Survivor Song

by Paul Tremblay

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I got to my car as quickly as I could and I called 911 a bunch of times but I wasn’t getting through. I’d already heard earlier that Brockton Hospital was closed so I started driving toward Canton. It took me three tries before my call went through to you. So, wait, how long is all that?”

  “Let’s say that you were bitten at approximately 11:30.” Ramola looks at the clock on the dashboard. It’s 11:56.

  “How long before it’s too late for me?”

  “I’m not sure. No one is. We’ll get you treated as soon as—”

  “You must know something. Tell me.”

  “All we know for sure is that the usual timeline of infection has been greatly accelerated. No longer weeks or days. The CDC reports that infection is occurring within a matter of hours—”

  “But . . .”

  “I didn’t say ‘but.’”

  “You were going to.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Rams! You have to tell me everything. What else do you know? What else have you heard?”

  “I know of one patient who reportedly presented symptoms within an hour of exposure—”

  “Fuck.”

  “But that quoted timeline wasn’t corroborated. I don’t know where she was bitten or how she was exposed or how far the virus had to travel within the nervous system to pass into her brain. The time of symptoms onset is dependent upon how close to the head the bite or exposure site is.” Upon finishing she regrets allowing Natalie to talk her into sharing hearsay from a harried text exchange. How does that maybe-information help Natalie? She needs to be making better decisions than that.

  Natalie says, “Please hurry.”

  “We’re not far away now.”

  A few hundred yards ahead is the Neponset Street rotary, which passes over the Route 1 commercial highway. There are two state police cars parked at the entrance to the rotary, their blue lights flashing. Two officers standing adjacent to their vehicles are dressed in riot gear and carry automatic weapons. They hold up their hands, motioning the SUV to stop.

  “Goddammit, we don’t have fucking time for this.” Natalie continues ranting and swearing as Ramola stops in the mouth of the rotary. She opens her window.

  The officers slowly approach, flanking the SUV. The barrels of their weapons are pointed at the ground but neither removes a hand from the gun.

  “Ma’am, I need to ask where you’re going. We’re under federal quarantine and the roads are to be used in the event of an emergency only.” A white respirator covering the lower half of his face muffles his voice. According to emailed procedures Ramola received the previous evening from the infectious disease specialists and chief medical officer at Norwood Hospital, the N95s were to be distributed and fit-tested only to medical personnel identified as being at the highest risk to exposure. What the police officer is wearing is more likely a painter’s mask picked up at the Home Depot about a mile down Route 1 South. As nervous as the automatic weapon makes Ramola, she’s more bothered by the mask, which doesn’t bode well regarding the clarity of communication between local government agencies and emergency-responder groups.

  Natalie shouts, “We’re going to the hospital! I’m injured and wicked pregnant. Can we go now, please?”

  The officer at the window attempts to respond, but Ramola politely interrupts him. “Excuse me, Officer, I’m Dr. Ramola Sherman”—she pushes her medical ID badge toward him—“I’m taking my friend to Norwood Hospital. She’s more than eight months pregnant and was bitten by an infected man approximately thirty minutes ago. She needs immediate medical attention. May we pass through?”

  The officer blinks rapidly as though having a difficult time processing the information and the dire implications. “Yeah, okay, Doctor. Head to the emergency-room entrance on Washington Street. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can take either Washington or Broadway to get there, but you can only use the emergency entrance. All other entrances have been closed.” He steps back, says some sort of code into his two-way radio attached to his chest harness, and waves his arm as though there’s traffic behind them waiting for the go-through signal.

  “Thank you, Officer.” Ramola eases off the brake and they creep forward. “Can you call ahead, give them my name, Dr. Ramola Sherman, and tell them to expect us?”

  Natalie groans and whisper-shouts, “Just go, come on, let’s go!”

  “I will but I’m not sure there will be anyone available to greet you.”

  Ramola accelerates onto the rotary. Three more on-ramps, the remaining points on a compass, are similarly roadblocked by state police. Unlike eerily empty I-95, there is traffic below the overpass on Route 1, its double lanes a glorified path between car dealerships, box stores, strip malls, and themed restaurants. As they pass the on-ramp to their right, cars queue from the highway’s southbound lanes.

  Natalie says, “You’re not stopping again—”

  “I’m not stopping.”

  Officers wearing the same painters’ masks wave the SUV through the rotary’s west exit and onto Nahatan Street. They pass a warehouse on their right and an apartment complex on their left, a cluster of two-story brick buildings squatting around a three-quarters-full parking lot. Ramola does a double take as someone darts through the lot and disappears among the buildings.

  Natalie asks, “How long do you think it’ll take to get me in, get me seen? The rinky-dink hospital is probably fucking jammed.”

  “I can’t say for sure, but I’m confident we’ll get you in quickly. It won’t be anything like a normal emergency room with check-in and then sit and wait, and all that. There is extra staff and there will be a triage set up outside the emergency-room entrance to help with patient screening.”

  “I don’t doubt you, but how do you know this?”

  “I received the hospital’s emergency-response information sheet last evening. I was scheduled to report there tomorrow morning.”

  “Lucky you get to go in early for Take Rabies-Infected Preggo to Work Day. It’s going to be a shit show when we get there. I know it is.”

  “I’ll personally escort you through the shit show.”

  “I’d hug you with my bitey arm if I could.”

  Ramola reaches across the center console and squeezes Natalie’s thigh. Natalie covers her mouth with the back of her right hand, still clutching her cell phone. She says, “I-I was going to check my phone for a text from Paul,” and cries silently.

  They motor past four blocks of tree-lined streets and small Cape houses. The crowded residential area gives way to a shopping plaza. Its sprawling parking lot is vacant but for a dusting of cars. A portable traffic message board sign and trailer squats in the plaza’s main entrance. The rectangular display message, in big yellow letters proclaims:

  ENTER HOSP VIA WASH ST EMERG ENTRANCE ONLY

  Across from the plaza are the Norwood fire and police stations, which marks the eastern border of downtown Norwood. Ahead is a set of lights that normally rotates through the green-yellow-red spectrum, and is instead flashing yellow; proceed with caution. There are no police directing traffic. There is a stopped car in front of them that has yet to pass below the commuter-rail overpass. It is part of a growing line of vehicles at least three blocks long.

  Natalie says, “Fucking great. What are we going to do? We’re still like a half mile away, right? Is there another way we can go? Are they blocking off other routes? We’re never going to get there. What if they already closed the hospital? It’s overrun. It’s fucking overrun. I know it is.”

  Ramola attempts to assuage Natalie by saying, “We don’t know that. We’re still moving. We’ll get there.” She’s feeling similarly panicked. She doesn’t know the answers to Natalie’s more-than-reasonable questions.

  Traffic creeps ahead. Natalie taps the passenger window frame with her hand and chants a “Come on, come on” mantra.

  Ramola squeezes the steering w
heel and she needs to say something, anything, to keep one or both of them from completely freaking out. “How are you feeling? Any change?”

  Natalie shakes her head and swears under her breath. She turns on the radio and an AM Boston news station blares at high volume. She says, “We should try the phone. Who can we call at the hospital? You must know who’s in charge. Let’s call them, and give them your name, ask them what to do, but yeah, we probably can’t call because the phones are still fucked, like we’re all fucked.”

  Natalie talks fast and her voice schizophrenically alternates between a low, almost distracted grumble and a manic, high-pitched incredulity. Granted, the circumstances are more than a little extraordinary, but in all the years Ramola has known Natalie, she has never sounded or acted like this. Has the virus already passed into her brain? Could it possibly work that quickly?

  Natalie rolls down the window and yells, “Come on, let’s go. Drive, you assholes, drive!” She is breathing heavily and her cheeks are flushed red.

  Ramola says, “Please, Natalie. You need to try to remain as calm as you can.” She thinks about asking if Natalie’s blood pressure has been normal throughout her pregnancy, but for the moment it’s probably best not to bring focus to other potential ailments. “Let’s listen to the radio in case there is new information or instructions.”

  Natalie closes the window and resumes her tapping on the doorframe. The radio announcer repeats the quarantine protocol and teases an updated listing of emergency shelters and hospitals to be read in two minutes.

  They roll slowly between granite walls and then from under the shadow of the rail overpass. Nahatan Street splits and expands into two lanes. Both lanes are full of cars, crawling uphill, into the heart of Norwood Center, toward Washington Street. Perched at the top of the hill is the old stone-and-mortar Unitarian church, the spire’s gray shingles reaching into the grayer midday sky.

  “Come on, come on.”

  Ramola says, “A few more cars and we can turn left on Broadway. Looks like everyone else is going to Washington Street, but the officer said we could—”

  An engine revs and the car behind them lunges into the opposite lane. It roars past their SUV and three other cars ahead of them and turns sharply onto Broadway. Ice broken, other cars from behind buzz into the opposite lane and pass them on the left.

  “Go, Rams, you have to go. Now!”

  “I am. I’m trying.” Ramola edges out into the lane cautiously and a continuous blur of cars emerge from the darkness of the overpass and swerve as they pass.

  “Go, go now!”

  Ramola spies what she hopes is enough of an opening in the passing traffic and darts into the opposite lane, cutting someone off. The grille and hood of a red, full-sized SUV fills her rearview mirror. Its blaring horn reverberates, but not as loudly as Natalie screaming at them to fuck off.

  They turn left, onto Broadway. The other cars that passed them have accelerated on the open road ahead. There isn’t a procession of stopped traffic like there is on Washington Street. Ramola says, “Okay, okay, we’re almost there.” They speed past a McDonald’s and a large liquor store on their left. As she takes in the landmarks and spins through quick time-and-distance calculations to the hospital, a black sedan spills into their lane from a side street on their right. Ramola jerks their SUV into the opposite lane, barely managing to avoid a collision.

  Two-family homes and small businesses whiz by on the periphery for three blocks but ahead is another dreaded sea of brake lights. They are quickly pinned within the bottleneck.

  Natalie looses another expletive-filled tirade.

  Ramola says, “We’re close. We’re so close,” which she knows sounds less reassuring and more like a lament of defeat. She cranes her head in an attempt to peer over and around the gridlock. This isn’t the slow but steady creep of traffic in the town center; no one is moving. Ahead in the opposite lane are the flashing blue lights from a parked police motorcycle.

  They can’t wait for the traffic to magically clear. However, their car is almost parallel to a ubiquitous Dunkin Donuts to their right. Ramola says, “Can you walk?”

  “Walk?”

  “We’re only two blocks away.”

  Natalie nods and adjusts the position of her injured arm. “I can definitely walk. Are we leaving the car here?”

  “Not here here.” Out of force of habit, Ramola flicks on her right directional for a moment but then shuts it off, afraid of starting another rush of cars from behind that would fill the coffee shop’s small parking lot, its entrance still more than ten meters away. She turns into a hard right. There’s a loud thump and a jostling jolt as the squealing tires climb over the elevated sidewalk curb.

  “Jesus, Rams? What are you doing?”

  “Sorry, sorry. Parking at the Dunks.” Her use of local slang for the doughnut shop is intentionally awkward, as she hopes to elicit, if not a laugh, at least a smirk. She slaloms past a thin metal pole and No Parking sign and navigates the sidewalk for twenty or so feet before turning into the square, half-full parking lot, choosing an empty spot closest to the entrance/exit.

  “You stay put until I can help you out of your seat.” Ramola opens her door and bounces out of the vehicle before Natalie has the opportunity to argue with her. The world outside their SUV is cacophony and cool air. Ramola was right to worry about setting off a mad rush as the cars behind her joust for space on the sidewalk and in the lot. Determined and with her head down, she dashes around the back to the passenger side, opens the rear door, and retrieves their two bags, slinging them both over her right shoulder. Natalie opens her door, cell phone still clutched tightly in her right hand, and Ramola helps her out of the car and into a standing position.

  “You can do this.” She hopes the affirmation is prophecy. Natalie is more than a half foot taller and likely fifty pounds heavier; if she is going to fall, there isn’t a lot that Ramola can do to keep her upright.

  Ramola coaxes Natalie into depositing the cell phone into her bag. With her newly unencumbered hand, Natalie holds her injured arm out in front as though carrying an invisible shield. Ramola loops her left arm through Natalie’s right.

  Instead of walking through the main part of the lot, which is now full of cars jockeying for spots, they change course and work their way past the front grille of their SUV. They follow a thinning path along the lot’s perimeter, shimmying single-file between cars and a chain-link fence, and to the sidewalk.

  They link arms again and Ramola asks Natalie how she is doing.

  “We’re good.”

  Crowd noise swells, although not the buzz that greets one entering a sporting event or concert that’s generally accompanied by a vibe of euphoric giddiness at having peacefully gathered to share a pleasant, if not fleeting, experience, while winking at potential dangers associated with the ludicrous number of people amassed. There’s an altogether different feel within this throng of fear-fueled and panicked hundreds racing to Norwood Hospital, one that raises gooseflesh and fills Ramola with the urge to flee screaming.

  People abandon their vehicles in the middle of the street. Others lean and pound on their ineffectual horns and shout through cracked-open windows. They plead and they are confused and angry and afraid. Desperation and realization lurk within their collective voices. They don’t understand why or how this is happening; why it is that their personal emergency is not more important than anyone else’s; why no one is out here helping them.

  Worried slinging the overnight bags over her shoulder might’ve knocked loose her medical ID badge, Ramola double- and triple-checks it is still affixed to her chest and is plainly visible. Finding it in place, she wonders if someone might snatch it from her, thinking they could somehow use it to gain entrance into the hospital.

  There are sirens in the distance, approaching from somewhere behind the standstill traffic. Cars hop over curbs and beach themselves on the congested sidewalk. Clusters of people break like cascading waves around the sputtering
mechanical carcasses. Everyone moves in pairs or packs, molecules bonded together by held hands, by arms entwined or draped around shoulders. The rhythms of their individual gaits are not in tune and they inefficiently half walk/half jog forward toward a hope they cannot see.

  Ramola holds on to Natalie’s wrist as they trudge forward. There is enough space for them to walk side by side. Ramola jogs two steps for every four walked to keep pace with Natalie, who walks faster and with longer strides despite her increased girth and accompanying waddle. They follow Broadway and cross Guild Street, weaving between stopped cars and passing an elderly couple. The hunched gentleman walks erratically and is draped in a blue-and-white fleece blanket. His wife taps his shoulder and repeats his name as though it were an unanswerable question.

  Instead of continuing along Broadway, which traces the boundary of the medical campus and leads eventually to the emergency-room entrance, Ramola darts in front of Natalie and leads her through a quick mart and gas station adjacent to the hospital’s physical plant and then into the outpatient parking lot. Here they encounter steel crowd barriers plastered with arrow signs pointing left and handwritten signs that read: Rabies exposure patients via emergency entrance only. A small group of police and other security personnel stand by the barriers and wave Ramola and Natalie away from the outpatient entrance, which is directly across the lot.