road.
Luis says, “Whoa, where you going?”
“Heading toward the clinic. Just in case.”
Ramola and Luis plead with her to stay at the ambulance. Ramola maintains that it isn’t safe to be out walking the road. Luis asks what if they’re walking and she gets attacked by a rabid animal?
There’s time enough before Natalie’s response for Ramola to wonder if she’s going to say it doesn’t matter if an animal bites her, she’s already been exposed. Looking and speaking to Ramola and Ramola only, Natalie says, “We saw what a fucking zoo Norwood Hospital was. What if there are no available emergency vehicles at the clinic or they don’t have any staff available to leave the building or, I don’t know, what if they don’t believe Josh?”
Ramola chimes in to say they should’ve had Josh take a picture of them and the ambulance with his phone to show the clinic.
Natalie says, “Sure, right. Look, all I’m saying is there’s no guarantee Josh will get help. He’ll probably be fine but, sorry, what if something happens to him on the way? What if he doesn’t make it? I’m not waiting around for what-ifs. I’m walking. If he gets an ambulance, which he probably will, then great and it’ll still see us and pick us up as we’re walking down Bay Road. And we’ll be that much closer to the clinic. And we can knock on doors and ask for a ride along the way too. Worst-case scenario, we walk the two miles. I’m not waiting around to be saved.”
Luis says, “Nah, I don’t like it.”
“Then you can stay here, guy. Keep playing pretend zombie hunter.” Natalie heads down the road, straddling the double yellow lines, listing from side to side like a ship in a choppy sea, her right hand under her belly.
Ramola isn’t sure if this is the best idea. But how can she be sure? How can anyone be sure given unprecedented, impossible circumstances? Natalie’s desperation—now manifested by her willingness to march two miles despite obvious pain and distress—plus the notion of moving closer to their destination, even incrementally, sends Ramola into the ambulance cab to quickly consolidate their two overnight bags. After transferring a few of her items, Ramola slings Natalie’s bag over her shoulder and jogs to catch up to her friend.
Natalie says, “Okay, Luis. Talk to me. Take my mind off how much walking sucks. Where are you from?”
“I live in Brockton with Josh.”
“What are you doing out here? Aren’t you guys getting a little bit old to be playing Stranger Things?”
Luis chuckles, pedals ahead, and circles a loop around the women. “We grew up in this area. On the other side, the west side of Borderland State Park. With everything ending, we thought it would be, I don’t know, fitting to come back.”
Ramola says, “Everything isn’t ending. Civilization is more resilient than people think.”
Natalie adds, “For better or worse.”
Luis says, “When we were younger, we would ride into Borderland—we had a special spot—and hang out and make plans about what we’d do in case of a zombie apocalypse. So here it is and here we are.” He pauses, as though honoring the memory with reverie and regret. “Turns out it’s probably not a good place to be.”