Survivor Song

by Paul Tremblay

  “Rams. Hey, Rams!” Natalie is in the street, standing adjacent to the ambulance’s front grille. She says, “I’m right here,” as if to say, Where else should I be? As raggedy as a child’s favorite hand-sewn doll her arms are drawstrings dangling loosely at her sides. The unzipped halves of the too-small yellow sweatshirt are an open curtain for her protruding belly. Most of her hair has fallen out of her ponytail but not all, the stubborn elastic not willing to surrender when all is about lost.

  Apoplectic with fear, worry, and exasperation, three questions crowd in and issue out of Ramola all at once. “Why did you—Did you climb—What are you doing out here?”

  She says, “Sorry. I really had to pee. I almost didn’t make it. Or, I mostly made it.”

  Ramola sighs. The teens go quiet. The old man has stopped breathing.

  Natalie asks, “So how did the zombie fight go?”

  Nats

  Psst, hey, kid. I tried calling 911 like Auntie Rams said, but it’s not picking up. Same for Dr. Awolesi’s phone. I sent her a text, and I think it went through but she hasn’t answered back, which is a problem because we need a new ride. There’s heavy shit going down out there. I can’t really turn around in my seat to see without less-than-mildly excruciating pain. Oh don’t worry, it’s not you, it’s me.

  I hear Rams talking to two boys. Can you hear them?

  Sorry, I don’t know why I’m whispering. Feels like the thing to do. Hey, life lesson: if it feels like the thing to do, then do it. Trust your gut. A cliché adults say all the time. Okay, we don’t say it all the time, but we say it a lot. I mean, we’re not walking into Dunks, buying coffee, and randomly saying to the guy with a cruller, Hey, trust yer gut, like it’s the secret adult password. You know what, it might as well be the password. Not enough adults tell kids to trust themselves, trust their wee guts. My parents never said it. They only told me what not to do and what to do. Mostly the first thing. No teacher ever told me to trust your gut either. Which is stupid. No one needs to hear it more than kids do. Instead you’re told the opposite. I don’t have to tell you, right? So many of them make you do stuff you don’t want to do because of convenience or laziness or they want to take advantage of you. They’ll say you don’t know better, you don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know who you are yet. That’s a big one. And it’s such bullshit. So, listen, only you know you, and if something doesn’t feel right and you can’t explain why, who cares. Trust your gut. Team Guts. Gut trust, all the way. You’re in my gut right now, so it’s like you are already telling you to trust your gut. You are your own gut. It’s like the Inception of gut here. Okay, I’ll stop saying “gut.”

  Whoa, did you hear that? Something just banged off the back of the ambulance. Shit . . . .

  I wish I could see. No one is yelling or screaming? That’s good, right? Hold on.

  Back. I can see Rams in the other side-view mirror. Goddamn, I wish I could turn around. Maybe I should go out there too. She’s talking with one of the boys. I’m going to make this quick.

  This might sound weird—especially with the now-you deep-knee bending whenever I do these messages—but as I talk, the you I’m imagining is at least a year, maybe two years older than the you I imagined during the last recording. Wait. Do you get what I’m saying? In my head, it’s like you age with each message I record. Time doesn’t really work like that, but at the same time it does. Yeah, I’m moving time around because I can. You’re growing up right before my eyes, or my mind’s eyes. It’s kind of cool? Maybe?

  Actually it’s not cool at all. It’s horribly sad and horrible. Horribly horrible. I’m not trying to be funny. There’s no way for me to describe how brutally terrible it is your dad died in front of me, like, a little over two hours ago and that not only am I not going to be around for you, but I have, um, foreknowledge of this.

  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 wal
ks 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.’”

  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.”

  Ramola says, “We’ll get through this. We will.”

  Natalie snorts a short laugh. “Luis, how many zombies have you seen so far?”

  “Not many. We’ve put down a couple of cats—”

  Natalie laughs. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to laugh. It’s terrible. Poor Mittens and Mr. Bigglesworth.” She says the latter name in her faux British accent.

  Luis says, “White foam, walking like drunks, the whole bit, but they charged us. The second one got its head stuck in the spokes of Josh’s rear tire. We had no choice.”

  “You two are indeed heroes. Sorry, I’m being a jerk. Any non-feline zombies?”

  “A raccoon, a skunk, and two coyotes.”

  “Did you put them down too?”

  “Nah, they were mostly dead, barely moving, so we just rode away.”

  “Any people zombies?”

  There’s a pause, and then Luis talks slowly, like a sputtering engine afraid to commit to the internal combustion. “In Brockton. He was an uncle of someone we used to be friends with, but I, um . . . it was terrible and I don’t want to talk about it. And that old guy driving the car was number two. A zombie driving a car. I still can’t believe it.” He laughs, though to Ramola’s ears, it sounds forced, fake.

  His responses to Natalie’s questions came off as natural and genuine until this answer about a former friend’s uncle. Ramola flashes to her previous we-killed-a-guy-before conversation with Luis. She studies the now nervously smiling boy, one who isn’t that much older than some of her pediatric patients. Children and teens (and, of course, adults too) lie, especially when put under tremendous stress. At her job she’s become
quite proficient at sussing out hidden or obscured truths from her young patients and their parents. Ramola concludes Luis was lying earlier or is lying now, but not both. Reflecting on what Luis and Josh said and now Luis not wanting to talk about this former friend’s uncle, she can’t shake the nagging insistence the two teens spoke as though they’d killed a man prior to the outbreak. Ramola wonders if she should attempt to come up with a reason for Luis to join Josh and leave them be.

  Natalie says, “We’ve seen a whole bunch of people zombies. We even had one shooting a gun at us.”

  “Get the fuck outta here. Seriously?” Luis laughs and claps his hands together once, rides without holding the handlebars. “This timeline, man. It’s so messed up.” He pulls up his bike next to Natalie, on her left. His feet drip off of the pedals and spill onto the street. He rolls himself forward with little languid push-offs.

  With her raconteur’s verve and flair, Natalie recounts their harrowing hospital escape. She does not embellish or exaggerate while omitting their having received vaccinations. Ramola smirks at her brief but curiously strong pang of jealousy that she is not the intended audience of Natalie’s spirited retelling.

  Luis, utterly charmed and rapt, laughs and spews exclamations of disbelief. Ramola notes he doesn’t ask why they were at the hospital. He likely assumes impending birth is reason enough.

  Ramola checks for texts and keeps an eye on the road, which elongates ahead of them as though they’ve made zero progress. “Natalie, let me know if you need a break.”

  “I’m okay.” She doesn’t sound okay. Her voice has gone from froggy to desert-wanderer. Her pace is slowing and more labored, favoring her left leg.

  Luis says, “So the guy was probably not a zombie before he picked up the gun, right? Or was he? Like the old guy in the car. Was he a zombie before he got into the car? Or was he driving along somewhere and then he turned while he was driving? I don’t get it.”