Ramola stands, one foot in the aisle. It does not improve her vantage. She asks Natalie, “Can you see what’s going on?”
“The Tree’s buddies are here. Whole bunch of trees.”
Ramola leans across and over Natalie. From her angle she can’t see the police car or the SUV in front of the bus, nor does she see any people initially. Then a crouched man runs out from behind the white house’s garage. There are gunshots, rapid small-caliber pops mixing with loud, singular explosions. Ramola dives back, away from the window. Screams and shouts fill the bus, along with shrieks from newborns. Ramola almost forgot there are babies on the bus too. Everyone leans away from the windows, tries to make themselves smaller in their seats, everyone except Natalie. She sits tall and has her hands and face against the glass. Ramola grabs her right arm and pulls her away. Natalie’s complaint is subverbal, a growl.
It’s unclear if the driver is given an order from Kolodny, from police on the two-way radio, or acts on his own. The engine revs and the bus lurches forward, titling left as its passenger-side wheels climb the elevated shoulder. There’s more yelling, more gunshots, and stomach-dropping moments of weightlessness as the bus leans farther left, and Ramola is sure they’re going to tip onto their side, Natalie and her window mashed into the pavement. The police car and SUV roadblock roll by Natalie’s window, the scene dreamlike, as though contained within a terrarium, and the odd, elevated and angled view vertiginous as they float by. Men wearing dark or camouflage clothing hide behind another SUV stashed in a driveway. Others are positioned behind trees or flat on their bellies at the stone walls. They fire at the policemen huddled behind their car and they fire at the buses. Bullets thud into the side panel but none hit the windows. Another moment of weightlessness, lifting Ramola out of her seat as the bus comes off the shoulder, then all tires are back in contact with the pavement. The cabin shakes like a wet dog, straightening as the bus accelerates. People in the back rows yell about the gray bus left behind, not moving, windshield shattered. Clinicians run up and down the aisle checking with patients, reassuring them. The bus driver speaks over the intercom but the babies are crying and other patients are shouting, talking over him; no one is listening. Ramola attempts to slow her breathing and still her shaking hands. She watches out Natalie’s window and through the windshield for more roadblocks and men with guns.
This initial firefight lasts only five minutes, but a standoff with the Norton police and eventually the National Guard will go on for five hours, further ensnaring lines of communication and consuming most of the local emergency resources. Nine members of the Patriot Percenters militia will die, along with four policemen, the driver of the gray bus, and one of its passengers, a woman who gave birth less than ten hours prior to having a bullet punch through a window and into her neck. Right-wing conspiracy devotees will insist the civilian and policemen deaths are fakes and the entire event a false-flag operation. Like the Tree, the Patriot Percenters believe the deep state is purposefully spreading their lab-created virus to push vaccination agendas, attempt a coup as America is distracted and succumbing to the health crisis, and then decree a permanent state of martial law. The Percenters are convinced Phase 2 has begun: exporting the virus to surrounding New England and Mid-Atlantic states via busloads of infectious patients and deep state–controlled medical personnel, most of whom are foreigners, as reported on the most notorious and popular hate-fueled conspiracy website.
Ramola counts the seconds as they tick. She measures the expanding distance from the attack. She smiles at every staff member and clinician who walks by to ensure they focus on her and not Natalie. She looks out the window, waiting for the next calamity to show itself. She watches and listens to Natalie, losing count when she thinks she sees a quiver and curl of her lip. She starts over at one and begins counting again. Five minutes pass in this manner.
As their bus powers down the quiet wooded road, no vehicles follow. Frenzied chatter within the cabin has receded in volume, but it remains an insistent murmur, waves lapping shores at low tide.
Natalie shudders into a coughing fit; a dry, throaty blast of three barks lasting four cycles. When she finishes, the bus goes quiet and still. Ramola can’t and won’t look into the aisle or at people in other seats, afraid of what she’ll see and afraid others will see a confession on her face.
Natalie wipes her mouth on the back of a sleeve. Is she shedding the virus now? Natalie mutters to herself, twists to more easily look out the window, her head tilted, eyes wide and blinking.
The new silence lingers, and Ramola has to break the spell, to make their presence on the bus seem normal and nonthreatening. She taps Natalie’s shoulder, whisper-repeats her name, and asks how she’s feeling, how she’s doing.
Natalie shrugs and she shakes her head. Her right hand spelunks into one of the yellow sweatshirt pockets and returns with her cell phone.
Nats
(muted, low voices and the hum of an engine)
“Excuse me, I haven’t had a chance to check in with you yet, Natalie. How are you feeling?”
Sassafras and lullabies.
“Oh, we’re doing quite well over here. Thank you.”
Rams
Natalie flips through app screens, presses a purple rounded square, a capital cursive V in its middle. A home screen opens with the script heading Voyager. Natalie thumbs through menu options until the screen is a blank purple color, red Record button at the bottom. She presses that, too, bringing up a horizontal, quivering white line. She leans left, her head and shoulder resting against the bus window.
Ramola twists, her back to the aisle
