Survivor Song(52)
Ramola says, “I’ve seen that one,” inordinately proud of herself, although encouraging more movie references or comparisons is not what she should be doing with this lot.
After the brief outburst, the group goes silent. Beneath Ramola’s feet the rear tire spins and the blacktop blurs. Every bump and rut they pass over sends a jolt into her ankles and knees. She worries about the level of physical stress and strain Natalie must be experiencing.
Beyond the state park and intersection, there are again homes dotting the wooded roadside. From Ramola’s vantage, it’s impossible to know if the homes are occupied, as there are no lights on and the windows are dark. Do the empty driveways mean cars are hidden inside garages? Did all these residents flee the area days ago, ahead of the statewide quarantine? Now that they are about a mile from the clinic, if they are to come across a house showing clear signs of occupation, is it worth the added time and chance to knock on the door?
Josh asks if they can turn left ahead; he knows a way to bypass a big section of Bay Road. The group answers with a resounding no.
Luis asks, “Hey, where are all the big scary men?”
Josh’s “Farther down” might as well be a “Fuck you.”
On their right, marking an elbow bend in the road and on the corner of Rockland Street is the Ames Baptist Church. If not for the large cross on the side of the building, it could be a sprawling, painted-white New England Colonial-style house, or a converted funeral home. It sits on a sizable plot of land, including a wide, sprawling front lawn and empty L-shaped parking lot, which is being explored by a small flock of turkeys.
Luis asks, “Should we be worried about turkeys in this timeline?”
Ramola answers, “Only mammals can get rabies.”
“Lucky us,” says Natalie.
They roll past the church. Its white announcement sign at the street corner, near a crumbling, moss-covered stone wall, lists emergency-contact phone numbers and the stark message, “Pray.”
High-pitched, ululating shrieks, eerily childlike in their voicing, are joined by deep growls that sharpen into piercing, relentless barks. Unlike the distant cries they heard earlier from the edges of Borderland, these unseen, mortally engaged combatants are close, either on the church grounds or within its immediate environs.
Josh and Luis clumsily veer their bikes into the opposite lane at the unexpected apocalypse of sound and exchange nervous banter.
Ramola says, “Keep it steady,” takes her right hand off Josh’s shoulder, and turns her head to better look behind them. She doesn’t see any animals charging down Bay Road, nor can she see the turkey flock. Out of sight, the brutish battle cries continue and now include alarmed turkey clucks and gobbles, the heavy whoops of their beating wings. Ramola returns to her fully forward-facing stance, awkwardly pushing hard onto Josh’s shoulder as she does so. Josh shouts a complaint. Ramola apologizes and says, “Nothing coming after us that I can see. We are the good.”
Luis says, “Cheers. All right, mate.” His accent is fully Australian.
On their left they pass a residential street called Pheasant Lane. Ramola spies cars in a handful of the driveways, which brings a sense of comfort that not everyone is gone. Although they now must be less than a mile from the clinic, she wonders if they should stop and ask for a ride, particularly if the teens are getting fatigued.
They pass another residential side street on their left and then round a bend that becomes a long stretch of straight road.
Josh says, “There they are.”
About one hundred yards away is the red pickup truck, straddling both lanes, its chrome grille designed to be a toothy, wiseass grin. If it’s moving, it’s going at a speed imperceptibly slow from this distance. Two men walk beside the vehicle, carrying what appear to be shovels, and there are others along the road’s shoulder, one carrying a hunting rifle. The truck honks its horn twice and more people spill out of the wooded periphery onto the road. In the lead, maybe twenty-five yards ahead of the truck, are two large men dressed in head-to-toe camouflage gear, stepping in time, their crossbows held across their chests, a pledge to future violence.
Luis says, “Jesus. That one dude is big as a fucking tree.”
“He is the Tree,” says Josh.
Ramola has to admit this hodgepodge group of men and the manner in which they approach is unnerving if not outright frightening. Having been concerned solely with getting Natalie onto the fabled pickup truck and to the clinic, other questions nag: For what purpose are these men breaking quarantine laws? Why are they, as Josh claimed, going door-to-door?
She says, “Don’t stop until we are within their number. I will talk to them.”
“Good luck talking to the Tree,” Josh says.
The men in front, the ones wearing camo, split from the road’s double lines, each filling one lane. They wear polarized sunglasses and the parts of their faces not covered in coarse hair are smeared with black and green greasepaint. As the bicycles approach they hold up black-gloved stop hands. The pickup truck continues its slow creep behind them. Other men veer off onto driveways in groups of two or three.
The teens coast to a smooth stop and both Ramola and Natalie step down from the pegs without issue. Luis looses a groan of relief and rolls his shoulders.
Natalie says, “Gee, thanks, guy.”
The tallest one—Ramola cannot think of him as anything other than “The Tree” now that Josh pegged him with the nickname—says, “You’re not supposed to be out here. You should go back to your homes. It’s not playtime.” He stares at Josh as he makes the latter statement. “And you should’ve stopped when I said to.”