Survivor Song

by Paul Tremblay

  “How did Natalie get away?”

  “She fought him off with a knife. She thinks she might’ve killed him.”

  Dr. Awolesi stands in the hallway. The radio in her front coat pocket crackles and she pauses to listen, but does not retrieve the radio or respond. She pulls another handheld radio device from inside her coat. “There are only two channels. One is open to all staff and security personnel. Channel two is direct to me and other members of the coordination center. You can switch channels with this knob up top. And you press this button to speak.”

  Ramola accepts the radio, turns it over and back, inspecting it as though she is well familiar with its circuitry.

  Dr. Awolesi says, “There was another option for Natalie and her baby: sending her to Ames Medical Clinic, which is where pregnancy services for Norfolk County are currently being routed. Our infectious disease specialist ultimately decided against moving Natalie, worried the risk of introducing the virus within that clinic’s population is too great. I disagreed, and if we aren’t able to perform the cesarean section within the hour, and if she remains symptom-free, I might stick you both in an ambulance and send you there.”

  Ramola says, “We had the radio on and didn’t hear about the Ames Clinic or the cessation of services within this or any other hospital.”

  Dr. Awolesi doesn’t respond but holds Ramola in her gaze.

  Ramola says, “I’m not saying it’s your or anyone else’s fault, of course. I’m only telling you—”

  “Communication between government and emergency-response agencies has been less than ideal. Everything has been happening so rapidly, but the lack of clear communication with the public has been making the coordinated efforts less efficient, shall we say. Up until the last twelve or so hours, the vast majority of the people arriving here were not infected, had not been exposed, and were sent home. Because of what they’re reading online we were inundated with people who believe the virus is airborne, who believe this is some kind of Hollywood zombie apocalypse, thinking their headaches and colds are proof of infection, or that they caught it because their dog sneezed on them. I’m not making that last one up.”

  “I’m sure you’re not.”

  “Most of the information being broadcast has been focused on fighting general misinformation about the virus and the response, and it’s almost impossible to keep up.

  “While the speed with which this virus infects is terrifying, it shouldn’t prevent us from containing it. If anything, given how quickly people succumb to the virus, if we can maintain a proper quarantine and isolation, we should be able to contain the outbreak. But that presumes people do not panic, that correct information and instruction are disseminated efficiently to the public, that the federal government follows the CDC’s recommendation to be proactive with vaccine, and not reactive. Animal culls and other reactive rabies approaches are not nearly as effective as vaccinating populations prior to infection. We should be offering prophylaxis to whoever comes through these doors.”

  “Do we have enough vaccine to do that?”

  “No, we don’t. We’re almost out, in fact. And to my knowledge the federal government has yet to enact an emergency vaccine-production protocol. I am going to send someone up to give you a pre-exposure dose, however.”

  “Save it for someone—”

  “Keeping staff healthy is a priority. Particularly as we’re probably an hour away from shutting the doors and quarantining the building. Which is another reason I’m tempted to send Natalie to Ames. If the building is quarantined, she cannot be moved.”

  “Right.” Ramola nods. “Right. Well, we’ll all do our very best with what we have then.” She jumps as her radio spews a blast of static followed by a terse message in medical coding.

  “Do you have any questions, Dr. Sherman?”

  “Yes, I do. How many beds in this hospital?”

  “Officially, two hundred sixty-four.”

  “How many patients are currently in the building?”

  “We’re approaching four hundred.”

  “Where are you keeping infected patients?”

  “Third floor.”

  “Any particular department?”

  “The entire third floor.” As though anticipating the follow-up questions, Dr. Awolesi tells her given the level of violence that infected patients present, for their own safety and the safety of others, they are administered sedatives as soon as their fever spikes.

  Ramola asks, “Of those who have received the vaccine, how many have not succumbed to infection?”

  “There are upwards of fifty patients on this floor, including Natalie, being monitored for infection.”

  “Yes, but have you discharged any exposed patients, confident that the vaccine prevented infection?”

  Dr. Awolesi says, “Not nearly enough.”

  “Can I have a number?”

  “Two,” Dr. Awolesi says, and then exhales sharply. “Two. Both patients were bitten on the lower leg. The virus had the longest possible distance to travel and they received shots within thirty minutes of exposure.”

  Ramola floats unsteadily into the room, Dr. Awolesi’s words and their implications a fuzzy white noise in her head. She is not sure what to do with the radio in her hands. After everything she heard, she wants to shut it off and stomp it to pieces.

  Natalie says, “Hey, speak of the Rams. Say hi, Rams.”

  “Hi.” Ramola waves, flustered, unsure who the greeting is for. She cannot recall why Natalie wanted her phone, though remembers she did state it was for a reason other than contacting her parents.

  Natalie’s mask sags limply on the table tray. She holds the phone away from her ear and faces the screen. “That was exciting, wasn’t it? We’ll talk again later. I won’t promise, but I promise. Hey, I love you. I do. Don’t forget that.” She jabs the screen once, places the phone down on her bed. “They gave you a new toy?”

  “What? Oh yes.” She pockets the radio as though embarrassed to be holding it. “Who were you talking to?”

  “I told you. I was recording messages for my kid. Just in case I don’t make it. I feel better saying that out loud. Is that weird? I think it is, but it doesn’t feel weird.”

  “Please don’t talk like that. You’re going to beat this—”

  “Rams, your brown skin has gone whiter than mine. I’m guessing Dr. Awolesi didn’t have much in the way of good news. But listen, I’m emailing you my username and password for the app while I can. Wireless still works here at least.”

  “All right, but you don’t have to—”

  “This is fucking important to me, okay? I’m sorry, I’m not swearing at you. I’m swearing at”—Natalie waves both arms in the air—“everything. Ow.” She eases her left arm back down to the bed. “Anyway, if I die and the rest of the fucking world doesn’t, which it probably should—yeah, I’m saying that out loud too—if I go, then, fuck yeah, why not everyone else? Except you, if you want. I don’t need to take you down with me. Just everyone else.”

  “Natalie . . .”

  “I need you to make sure my kid gets to listen to my messages. And my maybe-dying wish is for you to call me Nats, please. You sound so proper when you say Natalie.” She mimics Ramola’s accent when saying “so proper.”

  “We’re going to fight, and the rest of the world isn’t going to die. Dr. Awolesi and I were in fact discussing how—how containable the virus is.”

  “Containable.”

  “Yes, that’s a word you use, isn’t it?”

  “Oh sure.”

  “Yes, well, things are darkest before the dawn.”

  “Oh, Jesus, we’re so fucked.” Natalie is smiling and appears to be on the verge of laughter. The earlier muting of her personality has swung one hundred eighty degrees into manic levels of Natalie. Is this how she is coping? Is her hyperactivity a symptom of infection?

  “Natalie.”

  “Nope.”

  “My dear Nats, is that better?”

  “
Much. Hey, did you read this list of vaccine side effects?” She waves around her vaccination information sheet. “Pain, swelling, redness at the injection site. Check. Headache. Check. Nausea, muscle aches, abdominal pain, dizziness, fever. Something to look forward to? Um, aren’t all those the symptoms of infection?”

  “Those side effects are exceedingly rare.”

  Natalie rescans the page and points to its lower half. “It says ‘rare.’ Nowhere does it say ‘exceedingly.’” She tosses the paper toward a plush visitor’s chair and before it lands, she says, “Can you get me some water? Sink water is fine.”

  Ramola goes to the bathroom, shares a despairing look with herself in the mirror, and fills a small blue plastic cup. Water dribbles over the rim as she carries it out to Natalie.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have filled it to the top.”

  “Okay. Watch me, please.” She holds the cup at an arm’s length away from her body. She glowers at it, like she wants to give it a talking-to. She brings it up to her mouth, leaving it there only an inch or so away from her lips. She lifts the cup to her nose, cocks her head, and side-eyes the water. She finally takes two small sips, and then large, greedy gulps, spilling water down her front. “Oops.”

  “What are you doing? Should I be concerned?” Despite herself, Ramola laughs softly.

  Natalie wipes her chin and neck with a corner of the bedsheet. “Testing for—what do they call it?—hydrophobia. I read all about it last week. People with rabies get freaked out by water. Like they can’t even go near it, never mind drink it.”

  “Drink-management issues aside, you don’t appear to be hydrophobic.”

  “The water tastes and smells like hospital sink water, which is to say, not good, like water that’s had pennies soaking in it, and I’m not happy my shirt is wetter than it was, but no hydrophobia.”

  “Let’s get you into a dry shirt.”

  “Shouldn’t I just change into a johnny? They’re going to prep me soon for the C-section, right?” Her two questions are contained in a single breath. She doesn’t give Ramola a chance to answer. “Wait, I have to pee first.” Natalie clambers out of bed and walks to the bathroom.

  With the bed and room newly empty, Ramola wipes her face with both hands. To prevent parting the curtains, staring out the window, while repeating the feckless mantra of What are we going to do?, she sets to searching the room for hospital gowns. She mutters instructions and observations to keep herself company. Sometimes new gowns are stacked above the dirty-linens hamper, but there are none. She opens two swinging doors of a tall, thin wardrobe locker on the wall across from the foot of the bed, which is bare but for a small stack of folded pillowcases.

  A nurse raps hard twice on the door and enters, announcing she has vaccine for Dr. Sherman. Though most of her face is obscured by a respirator, she appears to be young, likely under twenty-five years old. Ramola has been recently noticing the decreasing ages of newer staff within her clinic, or more correctly, noticing her own increasing age. Ramola asks for gowns for Natalie. Nurse Partington says she’ll ask at the nurses’ station on her way to the elevators.

  Ramola sits at the edge of the bed, removes her coat, and rolls up a sleeve. There is no chatter or banter as Nurse Partington twice tells Ramola to relax her arm, then administers the shot with a tremulous hand. Ramola holds a square of gauze against her shoulder as the nurse prepares a bandage. She wants to ask what’s going on in other areas of the hospital, what’s the morale of the staff. She fears the tightly wound, fatigued younger nurse might break apart at the questions. Or maybe it would be Ramola who would crumble in the face of the answers.

  Intent on breaking the awkward silence, Ramola asks, “Will I need a second shot in three days like Natalie?”

  “Pre-exposure vaccination follows a different course: a booster in seven days and a final one twenty-one days after that.”

  Ramola says, “Seven days.” She cannot imagine what will have happened seven hours from now, never mind seven days. Ramola thanks her and puts her coat back on. Nurse Partington nearly jogs to the door, throwing it open. She almost collides with three people sprinting down the hallway toward the nurses’ station and elevators. Nurse Partington falls in behind them and the door swings closed but doesn’t latch. There’s inarticulate shouting somewhere on their floor. Ramola estimates the source is five to ten doors down from this room. It’s a man, shouting in anger, not pain, and there’s a crash, and more hurried footfalls on the linoleum.

  Natalie emerges from the bathroom. Her eyes are red and her cheeks flushed as though she has been crying. “What’s happening?”

  A quick message bursts from Ramola’s radio: “Code Gray, third floor. Code Gray, third floor.”

  Natalie asks, “What’s Code Gray?”

  “It means a combative person.”

  A man announces over the intercom: “Paging Dr. Gray to the third floor . . .”

  Ramola says, “Same announcement. Sounds less scary for patients when broadcast over the intercom that way.”

  “Third floor? Um, sounds like there’s a combative person on our floor. We are on the second floor, right? I’m not delirious yet am I?”

  “Maybe he announced the wrong floor.”

  There’s a room-shaking crash directly above their heads. Ramola and Natalie drift toward the bed, their eyes on the ceiling as though expecting it to crack open and reveal its secrets. Ramola jumps when her radio squawks again; security personnel speaking in numerical codes with which she is unfamiliar.

  “What do you think that was?”

  Ramola can only imagine something as large as a wardrobe locker being pulled from the wall and tipped over.

  A different voice comes over the intercom. “Paging Dr. Silver to the second floor . . .”

  Natalie says, “Silver?”

  “A combative person with a weapon.”

  “Fucking great.”

  Outside their room the shouting continues. Metallic clangs and jolting thuds add to the cacophony.

  Natalie asks, “Is our door locked?”

  Ramola rushes to the door, but she opens it first, daring to peek down the hallway. From this vantage, only half of the nurses’ station is visible. A short and stout man with a long, thick beard is behind the main desk. The beard (and the distance) obscures most of his mouth but the teeth. The teeth are bared. He brandishes and swings an IV stand. He snorts and shouts as two officers circle, their stun guns drawn. Ten feet away from the desk and at the mouth of the hallway, a young woman thrashes about on the floor. She’s pinned on her stomach, a scrum of security and medical staff grapples with restraining her hands behind her back. She screams and growls, whipping her head from side to side, her long brown hair spraying in every direction. The woman looks up, hair partially obscuring her face. Ramola can see the woman’s eyes though. Her gaze locks onto Ramola and her features soften, eyebrows arching into an everyday expression of recognition, of I-see-you-and-do-I-know-you, but then her eyes roll back, showing whites, and her lips curl into an animal’s snarl, a single-minded statement of purpose. She stretches and cranes her neck, hair pasted to cheeks and chin. Her mouth opens and snaps shut, over and over, teeth clacking. Foamy drool darkens her hair, runs down her chin, pools on the linoleum.

  Ramola shuts the door, pressing her weight against it for an extra beat as the woman on the hallway floor barks and shrieks. Ramola attempts to think calmly in clinical terms; her locking the door means they are sheltering in place, which is a rational part of emergency procedure, and not a hopeless act of blind fear.

  She walks into the room and announces, “There are two infected patients on our floor but they are being tended to—what are you doing?”

  Natalie sits propped with one leg on the bed and the other on the floor. Her opened overnight bag is up against her hip. She holds a white handheld device. The tapered nose is pointed at but not touching her forehead, which is colored with a glowing red dot. A green digital display screen faces out toward Ramo
la. Natalie is using an infrared thermometer, not dissimilar from ones Ramola has used in her practice.

  Natalie says, “I’m taking my temperature again.”

  Sounds echo from the struggle outside the room. The woman in the hallway continues shrieking.

  Ramola says, “Again?”

  “I got one hundred point seven the first time.” Natalie turns the thermometer around and reads, “One hundred point five this time.” She drops the thermometer in her bag. “Shower gift. Paul got sick of me randomly zapping his forehead with it and making pew-pew sounds. I left it in this bag, like, two months ago. Forgot it was there until I saw it when I got my phone.”

  Ramola says, “You can’t go by that. Forehead scanners can be wildly inaccurate.”

  In the hallway, the woman’s shrieks abruptly cut out.

  Natalie shakes her head. “I don’t feel good. My throat hurts. And not because I’ve been yelling and crying. It’s an I’m-sick kind of throat pain. I know the difference.”

  Frenzied chatter and call-and-response on the radio. Intercom announcements plead for Dr. Gray and Dr. Silver to make their appointed rounds.

  Natalie says, “I was feeling okay but then I crashed hard in the bathroom. I got dizzy and nauseous when I stood up from the toilet. That’s why I was in there so long, splashing water on my face, leaning over the sink. I thought I was going to puke.”

  “Like I said earlier, you’re most certainly dehydrated. We really should have you hooked up to an IV to replenish your fluids.”

  “I feel hot, like I have a fever. Put your hand on my forehead. Come on. Please. You tell me I’m not hot.”

  On the floor above them, there is more banging and shaking, as though there are giants up there stomping, searching for bones to grind for their bread.

  “My hand cannot divine temperature.”

  “I’m not asking. I’m telling you to feel my forehead.” Natalie gets off the bed and walks over to Ramola.

  Using a tone reserved only for the most obstinate parents of patients, Ramola says, “Natalie, dear, I will take your temperature with a proper thermometer as soon as our floor is secured. I—”