The bike riders spring from their hiding spots and sprint the short distance down and across the road to the accident. They are boys likely in their late teens; one brandishes an aluminum baseball bat and the other carries a thin, sun-bleached wooden pole, almost as long as he is tall. In addition to their skateboarder-style helmets and hoodies the teenagers are wearing jeans and black high-top sneakers. Red bandannas cocoon their necks. Each has three water bottles hanging in front of his chest, dangling from a yoke of cords. The taller teen has long dark curly hair spilling out from under his helmet; the straps are unfastened and dangle on both sides of his chin and neck. The other boy’s helmet is so tightly worn as to be a carapace.
They give the sedan’s rear end and its hissing tires a wide berth. The shorter one waves to Ramola and continues to wave until she raises a hand. He gives a thumbs-up and then cups one hand around his mouth, and shouts. The other teen shouts too. Ramola rolls the window halfway down to better hear them.
“It’s okay!” and “We’re healthy!” and “We’re friendlies!” and “Yeah, friendlies!” and “We’re gonna help!” and “We got this!” and “We’re zombie experts!”
“Bloody wankers.” Ramola turns and says to Natalie, “Call 911. If you can’t get through . . .” She digs out Dr. Awolesi’s card. “Even if you do get through, call Dr. Awolesi. Or text her. Tell her where we are and we need a new ride.”
Ramola opens the ambulance door and steps down onto the street. Natalie objects, says something about taking a weapon. Ramola doesn’t respond and shuts the door.
The sedan’s rear wheels stop spinning. The teens bob and weave, approaching and then retreating from the driver’s-side door like children chasing receding ocean waves and running away when the surf surges back to shore. They engage in rapid-fire commands, insults, inanities, retorts, and it’s all so quick as to almost be of one voice.
“The driver’s some old guy.”
“Smash the window.”
“I can’t see what he’s doing. Wait a second.”
“Nah, guy. Smash it now.”
“You fucking do it then.”
“I can’t. Not with the staff.”
“What?” which is pronounced as an elongated, affected “Wut.”
“The staff is not made for window smashing.”
“What’s the staff made for? Polite tapping?”
“Don’t question the staff.”
“Are you going to say ‘the staff’ every time you refer to it?”
“The staff abides.”
Ramola interjects, “Hello, gentlemen—”
“The staff blows.”
“The staff doesn’t blow.”
“The staff is the bad.”
“You’re right. It’s the good.”
Ramola tries again. “Hey, guys?”
“You should’ve just taken one of these.” The shorter teen waves the bat over his head.
“You’re gonna have to get too close to zombies with your stumpy-ass bat. And I’ll keep ’em all at more than an arm’s length. I’ll be out of range.”
“Keep ’em all . . . at arm’s length is a great battle cry.”
Ramola shouts, “Guys! Hey! Over here!”
The teens back away from the car and stare at Ramola. They are both thin and lithe. The taller one with the long hair is a couple inches shy of six feet. His brown eyes are sunken between rounded cheeks and below thick, crayon-scribble eyebrows. The shorter teen might be only a handful of inches taller than Ramola; he’s certainly not taller than Natalie. He has sharper, more severe facial features, olive skin, and eyes so dark as to almost be black. He says, “Hey, what’s up, Doc?” He smirks and looks to his partner for a reaction or approval. The taller one flashes looks between the car and Ramola.
The Bugs Bunny quip notwithstanding, Ramola speaks before the two of them can start again, hoping her acknowledged medical status inspires gravitas. She says, “Tell me you’re not planning on assaulting the driver, who probably needs help, just like my friend and I do—”
“Yeah, okay, Doctor Who. Listen: the driver has been trying to run us down for, like, the last ten minutes.”
“He followed us for more than a mile, swerving all over the road and shit, driving after us on sidewalks. He even followed us through a couple of backyards.”
“The driver’s clearly a zombie.”
“You can’t help a zombie, Doc.”
“A zombie driving the car. Can you believe it?”
“I know, right? This timeline is glitching out.”
“So hard.”
Ramola says, “The driver may very well be infected, but he is not a zombie.” She walks between the teens and as she gets closer to the sedan one of them mumbles, “Same diff.” She crouches, peering inside the window. The driver is an elderly white man with thinning but stubborn wispy tufts of white hair. Foamy saliva bubbles around his mouth. He sways in his seat, shakes his head, and rubs his eyes with the back of his hands. His movements are herky-jerky, frames missing from stop-motion animation. When he sees Ramola, he slaps the window with open hands.
The taller teen says, “I think we have his attention.”
“Tap the window with the staff just in case we don’t.”
“Fucker.”
Ramola backs away from the car, unsure of what to do. When she first climbed out of the ambulance, she had visions of commandeering a damaged-but-not-totaled sedan and driving Natalie and the presumably injured (but hopefully not infected) driver the approximately two miles to the clinic. She can’t think of a way to get the infected man out of the car without endangering everyone, the elderly man included. She is not going to allow the teens to bash and batter him with their weapons. She cannot tell if the teens are too gleeful at the prospect of violence or too clueless to fully appreciate the situation into which they’ve inserted themselves. Likely a combination of both, as the flame of violence is generally fueled by ignorance. Should they instead barricade the old man into the vehicle somehow, particularly if they are forced to start down the road on foot? They would also have to slash the tires to
