Survivor Song

big coyote (where coyote, there coyote) and its arrowed shoulder and one limp leg and three-working legs and its long, thin snout, which opens, opens wider than should be possible, showing its red mouth and its white teeth. It strikes high, biting Josh in the head, teeth fishhooking into cheek and ear. The sick, wounded coyote isn’t as strong and powerful as the berserker dog, the scythe reaping through this group of men. The sick, wounded coyote is nearing its end. Josh boxes the animal’s ears and punches the body. The sick, wounded coyote releases and limps away, pained whines alternating with choking sounds, as though the tongue is blocking the throat. The coyote briefly sniffs at the body of the rifleman and transforms again into the smooth shark, swimming and disappearing into the brush. Ramola and Luis jump down to the street and rush to Josh’s aid. They each loop an arm through one of his arms. Josh isn’t yelling or screaming in pain. He has both hands over his eyes and he cries. He sobs and he bawls and he wails; the chest-hitching, breath-stealing tears are of a bottomless, bereft, hopeless grief. Ramola and Luis are crying too and they say, “It’s gone” and “Let’s get out of here” and “I’ll take a look.” They do not say, “It’ll be all right.” They lead him to the rear gate that Dan drops open, and the three of them lift Josh (openmouthed, incapable of words) into the cargo bed. Ramola steps up onto the gate, afraid and suddenly sure she’s too late and the German shepherd is behind her, in midair, eager to show her all its teeth. The rear gate closes, she spins around, and the dog is not there. The Tree is still in the road, standing next to his camo partner but not looking at him. He leans and wavers, a weeping willow in an autumn wind. He cradles his arm, the crossbow an offering at his feet. His head is down. A weary penitent. Beyond him, the dog’s dark shape recedes as it sprints down Bay Road, triumphantly barking in full throat, running so fast it could be floating.

The truck is finally moving. Dan is driving, Natalie in the passenger seat, and Ramola, Josh, Luis, the Tree, and the bikes and gear arranged in the cargo bed like puzzle pieces. It’s a matter of minutes before they will arrive at Five Corners and the clinic.

Using a disinfectant wipe, Ramola finishes cleaning Josh’s facial wounds, a constellation of small red holes leaking a watery red. She doesn’t tell him what she said to Natalie only hours ago, that a quick and thorough cleaning post-exposure is sometimes enough to destroy the virus. The Tree, sitting with his back against the rear gate, his arms around his knees, refuses her help when she offers. Ramola only asks once.

Luis is in Josh’s ear, keeping up a manic one-person banter about the clinic and vaccines and rides to hospitals and help, getting him help.

Josh holds his bandanna against his cheek and says, “Hey, um, Doctor Ramola, that, um, person you know who got bit in the arm.” He pauses, leaving space to signal and honor that he’s talking about Natalie in code.

“Yes, Josh.”

“How long before, um, that person became infected and, like, showed signs?”

Ramola tells him the truth as she now knows it. “Less than an hour.”

“And the closer the bite is to the brain, then, it’ll take even less time.”

“Yes.”

Luis looks at Ramola and blows out a long sigh, puffing out his cheeks, then sends his watery eyes down to the truck bed.

Josh says, “Yeah. Okay.” His expression freezes, and Ramola wonders again about a possible concussion, or if he’s gone inside himself to check for symptoms. He turns to Luis, who will not look at him, and says, “Guy. This isn’t our movie. This isn’t our story. It’s theirs.”

Luis shakes his head, wipes his eyes.

Josh continues, “We should’ve seen it before. I mean, it’s fucking obvious now. You and me aren’t the heroes. We’re the randos, yeah?”

Luis looks up, then flips the helmet off his head and over the side of the moving truck.

Ramola cannot help herself. “This is not a movie. And you are both heroes helping Natalie get to the clinic.”

Josh says, “We tried. This time we tried. That counts for something, right?”

Ramola doesn’t hear Luis’s response as the truck emerges from the wooded residential area to the end of Bay Road and the commercially developed, strip-malled intersection of streets called Five Corners. To their left and across Route 123, sandwiched between a CVS and Shaw’s supermarket is the Ames Clinic; one building, two floors, not appreciably bigger than a Colonial-style home. A fleet of police cars, blue lights flashing, fill the clinic’s lot and choke Route 123 down to one passable lane. Parked along the building’s front entrance are two coach buses. Gowned clinic staff lead pregnant women and women carrying newborns onto the buses.

Ramola says, “Oh fucking hell, where are they going?” She hops out of the truck the moment Dan pulls to a stop in front of a police officer holding up an outstretched hand. She opens Natalie’s door, and tells her they have to hurry. Natalie unbuckles herself but is moving in slow motion. Ramola says, “Sorry,” then forcibly tugs the seat buckle out of Natalie’s hand and pulls the belt from under her belly because the auto-recoil is too slow.

The officer is at the driver’s window, recognizes Dan, and tells them they can’t stay, can’t get help here. By the time Dan is asking, begging really, where they can go, Ramola has Natalie out of the truck and walking away.

Josh calls out as he runs in front of the women, holding out Natalie’s bag and his backpack. “Take mine, please. I don’t need it. You might.”

Knowing refusing his pack might result in an argument that slows them down further, Ramola accepts and says, “Thank you.” She says it twice because