The 6th Plague

by Darren Hale

  Or so he’d claimed…

  ‘According to Mick, she’s fit to fly,’ Raymond assured him. ‘Just say the word…’

  32

  Wednesday 18th October:

  ‘So… no Simon this evening,’ said the professor by way of an introduction. As far as “good evenings” were concerned, it was about as eloquent as any he’d ever given, and perhaps more than Catherine would have expected, given her close proximity to Carmen at the time.

  ‘No – it would appear not,’ Catherine yawned, offering as much information as the question deserved, though much less than she would have liked.

  The professor huffed as if considering another question, and then, having exchanged looks like knives with Carmen, walked off.

  Juliet pouted. ‘Carmen – I do declare you appear to have broken the professor,’ she observed.

  ‘Good… And it’s no less than he deserves,’ Carmen retorted, plunging the table into a frosty silence.

  Their table that evening comprised just the five of them: Catherine, Carmen, Juliet, Rufus, and Marina. Knowing better than to come within ten feet of Carmen, Angus and Oki had taken themselves to another table, though for reasons that were not clear, Carmen had seemed to be most angry with Angus, regardless of the fact that he’d been with Oki at the time, and following the professor’s orders.

  ‘So – do you think Simon’s okay?’ Rufus poked a piece of mango around his plate. The sudden change in atmosphere had put him off his meal.

  ‘I hope so… He was okay when I left him this morning,’ said Catherine, clearly distracted by some other thought.

  ‘And Eduardo?’ Carmen asked. Having been part of the original group, she’d known him rather longer than they had.

  ‘Not so good, I’m afraid. He’s been running a fever…’

  ‘And that’s bad?’ Carmen asked, prompting her for more information.

  ‘It means the infection is spreading, and unless I can get it under control, he risks becoming quite seriously ill. Ideally, I’d be admitting him to hospital right now, but given that we’re in the middle of the jungle and don’t have a radio…’ she said bleakly. Her words seemed to drive the temperature at the table a few degrees lower, though such a thing might not have seemed possible, and the only ray of sunlight was Juliet as she interjected in her usual chirpy fashion.

  ‘Have you made any further progress with your science project?’

  ‘Not really,’ Catherine replied, her eyes belying some other truth.

  ‘You don’t sound convinced?’

  Catherine shrugged. Her own dinner had gone virtually untouched, though she had optimistically furnished it with an assortment of delights from the buffet, and contrary to her usual habit, her glass of wine had not surrendered anything more than a few mouthfuls all evening. ‘I’ve learnt enough to know that I’m no microbiologist… I got as far as identifying a few staphs and streps amongst the contaminants – rough groupings of bacteria…’ she said, remembering that Juliet’s knowledge of microbiology was even less than her own. ‘…A bit like saying that I recognised a bird from its wings, though I couldn’t tell you anything more. ‘And that’s about it.’

  ‘So why do you look as if there’s something you’re not telling us?’

  Three other pairs of eyes turned towards her.

  Catherine sighed. ‘All I’ve been able to learn, is that the organism infecting Simon and Eduardo is the same, and that it appears to be some kind of gram-positive rod – which wasn’t what I’d expected to find, though it has narrowed it down to a list of unlikely suspects, including clostridium and anthrax – none of which, I’m pleased to say, seems very likely, given the symptoms.’

  ‘And what are the symptoms?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘Well,’ said Catherine, biting her lip momentarily before answering. ‘Clostridium comes in all forms, from gas gangrene, which I’m sure you can all imagine, to food poisoning and tetanus... It’s family also includes other delights such as botulism. So I’m pretty sure it’s none of them...’

  ‘And what makes you so sure it isn’t anthrax?’ asked Carmen, in a manner that was so disturbingly matter-of-fact, it provoked a number of startled expressions. ‘You’ve given reasons why you think clostridium might be an unlikely agent. But why exclude anthrax?’

  ‘Because…’ Catherine fumbled for an answer. In truth, anthrax had seemed such an unlikely suspect, she’d dismissed it instantly.

  ‘I mean – how might it present?’

  Twenty-four hours she would have simply shaken her head and sheepishly admitted that she didn’t have a clue. Anthrax was not your run-of-the-mill infection and she hadn’t seen a case – ever… Nevertheless, plentiful coffee and a day spent at the books had turned her into something of an expert. ‘It depends how you contract it,’ she said, more confidently. ‘There are basically three groups – cutaneous, respiratory, and G.I. The cutaneous is the least serious, and if anything, would be the one we’re dealing with – though the textbook images are not what we’re seeing. It presents with boils that are black and necrotic – hence the name…’

  Juliet raised an eyebrow, having quite understandably failed to see the connection.

  ‘The word anthrax is derived from the Greek word for coal,’ Catherine explained. ‘The colour of the boil is pathognomonic… That’s to say it’s kind of a giveaway.’

  ‘And what colour are Eduardo’s boils?’ Carmen asked.

  Juliet pulled a face, having clearly been disgusted by the question.

  Catherine shrugged. ‘Not black…’

  Carmen was clearly intrigued. ‘And what about the other forms?’

  ‘The respiratory form is the nasty one, though it can take weeks to manifest. It presents with a dry cough and escalating shortness of breath, bloody sputum, and death,’ said Catherine, somewhat morosely.

  ‘And the G.I. version you spoke of?’

  ‘Abdominal pains, bloody diarrhoea and vomiting.’

  ‘And death…’

  Catherine nodded.

  ‘So let’s hope it isn’t Anthrax then,’ said Juliet somewhat meekly.

  ‘But anthrax comes from cows and sheep doesn’t it?’ Marina asked, having remembered something she’d once heard.

  ‘Generally speaking – yes,’ Catherine admitted.

  ‘So where would it have come from?’

  There was a moment of silence before Catherine replied. ‘I have no idea,’ she admitted.

  Another moment of silence followed, in which their breakfast plates, largely untouched, functioned more as artistic distractions than a tasty repast.

  ‘What about the brain?’ Carmen asked, her mind going to places that Catherine had not even considered.

  Catherine frowned. ‘The brain?’

  ‘Yes – the brain… Does anthrax affect the brain? More specifically, does it cause bleeds on the brain?’

  ‘There were some reports of it causing a meningoencephalitis and bleeds – but it’s pretty rare. Why…?’

  ‘The bodies from the well…’ Carmen mused.

  ‘You think the infection came from the bodies?’ asked Juliet, horrified. ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘No of course not…’ said Catherine, her confidence born of a desire to reassure Juliet more than it had been a statement of fact.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ said Rufus, weighing into the conversation, ‘but anthrax spores can remain dormant in the soil for hundreds of years, can’t they?’

  Catherine sat back in her chair. ‘It can certainly remain dormant for decades,’ she admitted, quoting commonly known facts. ‘But I think hundreds of years – and certainly thousands – might be a bit of a stretch…’

  33

  Thursday 19th October:

  The air was fresh; rinsed clean by a fall of rain so recent it still wept from the boughs overhead.

  Arno picked his way along the track, back towards the thirsty banks of the Tamboryacu, now little more than islands of reeds separated by puddles of water,
its muddy banks criss-crossed with the memories of the animals, marked in paw prints and excrement, that had visited it in search of a drink. The sun that still cowered behind the trees had done little to dispel the darkness that hung from the canopy above his head, and though he’d made the journey a hundred times, he chose every step with care.

  Perfect.

  He found himself a place to hide

  And waited...

  Though not for long.

  A curassow poked its head above the reeds next to the bank; a male bare-faced curassow judging from the plumage, and a good-sized one at that.

  It looked around nervously, then strutted off

  Arno raised his gun.

  Patience – don’t scare it.

  Wait for it to step into the open…

  A hasty misplaced shot could spoil the meat, though he doubted that anyone in the party would be connoisseur enough to notice the fact – once it had been prepared with some of the region’s more piquant spices. Nevertheless, he considered himself too much of a craftsman to entertain such a notion.

  The curassow’s mate appeared and moved cautiously towards it. This one was mottled in colour and looked something like a cross between a large grouse and a duck. It warbled admonishingly at its partner.

  Arno touched the trigger.

  ******

  Enrique threw himself to the ground as a loud crack sundered the air, followed by the rest of his men, albeit with varying degrees of alacrity.

  Julio Santorini landed nearby, the smouldering butt of a cigarette still firmly clenched between his teeth, adding the sickly stink of its tobacco to the breeze.

  Enrique motioned for him to put it out. He was losing count of how many times he’d told the man not to smoke in the field. That unsavoury habit would likely be the death of him – and not in the conventionally recognised way…

  A second shot followed the first…

  From the sound of it, the shooter could not have been more than a hundred metres away.

  He nodded to Julio and with a few silent gesticulations, dispatched him to investigate.

  ******

  The first of the curassows dropped like the proverbial stone; felled by a single shot to the head. Its mate stood frozen to the spot, too stunned to move; something of an evolutionary faux pas. The second shot hit it in the back, throwing it to the ground in a dishevelled pile of blood and feathers. There would no doubt be an uproar when roasted curassow appeared on the menu for the third time in as many days, but it was, nevertheless, preferable to the certain mutiny that would arise should anyone be forced to go hungry.

  Pleased with his catch, Arno launched himself into the stagnant water to collect his prey, warm mud slapping about his ankles, rising in eddies that stained the surface with every step. How had he ever entertained the idea of trying to fish in this slimy puddle? The water was barely knee-deep. A shame really… A spot of fishing would have made for a pleasant change of pace…

  The bush shivered…

  Perhaps he’d get lucky after all?

  Whatever it was, it was no Curassow…

  More like a wild Peccary?

  Or perhaps a herd of them, judging from the commotion they made?

  He cleared the breach of his shotgun, ejecting the spent cartridges into the water next to his feet, where they bobbed for a moment like brightly coloured buoys before sinking out of sight. And then with practised haste, he loaded the weapon once more.

  ******

  Julio hurried forward – his lips dry and his eyes wide, and his hands so tightly knotted around his rifle, his knuckles were turning white.

  He was nearly there…

  He could hear footsteps splashing through the water ahead of him.

  And then, having somehow lost his sense of direction in the half-light, he blundered into the open, his eyes falling upon a single figure standing immersed up to the knees in the weeds encroaching upon the river ahead of him.

  The man looked surprised…

  Julio’s eyes fell towards the shotgun in his hands.

  He raised his own weapon and fired – a dozen rounds with the touch of a trigger…

  The first three struck his target in the chest, blossoming like roses beneath his shirt as the rest disappeared amongst the trees, clipping branches from their boughs.

  The man coughed as the bullets kicked the air from his lungs.

  Then fell into the mud…

  ******

  The distinctive sound of a Kalashnikov rifle barked at the dawn.

  Martin dug his oar into the water, stilling his canoe as his eyes searched the banks of the river, looking for signs of a disturbance, but finding none. The sounds had come from some distance away.

  He eased the canoe around with a few gentle strokes and guided it towards the bank. The Tamboryacu had become little more than a meandering suggestion of a river, crowded with the branches of trees and grasses as verdant as any lawn, and finding a discrete place to beach the canoe had not been difficult.

  Then, having taken a fix on his GPS, he headed downstream, his heart quickening. According to his best reckoning, the noises had come from somewhere close to the camp.

  ******

  At the sound of gunfire, Enrique came running, his eyes blazing with fury. ‘You idiot! What were you thinking!’ He strode towards the corpse and gave it a rough kick. The man was lying on his back, doll-like eyes gazing at the sky. ‘What am I supposed to do now? You’ve just announced our presence to everyone within a few miles of here?’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t hear the shots…’ Julio protested.

  ‘You fucking idiot!’ Enrique hammered the butt of his rifle into Julio’s thigh with enough force to drop him to his knees. ‘You don’t think they’ll notice that one of their men is missing?’

  Julio didn’t dare to answer for fear of another beating

  ‘Very well… It seems that we have little option! We must take their camp – and quickly – while they are still in their beds.’ He pointed toward the four boats lying high on the mud nearby. ‘And do something about those…’

  ******

  Having arrived at the “jetty”, it had not taken Martin long to uncover the story behind the gunfire. Six or seven sets of boot prints, four broken boats, two dead curassows, one body, and a dusting of copper-coloured shell casings told the tale in excruciating detail. Having vanquished the birds with the twin barrels of his shotgun, Arno had then been surprised by a gunman with a very poor aim. The man had then cut him down with a flurry of shots, most of which had ended up in the trees, given the discrepancy between the holes in Arno’s shirt and the vast surplus of shell casings strewn like confetti. Having slaughtered the gentile cook, the inept gunman had been joined by a half dozen others who had, between them, demolished the four canoes before stamping off toward the camp.

  Martin tipped his head in honour of the dead before turning to leave, pursued by a momentary pang of guilt at having abandoned Arno’s body to the ravenous jungle. It would not be there when he returned.

  34

  Thursday 19th October:

  ‘What was that?’

  Juliet’s head poked out from her hammock.

  ‘What was what?’ asked Catherine blearily. She rubbed her eyes, expelling the moisture that veiled her vision like a cataract.

  ‘That noise – didn’t you hear it? It sounded like Angus playing with his fireworks again.’

  Catherine examined her watch. ‘At this time? It’s only just gone seven in the morning. Angus wouldn’t even be up yet.’

  ‘I’m telling you I heard something… A whole lot of explosions.’

  ‘Arno perhaps? He’s usually out hunting at this time of the morning?’

  Juliet shrugged. She looked troubled. ‘No – I don’t think that was it.’

  ‘You’re worried it might have been Martin?’

  ‘Aren’t you? He’s been living with us in this camp for the last couple of months and I feel like I know nothing about him – or w
hat he’s capable of…’ Juliet fidgeted uneasily. ‘When I went to bed last night, I started trying to put the pieces together, and came away knowing as little as when I’d started. What would he get from sabotaging this expedition? His company’s been footing the bill for Christ’s sake! It doesn’t make sense. But then I ask myself what I DO know about him, and I come away with nothing. I’ve barely seen him… let alone spoken to him… in all the time we’ve been here. And I don’t believe I’ve ever heard him mention his home or family.’

  ‘No – it’s true,’ Catherine agreed. She’d made no attempt to avoid the guy, nevertheless, she could not recall the last time she’d spoken to him. ‘Perhaps he’s just shy…’ she suggested.

  Juliet laughed. ‘Yeh – right... The shy and retiring type – just like Angus.’ She swung her legs from the hammock and dropped lightly to the floor. Then, having opened the luggage case next to her bed, she bundled some fresh clothes and a towel into her arms.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘It sounded as if it rained quite hard last night, so I thought I’d have myself a wash before someone steals all the water.’ And with that, she trotted off in the direction of the wash tent.

  ******

  Angus ran his thumb along the front of the little Zippo lighter, gently admiring every detail of the dancer embossed upon its surface. Oh, what he’d give to be in a bar in Rio right now, watching her perform, downing a few of the local beers.

  With a flick of his fingers the lighter hiccupped and coughed up a tiny flicker of flame.