Ramola briefly explains to the teens that her friend Natalie is pregnant, the baby is due in a matter of days, and they need to get her to the Ames Clinic as soon as possible. Ramola purposefully does not tell them Natalie has been exposed to the virus and is possibly infected. She has never been a skillful liar, including lies of omission. While she thinks it’s doubtful the zombie bros have the wherewithal to detect she isn’t telling them the entire story, the shorter one looks at Ramola, his head slightly cocked, as though he’s picking up on what she isn’t saying. That he might not trust what Ramola is telling them makes her trust him a bit more.
The shorter one says, “Never been to the clinic but we know Five Corners well.”
Ramola asks, “We need a car. Do either of you live close by?”
The taller teen shakes his head. “Our apartment is in Brockton. You could walk to the clinic and back in the time it would take for us to bike back, get a car from a friend, even if we could get one.”
They look too young to have their own apartment, but Ramola files that nagging thought away. “Is there anyone close by in Ames you could call, ask for a ride? Another ambulance might be on the way, but I would prefer not to wait too long.”
The shorter teen smirks. “Nah, sorry, no one we know around here would want to help us, I don’t think.”
“Yeah, we’re not too popular in these parts.”
An odd set of answers that makes Ramola mentally step aside from the manic at-all-costs quest to get Natalie to the clinic and analyze the danger inherent in being alone with two strange and quite possibly unstable young men carrying weapons.
The sedan’s door opens. The dented metal pops and creaks. The old man shouts, “Top off!” and laboriously pulls himself out of the car and onto his feet. He’s dressed in slacks and a beige dress shirt, some buttons in the wrong holes, other buttonholes skipped over.
“Top off! Half done!” He blinks like there’s sand in his eyes. He briefly smiles; the face of someone’s kindly grandfather. His mouth goes slack, gapes open; the face of madness.
The teens laugh, and shout, “Oh yeah!” and “Let’s go!”
The old man does not move quickly, but he is shuffling toward them. His right leg lags behind as he lurches forward, and he reaches for his hip with each shuddering step.
The taller teen says, “Wait, wait, wait!” He tucks his staff under an arm, most of the length of pole trailing behind him. He unhooks one of the clear water bottles from around his neck; a hard plastic polycarbonate bottle athletes and hikers favor. “Let’s have a test.”
“Nah, guy. No fucking around.”
“Look at him. He’s slow.” He unscrews the bottle’s lid. He steps toward the elderly man.
The shorter one backs away a few steps, and his hard look softens.
“Hey, gramps. Have some. Water is the good.”
The shorter teen laughs but laughs too hard. He’s clearly nervous and scared, but he doesn’t want to admit it, and/or (one does not preclude the other) he’s on the verge of losing control.
“Top off! Half done! All gone!” The elderly man’s voice wavers and is full of gravel.
The teen holds the bottle out in front of him, a vampire hunter holding forth a cross. Water sloshes over the bottle’s rim and splatters on the pavement.
The old man’s arms jerk. His body shakes and convulses. He coughs and retches.
The taller teen says, “Oh shit, it really works. He’s freaking out. The power of Christ compels you!” He laughs, lunges forward, and splashes water onto the old man.
The old man recoils, stumbling back into his car, but he rebounds and propels forward. He lashes out with a closed fist, knocking the bottle out of the teen’s hand.
The teen panics, his arms windmilling as he scrambles backward. His staff falls and clatters to the pavement. His feet get tangled with each other, crashing him to the street. His helmet pops off and rolls past Ramola. She runs to his aid.
“All gone! All gone!” The old man’s voice is deep and ancient, the weary, inevitable groan of tectonic plates. His broken strides, like those of the coyote, impossibly carry his bulk.
Ramola crouches, grabs the prone teen’s left arm, and attempts to pull him onto his feet and away from the approaching old man. The teen half sits up and crab-walks backward. She instantly calculates he is not moving quickly enough for him to get away. Ramola lets go of the teen’s arm, reaches, and grabs one end of the wooden staff. She flicks the other end up and pushes it between the elderly man’s ankles. She pushes hard right on the staff, as though flipping a lever.
The man’s right leg crumples, and the old man lists and falls left. As he does so, the shorter teen rushes in, swings the bat with two hands. Had the old man remained upright, the bat would’ve struck him in the head; instead, with his right leg giving out and his body already in the process of collapsing, his head dips and his left shoulder rises up, which is where the teen lands the blow. The contact is solid but happens later in the swing’s arc, which throws the teen off balance. He falls hard onto one knee but is quickly able to gather himself and regain his feet.
The blow spins the old man to his left, sending him careening into the ambulance. His head bounces off the side panel and he slides to the road.
Ramola rises from her crouch, the staff held in both hands.
The taller teen scoots backward until he’s behind Ramola. He laughs and shouts, “The staff is the good!”
The shorter teen limps around in a couple of tight circles,
