Survivor Song
Dedication
FOR LISA, COLE, AND EMMA
Epigraph
It’s awful and still probably worse
They’re biters and rarely alone
And rarely alone.
—Big Business, “Heal the Weak”
Author’s Note for the Reader:
When you encounter wide blank spaces and pages, fear not, they are purposeful. Okay, maybe fear a little . . .
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Author’s Note for the Reader
Prelude: In Olden Times, When Wishing Still Helped
I. They Both Went Down
Rams
Nats
Rams
II. Fill Your Knapsack Full of the Sweepings
Nats
Rams
Nats
Rams
Nats
Rams
Interlude: You Will Not Feel Me Between Your Teeth
III. Do You Become a Rose Tree, and I the Rose Upon It
Rams
Nats
Rams
Postlude: No Care and No Sorrow
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Paul Tremblay
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prelude
In Olden Times, When Wishing Still Helped
This is not a fairy tale. Certainly it is not one that has been sanitized, homogenized, or Disneyfied, bloodless in every possible sense of the word, beasts and human monsters defanged and claws clipped, the children safe and the children saved, the hard truths harvested from hard lives if not lost then obscured, and purposefully so.
* * *
Last night there was confusion as to whether turning off the lights was a recommendation or if it was a requirement in accordance with the government-mandated curfew. After her husband, Paul, was asleep, Natalie relied on her cell phone’s flashlight in the bathroom as a guide instead of lighting a candle. She has been getting clumsier by the day and didn’t trust herself to casually carry fire through the house.
It’s quarter past 11 A.M., and yes, she is in the bathroom again. Before Paul left three hours ago, she joked she should set up a cot and an office in here. Its first-floor window overlooks the semi-private backyard and the sun-bleached, needs-a-coat-of-stain picket fence. The grass is dead, having months prior surrendered to the withering heat of yet another record-breaking summer.
The heat will be blamed for the outbreak. There will be scores of other villains, some heroes too. It will be years before the virus’s full phylogenetic tree is mapped, and even then, there will continue to be doubters, naysayers, and the most cynical political opportunists. The truth will go unheeded by some, as it invariably does.
To wit, Natalie can’t stop reading the fourteen-day-old Facebook post on her town’s “Stoughton Enthusiasts” page. There are currently 2,312 comments. Natalie has read them all.
The post: Wildlife Services is informing the public that rabies vaccine baits are being dropped in the MA area in coordination with the Department of Agriculture. Baits are also being dropped in targeted areas of surrounding states RI, CT, NH, VT, ME, NY, and as a precaution PA. The vaccine is in a blister pack, army-green. Baits will be dropped by airplane and helicopter until further notice. If you see or find a bait, please do not disturb it. Not harmful but not for human consumption.
The photo: The size of a dollar coin, the top of the bait pack is rectangular, has a puttylike appearance, and the middle leavened like a loaf of bread. It looks like a green, bite-size Almond Joy.
[Natalie and Paul have already stress-eaten most of the large variety bag of Halloween candy and it’s only October 21.]
The back of the bait pack has a warning label:
MNR 1–888-555-6655
Rabies Vaccine DO NOT EAT Live adenovirus vector
Vaccin antirabique NE PAS MANGER Vecteur vivant d’adénovirus
MNR 1–888-555-6655
A small sample of the unedited comments to the Facebook post, in chronological order:
What if an animal eats like twenty of these?
This sounds really dumb. There has to be a better way.
Vaccinating as many animals within a population is the only proven way to stop the spread. You can’t get ALL animals to voluntarily walk up to the vet for vaccinations. Seriously, the fact that we have effective baits to drop is huge and better than doing nothing.
What if a child eats it? This can’t be okay.
That’s why there’s the warning. And I doubt they’re dropping this stuff in the backyards. Only in the woods.
They say its some weird scary new strain.
A rabid animal is more dangerous than eating a vaccine.
Vaccines is what makes you sick. Everyone knows that.
I live in a wooded area and I have cats and grandkids. I don’t want them dropping that shit near me.
I ate four baits and now my erection is HUGE and GREEN and it won’t go away.
HULK SMASH!!!!
This isnt rabies. This is something knew.
I’m hearing you don’t even have to get bit to get it.
They don’t know.
Regular rabies is slow, usually takes weeks. They’re saying this thing moves through you in minutes.
42 confirmed human cases in Brockton. 29 in Stoughton. 19 in Ames.
Where are you hearing this?
What are the symptoms???
Headache and flu-like symptoms but it gets soooo much worse and you go crazy and you get weird and violent and you attack people and you’re fucked and everyone is fucked because there is no cure.
That’s not true. The original post is about the vaccine. Stop trying to scare people.
We’ve been quarantined. Nice knowing everybody.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!
My sister said they’re closing Good Samaritan Hospital in Brockton. Overrun.
What do you mean by overrun?
I called my pediatrician’s office and there’s only a message saying go to Good Samaritan. What are we supposed to do???
I live near there and heard machine guns.
You know what a machine gun sounds like do ya?
they cant do anything for any one any way. time to hunker in the bunker until its over. people are going fast.
They don’t know what they’re doing. We’re so screwed.
We have to stay together and share information. Good information. No more wild rumors, and don’t use the word zombie, and just obviously false bullshit here please.
None of this is gonna work. We should kill all the animals, kill all the infected. Sounds cruel but if we can’t save them kill them before they get us all sick.
The bathroom window is latched shut. The white shade is pulled down, and Natalie keeps both eyes on it. Urine rushes out of her, and though she’s alone, she’s embarrassed by how loud it is without the masking drone of the bathroom fan.
AM radio crackles through the smart speaker on the kitchen counter as though the poor reception and sound quality are nothing but a special effect from a radio play, its time and hysteria getting a reboot.
One radio host reiterates that residents are to stay in their homes and keep the roads clear, only using them in the event of an emergency. She reads a brief list of shelter locales and hospitals within the Route 128 belt of metro Boston. They move on to reports of isolated power outages. No word from National Grid as to the cause or expected duration of service interruption. National Grid is already critically understaffed because the company is mired in a lockout of a significant number of its unionized field electricians and crews in an effort to eliminate employee pensions. Another
newscaster speculates on the potential use of rolling brownouts for communities that are not cooperating with the quarantine and sundown curfew.
Paul went to Star Supermarket in Washington Plaza, which is only a little over a mile from their small, two-bedroom house. He is supposed to pick up a solar-and-hand-crank-powered radio with other supplies and food. The National Guard is overseeing the distribution of rations.
Rations. This is where they are fifteen days before their first child’s due date. Fucking rations.
It’s an overcast, gray autumn late morning. More out of superstition than fear [at least, that’s what she tells herself], Natalie has turned the lights out in the house. With the bay window curtains drawn, the first floor is a cold galaxy of glowing blue, green, and red lights, mapping the constellation of appliances and power-hungry devices and gadgetry.
Paul texted fifty-seven minutes ago that he was almost inside the store but his phone was at 6 percent battery so he was going to shut it off to save the remaining juice for an emergency or if he needed to ask for Natalie’s “suggestions” [the scare quotes are his] once inside the supermarket. He is stubbornly proud of his tech frugality, insisting on not spending a dime to upgrade his many-generations-ago, cracked-screen phone that has the battery-life equivalent of a mayfly’s ephemeral life-span. Natalie cursed him and his phone with “Fuck your fucking shitty phone. I mean, hurry back, sweetie pie.” Paul signed off with “The dude in front of me pissed himself and doesn’t care. I wanna be him when I grow up. Make sure you don’t come down here. I’ll be home soon. Love you.”
Natalie closes the toilet lid and doesn’t flush, afraid of making too much noise. She washes her hands, dries them, then texts, “Are you inside now?” Her screen is filled with a list of blue dialogue bubbles of the repeated, unanswered message.
The radio announcer reiterates that if you are bitten or fear you’ve come in close contact with contaminated fluid, you are to immediately go to the nearest hospital.
Natalie considers driving to the supermarket. Maybe the sight of a thirty-four-year-old pregnant woman walking to the front of the ration line and dropping f-bombs on everyone and everything would get Paul in front of Piss Pants, into the store, and home sooner. Like now. She wanted to go with him earlier, but she knew her back, legs, joints, and every other traitorous part of her body couldn’t take standing in line with him for what they had assumed would be an hour, maybe two.
She’s mad at herself now, thinking she could’ve alternated standing in line and sitting in the car. Then again, who knows how far away Paul had to park, as his little trip to the mobbed grocery store is going on three hours.
She texts again, “Are you inside now?”
Her baby is on the move. Natalie imagines the kid rolling over to a preferred side. The baby always seems to lash out with a foot or readjust its position after she uses the bathroom. The deeply interior sensation remains as bizarre, reassuring, and somehow heartbreaking as it was the day she felt her first punches and kicks. She rubs her belly and whispers, “Why doesn’t he text me on someone else’s phone? What good is saving his battery if we have an emergency here and I can’t call him? Go ahead, say, ‘You’re fucking right, Mommy.’ Okay, don’t say that. Not for a couple of years anyway.”
Natalie hasn’t left the house in four days, not since her employer Stonehill College broke rank with the majority of other local colleges and closed its dorms, academic, and administrative buildings to students and employees, sending everyone home. That afternoon camped out at the kitchen table, Natalie answered Development Office emails and made phone calls to alumni who were not living in New England. Only four of the twenty-seven people she spoke to made modest donations to the school. The ones who didn’t hang up on her wanted to know what was going on in Massachusetts.
Natalie is jittery enough to pace the first floor. Her feet are swollen even though the prior day’s unusual heat and humidity broke overnight. Everything on or inside [thanks but no thanks, hemorrhoids, she thinks] her body is swelling or already in a state of maximum swollen. She fills a cup with water and sits on a wooden kitchen chair, its seat and back padded with flattened pillows, which are affectations to actual comfort.
The radio hosts read straight from the Massachusetts bylaws regarding quarantine and isolation.
Natalie sighs and releases her brown hair from a ponytail. It’s still wet from her shower earlier that morning. She reties her ponytail, careful to keep it loose. She plugs in her phone although the battery is almost fully charged, and then she hikes up her blue shirt-dress and sends a hand under the wide waistband of her leggings to scratch her belly. She should probably take off the leggings and let her skin breathe, but that would involve the considerable undertaking of standing, walking, bending, removing. She can’t deal with all the –ings right now.
Natalie opens the diary app on her phone, named Voyager. In her head she says the name of the app in French [Voyageur]; she says it that way to Paul when she wants to annoy him. She’s been using the app to keep a pregnancy journal. The app automatically syncs her notes, pictures, videos, and audio files to her Google Drive storage. During the first two trimesters, Natalie had been using the app every day and often more than once. She shared her posts with other first-time moms and caused an amused stir within that online community when instead of posting pictures of her weekly belly growth, she shared pictures of her feet accompanied by her own hilarious [at least she thought so] jokes about how quickly the twins were growing. Natalie slowed down using the app considerably in the third trimester and most of those entries devolved into a clinical listing of discomforts, the saga of the strange red pointillist dots appearing on the skin of her chest and face [including a regaling of her doctor’s shrug, and deadpan, “Probably nothing, but maybe Lupus.”], work grievances, and a litanylike reiterating of her fear that she’ll be pregnant forever. Over the last ten days, she has only mustered a few updates.
Natalie opts to record an audio entry, first marking it as private and not to be shared to those who follow her online: “Bonjour, Voyageur. C’est moi. Yeah. Fifteen days to go, give or take. What a terrible saying that is. Give or take. Say it fast and you can’t even understand it. Giveortake. Giveortake. I’m sitting alone in my dark house. Physical discomforts are legion, but not thinking about that so much because I’m utterly terrified. So I have that going for me. Wearing the same leggings for the fifth day in a row. I feel bad for them. They never asked for this. [Sigh] I should turn on a light. Or open the curtains. Let some gray in. Don’t know why I don’t. Fucking Paul. Turn on your goddamn—”
Her phone buzzes and a text from Paul bubbles onto the top of the screen. “Finally out. Bundles in the car. Be home in 5.”
She suppresses the urge to make fun of his actually typing the word “bundles.” Saying it is bad enough. She types, “Yay! Hurry. Be safe but hurry. Pleeeeze.”
She tells the smart speaker to turn down the volume until it’s inaudible. She wants to listen for Paul’s car. The empty house makes its empty-house sounds, the ones with frequencies attuned to imagination and worst-case scenarios. Natalie is careful to not make any of her own sounds. With her phone she checks online news and Twitter and none of it is good. She returns to Voyager and types a riff on her dad’s favorite saying: “A watched clock never boils.”
Paul’s car and its clearing-of-a-throat engine finally chugs up their sleepy street and rounds the bend of the fenced front yard. His green Forester is a twenty-year-old beater; 200,000 miles plus and standard transmission. Another endearing/annoying quirk of his, claiming he’ll only ever drive used standards as though it’s a quantifiable measure of his worth. More annoying, he’s not a gearhead and cannot fix cars himself, so invariably his jalopy is in the shop and then she is left having to build extra time in her schedule getting him to and from the train station.
As the green machine crunches its way down their sloped gravel driveway Natalie struggles into a standing position. She unplugs and the
n deposits her phone in a surprisingly deep pocket of her unzipped gray hooded sweatshirt. In her other pocket are her car keys, which she has kept on her person since leaving Stonehill.
Natalie walks into the living room, her footsteps in sync with Paul’s march on the gravel. She stops herself from calling out to him. He shouldn’t walk so loudly; he needs to be more careful and soft-footed. Arms loaded with bundles [Dammit, yes, fine, they are “bundles”], he emerges from behind the car. The Forester’s rear hatch remains open and the little hey-you-left-a-door-ajar dome light shines an obnoxious yellow inside the car. She considers yelling out to Paul again, telling him to shut the hatch.
Paul comically struggles to unlatch the fence’s thigh-high entry gate without putting down any of the grocery bags. Only, he’s not laughing.
Natalie is on the screened-in porch and whispers out one of the windows, “Can I get that for you?” She has an urge to laugh maniacally and an equally powerful urge to ugly-cry. She opens the screen door, proud that she dares stick her head outside and into the quarantined morning. She briefly imagines an impossible time of happiness and peace years from now, regaling their beautiful and mischievous child [she will insist her child be mischievous] with embellished adventure stories of how they survived this night and all the others to follow.