Survivor Song

by Paul Tremblay

  Ramola says, “You don’t get it because they’re not zombies. Both of you need to stop discussing the victims as such. They’re people infected with a virus that interferes with communication between brain cells, shutting down inhibitions, causing extreme aggression, confusion, terrible hallucinations.”

  Natalie says, “I read about some rabies patients, when they get toward the end, they experience moments of lucidity. Almost like a remission, and they’re who they were again, but only for a short time. Maybe that’s what happened with the car guy. He was gone, but then he came back to himself, and he tried to drive somewhere for help, and went away again, lost in his own malfunctioning brain. It’s fucking horrible.”

  Luis says, “Be right back,” returns his feet to the pedals, and zooms off. About fifty feet ahead, he brakes and hops off his bike in one athletic motion. At the same time, a furry dark shape launches from the brush. Luis backs away, reaches behind his head, and pulls the bat out of his backpack as though pulling a sword from a scabbard.

  A large raccoon, with its telltale burglar’s uniform and black mask, spastically scrambles over the bike’s metal frame, hissing and barking. Luis bludgeons the creature with four quick, compact swings.

  Ramola stops walking. Natalie, unfazed, continues marching forward.

  “Natalie, shouldn’t we wait here a moment?”

  “Machine’s moving. Can’t stop it. Too hard to start again.”

  Luis belatedly covers his mouth with the bandanna as he watches the motionless animal. He gives it a nudge with the bat and quickly backs away. The raccoon doesn’t react. He edges the bat’s barrel underneath the creature and flings its body toward the side of the road. Muttering to himself (Ramola can’t be sure, but she thinks she hears him say, “Sorry, fella.”), it takes him two more tries before the raccoon is returned to the brush, a shadow sunken in the leaves and tall grass. Luis wiggles his backpack free, removes a can of disinfectant, and sprays the bike frame, his bat, his hands, the tops of his shoes. Next, he pulls out a plastic canister of wipes and cleans the bat and bike. By the time both are sanitized to his satisfaction, Natalie and Ramola catch up to him.

  Cleaning items returned, he re-shoulders the pack, sheathes the bat, pulls the bandanna down, and says, “I, uh, saw it moving in the grass.” Hand gestures mimic the animal’s approach. His voice is hushed and not in any way self-congratulatory. He avoids eye contact, acting sheepish and embarrassed. Ramola wonders how much different a recounting of the event would be for Josh.

  Natalie arcs around Luis and the inkblot puddle of the raccoon’s blood. “What are you gonna do when a rabid elephant comes at us?” Natalie giggles and continues walking.

  Luis doesn’t have an answer. He climbs onto his bike and rides next to Natalie, scanning the brush and perimeter of the state park to their right. Ramola trails a step or two behind. Natalie’s breathing is heavy and openmouthed. No one talks.

  They walk and they walk. Wind skitters leaves across their path. Tree branches shake and rattle. Birdcalls and the imposter-owl hoots of mourning doves echo; so too the icy, faraway cries and howls of coyotes.

  The road ahead is dotted with dead animals; two rabbits, gored but not consumed, another raccoon (a juvenile judging by its size), and a fox. The fox lies on its side in the opposite lane, orange-red furry back to them as they approach, fluffy tail between its legs, no visible injuries or traumas. It could be asleep, readying a surprise pounce, living up to its trickster reputation.

  Ramola is not religious or spiritual and rightly scoffs at the notion of things happening for a reason. Her faith is placed within the fragile hands of humanity’s capacity for kindness and service. However, given her childhood obsession with the fox, it’s difficult not to divine nihilistic meaning from the dead animal or view it as a portent of terrible things to come. Ramola has an urge to carry the beautiful creature into the forest, lay it to rest at the base of a tree, and cover it with leaves and pine needles. Part of her wants to transport it elsewhere, to where there is no sickness. As they pass the fox, Ramola turns and walks backward to fully view its front. Paws are held tight at its midsection, the snout tucked into its chest, and eyes clenched shut as though it can no longer bear to see. Ramola spins back, her gaze returning to Natalie and the winding road through the forest ahead, where all manner of tooth and fang await. In her mind she briefly returns to her childhood bedroom in South Shields, this animal with its still-vibrant, playful, glowing coat is sprawled across her bed, her shabby stuffed foxes (imposters; pale, ugly ducklings by comparison) posed around it in respectful vigil. As a young child, she insisted her parents repeatedly read her favorite Grimms’ fairy tale “The Wedding of Mrs. Fox.” Her dad used funny voices and was careful to linger on each word, never rushing through, keeping to a rhythm that would lull her to sleep. Her mum often recited the tale by heart, she’d read it so often, and would test and pique her persnickety daughter with dark and goofy ad-libs to the story. Like Mrs. Fox, Ramola professed that when older she would reject all suitors who weren’t wearing red trousers or didn’t have a pointed face. Lines from the tale run through her head now: “She is sitting in her room, Moaning in her gloom, Weeping her little eyes quite red, Because old Mr. Fox is dead.”

  Natalie eerily echoes the finishing line, swapping genders, mumbling, “Poor Mrs. Fox is dead.”

  No ambulances or cars pass them. There aren’t even any sirens bleating in the distance.

  Ramola checks her watch again. They’ve been walking for sixteen minutes. Josh should be at the clinic by now.

  A mint-green Borderland State Park sign is visible about two hundred paces ahead. The main entrance is on the other, western side of the park. This sign marks an alternate entrance and a small, corner dirt lot in which people who purchased a yearly pass are allowed to park. Two trails lead away from the lot. Bob’s Trail is thin, winding, its path veined with tree roots and glacial boulders shrouded by the forest canopy. The other trail has no name and is a two-lane dirt access road, which hikers and bikers are allowed to traverse; a padlocked wooden gate prohibits the public from driving into the heart of the park. Abutting the lot is an intersection. Lincoln Street and Allen Road spoke off in their easterly and westerly directions. Beyond the intersection, houses are again perched along Bay Road.

  Luis says, “Josh is taking his sweet-ass time.”

  Natalie coughs. It’s a dry, painful sound, full of dust, and after, she has difficulty catching her breath.

  Ramola says, “You’re pushing yourself too hard. Let’s take a break. A short one.”

  Natalie says, “I’m fine. I mean, my boobs hurt and my back kills and my hips are pulling apart. But I’m good.” She coughs again, then growls, as though she might scare the coughs away.

  Luis rides a handful of paces ahead of Natalie, spins out the bike in a neat little move so that he blocks her path and is turned to face her. He says, “I’m a dumbass. Sorry, I got water to spare.” He offers game-show display hands in front of the bottles hanging over his chest. “Choose wisely.”

  Ramola, without thinking, says, “Yes, you’ll be no good to anyone if you get dehydrated, least of all yourself or your child. You need to drink.”

  Natalie comes to an abrupt halt and shouts, “Do I? You think so?” Her teeth are gritted, eyes wild; a look of unadulterated anger. During their university days Ramola mockingly delighted, documented, and cheered sightings of Angry Nats, such appearances generally reserved for unreasonable professors, rude bar patrons, and man-boy twits who insisted Natalie could not turn down having a drink in their company.

  As Natalie holds her in a stare, Ramola recognizes the look as not necessarily one of anger, or solely of anger, but one of betrayal and resignation. Natalie blinks rapidly, as though she might start crying. She turns so her back is to Luis, and says, “Rams?” like a question. She bends her left arm and winces.

  “Are you okay?” Luis asks.

  Whether or not Natalie has succumbed to infection, it’s
clear she fears having a hydrophobic reaction to water. A high temperature and flu-like symptoms, for the time being, doesn’t have to equate to infection and could be vaccination side effects. Hydrophobia is as classic and telling a symptom as foaming around the mouth.

  Ramola rubs her friend’s right shoulder and considers whispering, We need to know, which would feel selfish in a way she cannot explain or abide. She instead whispers, “It might be okay.” Can it still be a lie even if it is not a declarative statement?

  Natalie says, “It won’t.”

  “You need to try.” Ramola wishes she had something better to say, something with more resolve and more hope.

  Natalie closes her eyes, shakes her head, and coughs. “Fucking ow.” She shrugs Ramola’s hand off her shoulder and turns to face Luis. She says, “Hey, guy, I can’t wait to drink the delicious neck water you got there. Splash that shit over here.”

  Ramola walks over to Luis, who is totally confused, sitting on his bike, frozen in place. She says, “May I,” and sets to removing one of the water bottles from the cord around his neck. “These are in fact filled with water, I presume. Drinkable water.”

  “Yeah.” Luis lets Ramola untie one of the bottles. “Filled them this morning.”

  “Did you fill them with love in your heart?” Natalie is freaking out. Tearful begging and pleading would be less disturbing than her desperate humor and the low-wave frequency of panic amping in her voice. Natalie adds, “Make sure you pick the one that doesn’t have rabid raccoon guts on it. That’s not my thing.”

  “I’m choosing a clean one.” Ramola frees a bottle, unscrews the lid, and takes a quick sip. The water is cooler than she expects. It has that hard taste of water having been in a plastic bottle but is also undeniably refreshing. Her body craves more but she will wait.

  Natalie says, “Is this filtered water? Tap water? Brockton’s kind of a big city. Do you know the nitrate levels? Do you have the city’s water report handy? I’m drinking for two and all that.”

  Ramola faces Natalie with the bottle cradled against her chest, small hands wrapped closer to the top of the bottle, attempting to obscure the view of the water line. She says, “The water tastes fine.”

  “You can taste lead, nitrates, sulfates, and all the other –ates?”

  Natalie is only a few steps away from Ramola. “Yes, I’m a doctor.” She wills Natalie to look at her face and not the bottle.

  A wry smile falters and flickers away. “You’re not a water doctor.”

  Ramola wanders to Natalie’s right side instead of camping directly in front of her. Still gripping the bottle in both hands, she slowly extends it to Natalie.

  “Fine. But this is just going to make me have to pee on the side of the road again.” Natalie reaches for the bottle with her right hand, a hand that is shaking. She drops her hand to her side. “Sorry, I guess I’m a little shaky from the walk.”

  “You’ve had a day,” Ramola says, being her friend’s agreeable chorus.

  Natalie reaches for the bottle again. Shakes become tremors as her hand gets closer to the bottle. A high-pitched whine leaks through her lips, apparently involuntary, judging by Natalie’s shocked expression.

  Ramola steps closer and guides Natalie’s hand to the bottle. Natalie closes her eyes, but it doesn’t prevent the tremors from spreading into her arm, shoulders, and head. She jerks her hand away. Water spills, slapping on the pavement at their feet, but Ramola keeps hold of the bottle.

  Natalie, out of breath, says, “I—I can’t.”

  Ramola says, “Let me help. It’s all right. You’re exhausted. Dehydrated.” She employs the same tone of voice she uses with her sickest patients. “Relax. Breathe.” Ramola attempts to dampen her inner emotional turmoil by imagining what she needs to do and say next as a clinical list of instructions and procedures handwritten in black marker and in her own precise script on a large whiteboard; a stress technique she adopted during residency.

  She tells Natalie to breathe and to leave her arms by her side while lifting the bottle up to Natalie’s face.

  “It fucking smells awful. Can’t you smell it?” Natalie’s tremors have not lessened. Her eyes remain closed and she pinches her nose shut, a terrified child prepping to jump into water over her head as callous adults goad her with mocking you’re-a-big-girl platitudes.

  Luis suggests drinking from a different bottle, but he trails off, the words disintegrating into meaninglessness.

  Ramola reads from the list on her mental whiteboard, calmly directing Natalie to tilt her head down and then open her mouth.

  Natalie’s quivering lips part. Ramola tips the bottle. Water runs into Natalie’s mouth. Ramola pulls the bottle away. Natalie’s eyes pop open and her cheeks distend. She swallows and her face scrunches, twisting and collapsing into itself, an expression of pure disgust, as though she were forced to consume the foulest matter. She turns away, gasps, and coughs, which is still, somehow, a dry, brittle sound, like snapping sticks. When she spins back and sees the water bottle, Natalie retches and gags.

  When finally able to speak, she says, “Get that shit away from me. Why’d you make me?” Natalie is bent over as far as her belly will allow, her hands on her thighs, and loose hair hanging in front of her face.

  Ramola darts to Luis and hands him the bottle, the water agitating and spilling at its rough treatment. She goes back to Natalie and rubs the base of her neck and between her shoulder blades with her own shaking hand. She has returned from her clinical mental space without any clue of what to do next. But there is a definitive diagnosis. The undeniable expression of the oddest symptom of rabies, hydrophobia, means the virus has passed through Natalie’s brain barrier. Either the vaccine was not effective against the new, more virulent strain or, more likely, it was not administered in time. Natalie is infected. There is no longer any doubt, just as there is no cure. The virus is one hundred percent fatal.

  Ramola alternates hushing her friend and saying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry . . .”

  Natalie abruptly stands up straight, wiping her eyes and brushing the hair out of her face. She exhales and says, “Stop being sorry. It’s not your fault.”

  Luis is sitting on his bike, holding the bottle and sniffing its contents. When he notices Natalie watching him, he dumps the water out and tosses the bottle toward the road’s shoulder. It comes up short, bouncing and clattering against the pavement, drumming out hard but hollow percussive notes.

  Natalie says, “I didn’t tell you about the first zombie I saw. It was—what, not even three hours ago?—he came into my house, killed my husband, and bit my arm. I got vaccinated, but looks like that happened too late.” She’s calm, composed, as though relieved the truth, as awful and final as it is, has finally been revealed. “Can I have a couple of those cleaning wipes?”

  Luis digs through his pack and pulls out white cloths, one after the other, a magician performing the endless-kerchiefs gag. He asks, “How much time before—?”

  Natalie cleans her hands and says, “Before what?” She waits for Luis to finish for her. He doesn’t. She adds, “I don’t know. Do we know?” She doesn’t pause here and instead answers her own question. “Another hour? Maybe two? Delirium and hallucinations first, right? But how will I know they’re hallucinations when I’m having them?”

  Luis adds, “And the baby?”

  Natalie says, “The virus goes up nerves directly to the brain, doesn’t travel in the bloodstream. No one knows for sure, but the baby could be okay, not infected. Right, Rams?”

  Ramola answers, “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “So we really need to get you to the clinic,” Luis says. “Where the fuck is Josh? I should’ve gone . . .” He takes out his cell phone, attempts contact.

  Natalie says, her admirable if not eerie calm evaporated, “If we get my kid delivered and she’s okay, who’s going to raise her? Who’s going to be her mom?” She coughs, then looks around wildly as though the new mom might emerge from the woods.
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  Ramola says, “You’ll always be her mom,” which feels like the worst thing to say as soon as it’s out of her mouth. But what could possibly be the best thing to say?

  “My parents are too old, and even if they weren’t . . . No. Just no. No way. You know. I don’t have to tell you that. And I don’t want her with Paul’s dad, and I don’t want her with either of his siblings. They’re both total messes. But I don’t want her with random strangers either.” She covers her face with both hands, issues a wavering sigh, and then blurts out, “Will you do it, Rams?” She takes her hands away, exposing her eyes, which are Mars-the-angry-planet red, and she blinks a desperate code. “Will you adopt my kid?”

  Ramola stammers, the question itself is another virus shutting down her brain. “Oh, well, I’m not—I don’t know if—”

  Natalie grabs Ramola’s hand. Her skin is damp and on fire. “I know it’s not fair of me to ask. Not now. None of this is fucking fair. Is it? And it probably won’t come to that, as we’re all going to fucking die so yay and none of this will matter. But it does matter, right? Some of this has to matter. Doesn’t it? I’m sorry, Rams, but will you do this for me? I know this is a big fucking ask. The biggest. But you have to do this for me. Please, Rams. If you say yes, it’ll get me through this. I promise I’ll get through this. All the way to the end.”

  Ramola hesitates—there is no way she can answer with No, but I’ll make sure your child is placed with a good family even if she wants to—then says, “Yes.” At this moment she would’ve said yes if Natalie asked her to cut off her own head, but she regrets it as soon as it’s out of her mouth. This “yes” feels like the heaviest, saddest word she has ever spoken. She repeats her answer, trying and failing to make it sound like an affirmation.

  Natalie repeatedly says, “Thank you” and “I love you.” She releases Ramola’s hand and retrieves her phone from a sweatshirt pocket. Her birding fingers hover indecisively over the screen until one finger pecks at a button. She nearly shouts, “This is Natalie Larsen of 60 Pinewood Road of Stoughton, Mass. I am of sound mind, and this is, um, my last will and testament, or whatever I’m supposed to say to make this legally official. It is my wish—no—I want, I demand Dr. Ramola Sherman of Neponset Street, Canton, have sole custody of my soon-to-be born child.” She pauses and scans the others. “I have, um, two people here with me. Witnesses of my legal declaration. They’re going to say their names.”