Those Who Remain

by Priscila Santa Rosa

  Leaves shuffle. I hear something heavy stepping lightly behind me. With one look, Father signals me toward south. The wind blows in our favor, and we have the higher ground.

  We spot the white-tailed deer hidden between the trees. Father takes the lead. I study the way he adjusts his rifle and concentrates on the shot. The harsh, but satisfying sound echoes. Birds scatter around us. The buck falls.

  A clean kill, the type I wish I were capable of.

  I help Father load the deer into the back of our old, reliable pickup truck. It’s the last day of open season, and we are both dreading the return to civilization. Our month of peace and quiet ends today.

  The road out of the forest is empty. Father turns the radio on. I let my hand fall out of the truck’s window, feeling the cold breeze between my fingers. I try to enjoy these last hours of tranquility. Tomorrow I’ll have to face community college and my less-than-stellar grades. Between the stares and rumors, it’s hard to concentrate on actual learning. Reputation spreads like fire in a small town like Redwood, so after dealing with smart-ass comments and friendly advice on family therapy all my life, it’s a relief to tune all of it out by going hunting.

  An announcer interrupts the radio’s music.

  “This is an urgent message for all our listeners. Dozens of animal attacks have been reported around the Whitefield region. Curfew is in place. Local authorities ask for information on all strange behaviors. The number for—”

  I change the station. A Japanese pop song plays. Father glances at me.

  “What? I like this song.”

  He raises one eyebrow. “You like this?”

  “Yeah, Kei-chan rocks.” I show him a forced smile and the victory hand sign Japanese J-Pop fans use.

  In truth, I only know this song because everyone on campus plays it—apparently, the video clip has cute Japanese girls dressed as cats. I’m more of a dog person, and the chirpy melody annoys the hell of out me, but it’s better than hearing him go on a rant about how the government is using animal attacks to cover up the assassinations of people who know too much. It’s too early for conspiracy theories.

  He patiently waits for the song to end, then changes the station back again. Luckily, the announcement is over. An old country song starts. Relieved, I smile. I couldn’t have asked for a better distraction. Few things make him happier than country music.

  “Now that’s real music.” He sings the lyrics for a bit, and then smiles at me. “Come on, you sing it too.”

  I chuckle. “I don’t know the words.”

  “This is a classic! Everyone knows this.”

  “Yeah, everyone older than fifty.”

  In the end, he wins, and I try to keep up with the song. The melody is happy and cheerful, but it’s actually about sadness. Losing love, saying goodbye. I wish it was about something else for a change. What’s the deal with songs and love? Why do people like heartbreak so much?

  “Father, can I ask something?”

  He turns his head slightly, his bushy eyebrows forming the usual frown. No doubt he expects a weird question. All questions that don’t involve the best caliber for hunting or names of old songs are weird to him.

  “If you have to, yeah.”

  I want to ask him about a lot of things. Like, his opinion on love songs. And regret. And marriage. Not for the first time, I figure it’s best to ask later. “What’s for dinner?”

  He smiles a little, then goes back to watching the road, tinkering with the rear-view mirror. “It’s your turn to cook.”

  I groan. I wanted to take a long bath, not worry about burning rice. Before I can suggest we order a pizza from Old Joe’s, Father slows down, and then stops our truck. A car, with all four doors wide open, blocks our way.

  We get out. Father carries his hunting rifle and I bring my 9mm, a SIG Sauer I carry everywhere I’m legally allowed to. He approaches the car slowly, while I survey the trees, looking for the owners or worse. There’s no one near or inside it. No signs of a struggle or car accident either.

  Was it stolen in a rush, left behind by a thief afraid of the cops recognizing it? The nearest town is miles away. Why risk escaping by foot into the woods and getting lost?

  Father checks the front seat. “Huh. Key’s still here.”

  He sits inside and starts the engine, moving the car out of the way. I take a picture of the plate with my cell phone and send it to Roger’s number. Maybe he could find the owner later. Roger’s the youngest person ever to become the town’s sheriff, but that’s what happens when nobody wants the job. Back when Father was still a gun instructor, he trained Roger, making him one of the few friends we still have.

  We drive on. I glance at him, noticing his frown, and sigh. He’s probably already forming theories in his mind.

  Last month he figured the town’s only drugstore was out of antibiotics because the owner was hoarding them for himself. Supposedly, the man knew some kind of brain-eating bacteria was in the water. Father then lectured me on the importance of having our own well and how the filtering system worked.

  His paranoia is nothing new to me. I grew up with it, along with the alarms, the cameras, and the bomb shelter. It used to be fun—running around, pretending “safety training” was an actual adventure.

  It lost its appeal over the years.

  “It’s nothing, Father.” I hope.

  He stays silent.

  By the time we arrive in town, the sun is almost gone. I see our neighbors, the Taylors, hurriedly packing, tossing and strapping bags on their car’s roof. Their dog keeps barking at us from the backseat, making me uneasy.

  I hope Father doesn't notice it any of it.

  He parks our truck in the driveway and we carry our game to the shed. I go inside the house to start dinner, while he hangs and skins the deer.

  I turn the screen on. I don’t usually watch TV, only bothering when there’s a game on, but tonight I press the button until the local news channel appears. I’m my father’s daughter, after all, and a little paranoia is inevitable.

  While the water boils, I cut the vegetables and listen to the TV. Anderson, the usual local newscaster, is gone. Instead, a man in a military uniform reads a long list of warnings and instructions with a deep voice.

  “Citizens are advised to stay indoors and avoid any contact with strangers,” the man says, stiff. “If any symptoms appear, contact the authorities immediately and isolate yourself in a secure location.”

  His left shoulder pad is stained red. I turn off the stove, quitting any pretense of making dinner.

  “Citizens traveling are required to provide identification and blood samples on all road checkpoints. Anyone who does not comply will be taken into custody.”

  The man stops talking, putting one finger over his ear. Beneath him, headlines scroll with quarantine zones and emergency hotlines. “Do not approach the infected.” The man pauses, visibly shaken. “I repeat, do not—”

  The TV turns off. The lights flicker for a brief second, then turn back on again. Our diesel generator kicks in. On the screen there’s only static. The neighbor’s house remains dark. I steady myself with a hand on the kitchen counter, mind racing over what I just heard and saw. After years, it is finally happening, everything Father thought would happen. It is collapse of our country.

  I don’t need to go outside to call him. Father is already at the door, a bloody knife in one hand. “The power’s out?”

  I nod. He puts the knife on the kitchen counter and waits for me to explain. I meet his gaze, shoulders straight. Every training and lesson Father gave me over the years was meant to squash any hesitation or doubt when something like this actually happened, but when I speak my voice trembles. “I think…This is it, Father.”

  I tell him what happened. I tell him what he probably expected to hear every single day of his adult life: we were under attack. The enemy being a disease, government or another nation didn’t make any difference. Father theories were now a reality, and his plans woul
d be our salvation.

  My heartbeat gets quicker by the second. I know the moment I stop talking everything will change. No more community college or singing stupid country songs together. No more visits from Roger, with his sweet smile and kind words. No more lazy Sunday afternoons watching a game. There’s no going back now.

  My whole body tenses up, dread rising from the pit of my stomach. When I finish the explanation, Father takes his time to speak. Every word counts with him, especially now.

  “We go back to the cabin. Grab the emergency bag. I’m going to the shelter to get the guns.”

  Before I move, before he leaves, I say something I would only dare to utter out loud in a time like this. “What about Mom?”

  He stiffens, jaw tight. I can almost hear the indignant “What about her?” coming. Instead, he takes his cell phone out and offers it to me.

  “You do it, if you want.”

  I stare at the phone, chest tight and heart pounding. I imagine myself taking the phone out of his hands and calling her. I can even hear her annoyed voice in my head telling this was just another of Father’s ridiculous theories. I can see myself begging her to listen to me, to come with us to the cabin, only to be dismissed because Paul, her new and improved husband, had a business trip or some other excuse. I know in my heart she will never believe me even if I told her this time everything is real. For the ten years we stayed together as a family, it never was.

  Father waits, eyes narrowed. My long hesitation is a betrayal to him. This is not protocol. This isn’t how he trained me. My mother had lost any place in our survival plans after she chose to leave us. I shouldn’t be even thinking about her after what she did to us. After she abandoned me for a new life, a normal one. All those years of them fighting, all those tears I held in, do I really want to go down this road again?

  I shake my head, refusing the phone. We have to move now, no complications, no attachments.

  No goodbyes, no heartbreak.

  Father puts a hand on my shoulder. We both know leaving her behind meant her death. I’m allowed a minute to grieve for a mother I never truly knew. Then we run.

  The Doctor I

  November 23rd, Monday, 7 pm

  I'm out of antibiotics. Out of gauze. No masks, either. Only a shot of morphine and a pair of bloody gloves. Both my hands press against the wound and overflowing blood drips onto the floor. The cloth under my fingers is already soaked. My patient squirms in pain, gasping, before passing out. Between trying to help him and worrying about the door, this won’t end well.

  “Keep this door closed!” the Sergeant barks behind me, talking to his subordinates. “Private Jones, watch the window!”

  I know he's trying to save us all, but the shouting does nothing to help my concentration. Not that silence is an option: the screams echoing down the corridor we just escaped from are enough for a thousand nightmares.

  “Doc, is he alive?”

  I don’t answer the Sergeant, focused on keeping pressure on the wound with one hand while holding the morphine shot with the other. I jab the syringe against the patient’s thigh. When the time comes to move him, he can’t scream from the pain. Drawing attention to ourselves is not a good idea right now.

  “Doc, I need an answer.”

  My brow drips with sweat. Nobody reaches to dry it. My mind flashes back to my OR nurse. Mere minutes ago Joy was dragged by the feet, screaming. She tried desperately to reach me, but I could only watch as the Sergeant pulled me inside this room, barring the doors from the outside chaos. I can’t stop remembering her long bright pink nails breaking against the hard floor. We had countless arguments about them: I insisted it was against the Hospital’s policies, and she should cut them, while her response was always to roll her eyes at me. Now she’s dead.

  I shake my head and blink twice, forcing myself to focus on answering the Sergeant's question. “Yes. He’s alive.”

  With a curt nod, the strict man goes back to secure the door, issuing more orders and I have a second to breathe. Every muscle in my body aches. I haven’t slept properly for days. This the longest night of my whole life, even counting my residency. Pure adrenaline is the only thing holding me together.

  The corridor outside our room is silent. I turn my head to check if my protectors are still alive. “What happened?” I feel the forehead of the wounded man. He burns with fever. I lift my trembling hand away, worried about what that might mean.

  “Private Moretti, check the perimeter.” The Sergeant ignores my question. “If it's safe, we move. We have fifteen minutes to reach the roof.”

  The youngest soldier obeys and opens the door enough to glance outside. My heart beats a little faster, afraid of what might come in running, but Moretti nods. We're safe. For the moment, at least.

  The Sergeant moves next to me again, his hands somehow still steady enough to hold his gun. How he can still carry all that gear after running up ten flight of stairs?

  “We need to move out, Doc. Now.”

  “Okay, but he's not going to regain consciousness any time soon. We'll need to carry him. Help me pull him up.”

  Nobody moves. The Sergeant gives me a frown that says it all. Once again my mind flashes to all those people we left behind, bleeding on the floor, because I’m the priority.

  “He's part of your team,” I say to the Sergeant.

  “No. He's a friend.”

  “Then help me get him up.”

  The two last remaining soldiers approach slowly, their heavy guns too close for my comfort. Are they going to restrain me? Force me to leave? It doesn’t matter. I stand my ground.

  “Sir, orders?” the Private asks, looking at me, not at his Sergeant. There’s pity in his eyes, but it doesn’t stop him from watching my every move, ready to react if I do something rash.

  “We leave. Grab any supplies you still have, Doc, and we move out.”

  The Sergeant’s response makes my blood boil. I can’t stand this anymore. Too many people were left behind already.

  “I’m not leaving him,” I say, pointing at the man I’m trying to save. “I can’t.”

  For a brief moment, he hesitates and stares at his friend, then shakes his head. I hate that he's not a doctor, nor a civilian. To this man, the mission is everything. No risks are allowed, not even for a friend.

  “Secure the medical staff. That’s our order.”

  “There's no medical staff anymore. Just me. It's over.”

  Private Moretti places a hand on my shoulder. I can’t decide if the gesture is one of comfort or simply a way to keep me still.

  “Do you think he won’t turn? That he isn't infected?” the Sergeant asks. “Do you?”

  I bite my lip, looking at the poor man on the table. While helping us reach this room, he was bitten in the leg. The wound is deep, the bite punctures reaching down into the muscle. The bleeding has slowed. One week ago, I would’ve discharged him with six stitches, a bottle of antibiotics and a bill. Unfortunately, circumstances have changed. While he was carried inside this room by the soldiers, I had hoped his clothes would’ve been enough to protect him from transmission, but he’s already showing signs of the infection: the persistent fever, the skin around his wound yellowing rapidly and, worst of all, dark lumps covering massive sections of his body. There’s no denying it anymore.

  “No.”

  While grabbing a bag and hurriedly picking up the last of my scarce supplies, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to save someone again. What use could I be in a world where leaving a patient in need is the best course of action? Why save me if all I can do is watch people die?

  We run. The corridors are nothing but a white and red blur to me, I almost trip on the scattered bodies and nothing can block the moaning of the wounded from finding my ears. Somehow we reach the roof.

  I almost can’t believe the helicopter is still there, waiting for us. Between doctors, nurses, staff and patients, Saint Jude Hospital housed almost ten thousand people. Three hundred soldiers were sen
t to keep them safe. Only five people were leaving alive.

  As we gain altitude, I look down at the city. There is no light, only fires and chaos. We leave all of it behind, heading north and towards what I hope is salvation. I still cling to the hope someone will find a way to fix everything. It’s the only thing stopping me from losing my mind.

  Moretti gives me a short nod. “I’m Tom, by the way. Thanks for trying to save him. It meant a lot.”

  I don't answer; there's no way what I’ve just done deserves any kind of praise. Instead, I turn to the pilot seat, and watch the Sergeant speak with someone on the radio. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but is a relief to know someone is responding.

  The helicopter shakes for a second or two, with a thundering sound that has nothing to do with the rain.

  “Holy shit!” Private Jones says, his eyes on the horizon.

  I follow his gaze and my mouth opens. There's a sun in the night sky. A bright light quickly expands then disappears. Two more explosions follow, and I realize, with horror, the target was the city we left behind. My city. My home, for thirty years.

  Moretti kisses the cross hanging around his neck, as if any deity would help anyone right now.

  The pilot does his best to keep the aircraft steady, but my head spins anyway. The crushing reality of civilization burning is too much for me and I turn to vomit outside the open door. I clean my mouth with my white coat, regretting it immediately after. This is my only coat left.

  Eventually, the Sergeant stops talking on the radio, leaving the five of us only listening to the helicopter’s metallic noises. The sky is still alight with the fires coming from the city and the moon hides behind clouds. The wind on my face helps with the dizziness, but does nothing for my headache.

  Exhaustion finally wins the battle against adrenaline. This is the first time I can close my eyes without fearing for my life, but my mind is far from calm. I dream of an injured man begging me to help him, his bloody hands reaching out. As soon I approach the table, he screams, thrashes and tries to bite me. I wake up, breathing rapidly, my chest burning.