by Peter Rawlik
Once they were all onboard, Bull and Englehorn pulled the walkway up, effectively blocking any easy way of access from the land to the boat. As the degenerate hordes made their way onto the dock below, Bull violently rang a brass bell located near the door to the wheel cabin. As he did so, the crew of the Adventura crawled onto the deck like ants out of a rotten tree. Bull shouted orders which were obeyed without question or hesitation, or nearly so. One mate, ordered to cut the dock lines rather than untie them, caught sight of the things that were clamoring about below and froze, out of either fear or confusion. Either way, Bull rapped him swiftly against the back of the head and told him that unless he moved he would be joining the dockside rabble. In seconds the bow lines were cut and the stunned man, whom Bull called Allnut, was coiling the remaining rope. Muñoz staggered as the ship lurched forward and the bow swung out away from the berth. The stern slammed into a piling hard, causing the dock to split and splinter, tossing the monstrous horde into the water and against the hull of the ship. Several unfortunates, caught between the remaining piling and the boat itself, were screaming in agony as the stern of the Adventura ratcheted forward and crushed the men, popping their heads like grapes.
When Allnut finished, he and Bull conferred briefly, casting glances toward the two doctors as they did so. After a moment or two of consideration, Allnut nodded to his captain and then shambled down the rail to where the three men were trying to stay out of the way. He addressed Englehorn first, “Captain’s not fond of Germans, and I can’t say that I am either.” His accent revealed him as a Brit. He pulled a fat greasy cigar out of a shirt pocket. “But given that we have little choice in the matter, he says that you can bunk up with the crew, and if you work out there may be a space for you.” A quick flip of a match and he lit the cigar and took a long drag. “Doctors, we have an empty hold you can use as a cabin; it’s not much, but considering the alternative.” He cast a glance over at the mob milling around on the dock.
Torres nodded his understanding. “We are appreciative of the situation sir, and you can relay our thanks to Captain Larsen. If we could ask, what is our destination?”
Allnut turned to stare at Port Clarence. The sun had broken to the east, and the dawn revealed a city devastated. Smoke billowed from four different fires, and crowds of the infected dotted the dock and the shoreline. Somewhere a church bell rang. “Not that it makes a difference, but we’re loaded with cocoa, and headed for ad-Dar al-Bay.”
Englehorn asked, “Where?”
The gruff sailor adjusted the handkerchief that he wore around his neck and waved for them to follow him. “Ad-Dar al-Bay,” he repeated. “It’s a city in Morocco; you might know it as Casablanca.” With that the mate led them below deck and to their quarters.
Once Englehorn and Allnut had departed, the two doctors made it their first priority to clean and suture Muñoz’s wounded neck. Torres treated the area with alcohol as a preventative for infection, and then while Muñoz bit down on a leather belt, closed up the wound with some silk thread from his medical kit. After they were done, the two men stripped and tossed all their clothes out the porthole. They scrubbed themselves as best they could with rubbing alcohol, and then changed into clean clothes from one of the packs. Muñoz had lost a significant amount of blood and was extremely tired. Torres forced him to drink several glasses of water before injecting him with a sedative, a new drug at the time from Bayer called Luminal. After that Muñoz fell into a deep sleep.
When Muñoz next regained consciousness, it was evening and he was ravenously hungry. Thankfully Englehorn had been kind enough to bring the doctors an evening meal, a stew of some kind, salty with a meat that was tough and reminded Muñoz of both chicken and crab. Englehorn said one of the mates had shot a crocodile and the ship’s cook was busy smoking the flesh, but the organs had been turned into the stew.
The men asked their young friend about the ship, which the sailor was happy to report seemed well run and amicable. The captain was a tough man, who didn’t tolerate laziness or drinking. Men under his command were expected to work for their pay, but the wage was fair and the crew seemed to at least respect the man. Allnut was the first mate, but he spent most of his time in the engine room working on various pieces of equipment. Englehorn had been assigned the duties of cabin boy, cleaning up after the captain and crew, and running menial errands for whoever needed them. That he was more than qualified for the position, and was capable of much more, made no difference to Bull, and the captain made it clear that the young man was not to take on any jobs other than those he was assigned.
As for their former home, ships and soldiers had been dispatched from the mainland, and there were radio reports of intense fighting and shelling. A blockade had been set up, effectively placing the island under quarantine. With this news all three agreed that they had made the right decision, but secretly Muñoz knew that Torres had doubts, that the Adventura could be a plague ship, and that the most likely carrier on the entire boat was Muñoz himself. Determined to protect the rest of the crew, as well as the next port of call from infection, Torres decided to quarantine Muñoz and keep close tabs on the rest of the ship.
Over the next several days Muñoz’s wound healed nicely, but he began to ache at his joints and he had a low fever. Fearing that he might succumb to the virulent frenzy that swept through Port Clarence, Torres kept his partner sedated using the Luminal liberally. The rest of the crew showed no sign of medical problems, save for those normally associated with running a ship, and Torres soon ingratiated himself with the men by tending to their various wounds and injuries as best he could. Though the crew had grown comfortable with their two passengers, the captain had concerns and Muñoz was unfortunate enough to overhear a conversation between Torres and Allnut that warned the doctor that if Muñoz began to exhibit any signs of carrying the disease, he would put the two men in a lifeboat and set them adrift. Torres assured Allnut that Muñoz’s symptoms weren’t a sign of infection, but rather the result of an uncontrolled case of malaria. The lie seemed to satisfy the gruff first mate, but Muñoz knew the truth: the Luminal may have slowed its progress, but there was no doubt he was infected.
It was under these conditions that the two doctors hit upon an idea as to how to cure Muñoz. Using the Luminal, Muñoz would be placed in a deep state of unconsciousness, and then he would be alternatively immersed in hot and cold water for extended periods. It was hoped that the unconscious state would protect the brain from pain, while the hot and cold baths would act to kill whatever pathogen caused the disease, much like the process of pasteurization. It was a risky procedure, but one Torres thought he could handle on his own, using the equipment at hand.
What happened to Muñoz following the injection, Muñoz himself could not say, but Torres recorded the treatment in detail in his journal. After assuring himself that the subject was unconscious and failed to react to stimuli, Torres immersed the patient into a bath of seawater. Though not anywhere near freezing, the seawater was cold enough to slowly drop body temperature. After an hour, Muñoz’s body began to show the early signs of hypothermia, but Torres did nothing and let the body drop even colder, well below what was normally considered safe. Then he pulled the body from the tub and slid it into another tub, this one filled with water at extremely high temperatures, near boiling. While immersed in this bath, Muñoz’s head was wrapped with cool wet towels. After twenty minutes in the hot bath, Muñoz’s body temperature began to rise above a safe level, and Torres plunged him back into the cold water tub. This alternating process of cold and hot water treatments was repeated four times in about five hours. Afterwards, Torres wrapped the body in moist bandages and made sure the man remained unconscious for another twenty hours.
The next day, Muñoz awoke feeling tired but relatively pain-free. He had no fever and it appeared that the treatment, as radical as it was, had been successful. The only issue was a lingering odor of spoiled milk, which seemed to come directly from his skin. Torres theorized th
at the moist bandages had contributed to a dermal yeast infection. Regardless, there was no trace of infection, and Muñoz was soon up on deck and taking in the sea air.
A day later they were in Casablanca. There was some concern amongst authorities that they had come from Port Clarence. Apparently the entire city had been burned to the ground with all inhabitants lost. Captain Larsen eased these concerns with a forged log book showing that they had left a week earlier than the outbreak, and a hefty bribe to the port master. Young Englehorn had performed his duties with distinction and was offered a permanent berth on the Adventura which he happily accepted. Allnut, the gruff first mate, made arrangements for the two doctors on a freighter heading to Spain, at Captain Larsen’s expense. The two doctors spent one last night with the Adventura and then transferred their meager belongings to the Susan B. Jennings. Muñoz never saw Englehorn, Captain Bull Larsen, or Allnut ever again.
The trip to Spain was uneventful, though the doctors spent considerable funds preparing for their sudden return to Barcelona. Winter still gripped the region, and the two doctors had little in the way of protective clothing. Although, oddly, Muñoz seemed not to be bothered by the chilly breezes that blew across the Mediterranean Sea. Indeed, if anything, he was more comfortable at temperatures that would make other men shiver. This strange adaptation to a cooler climate, coupled with the milky odor, were the only discernable after-effects of the infection and subsequent treatment. Such aberrations seemed a small price to pay for survival.
It was not until March of 1905 that the true nature of Muñoz’s transformation began to become clear. That was the day that Muñoz awoke and had the greatest of difficulty speaking. It could be done, but only with intense concentration, and the result was a muted, whispering lilt that was at best a parody of his previous voice. To Torres’s surprise, the cause was rudimentary: Muñoz’s lungs were no longer functioning in any appreciable manner; indeed, the volume of air moving in and out of Muñoz’s mouth was fully less than a tenth that of a normal man. A full examination revealed a similar situation with his heart and circulation. All of the man’s vital signs were severely depressed, and were it not for the fact that he was moving and talking, Torres would have considered the man near death.
Both doctors agreed that examination of the metabolic processes that allowed Muñoz to function without significant respiration or cardiac activity was needed, and so the two embarked on a battery of examinations and analyses that put their medical and scientific skills to the ultimate test. In the end it came down to the odor that still originated from Muñoz. The stench of spoiled milk had never faded and was a clue to the strange transformation that had altered his physiology. For Muñoz’s metabolism had suffered a radical change; instead of functioning in a primarily aerobic manner, the tissues of his body had become anaerobic, not unlike yeast cultures. This was the source of the sour odor that came from Muñoz, and also explained his comfort at cooler temperatures.
It was an amazing discovery, but it was not without its negative connotations. His immune system had slowed as well, and as a result, bacterial colonies had begun to thrive. The cold was keeping these things from overwhelming him, but routine cleansings of the intestinal tract and the abdominal cavity were going to be required to keep things in check. Additionally, certain specialized cells seemed to have died out altogether, including sweat glands, hair follicles and the cuticles of his fingers and toes. It seemed unavoidable; the bat-borne virus had infected Dr. Rafael Carlos Garcia Muñoz and radically altered the metabolism of his body. Only Torres’s treatment had protected the brain, preventing Muñoz from suffering damage from the extreme fever, and becoming a mindless cannibal like those that had ravaged Port Clarence.
Such a finding was astounding, and the two researchers spent several marathon days carrying out experiments and documenting their results without sleep. Thus when Torres collapsed and Muñoz was forced to carry the poor man to his bed, it did not immediately cause concern. But a day later when Torres began to complain of joint pain and a fever, Muñoz became suspicious. By that afternoon Muñoz had confirmed that Torres had somehow contracted the fever and was now manifesting symptoms. He broke the news as gently as he could to his oldest and dearest friend, and the two spent some time commiserating and deciding on a course of action.
It was agreed that Muñoz would repeat the treatment of Luminal combined with cold and hot water immersions. The procedure would be significantly easier as cold water and ice were readily available. Together they outlined the procedure, prepared the syringe, and baths, and scheduled when the transfers would occur. No detail of the procedure was left to chance, and the notes that Torres had made were consulted frequently. Despite such preparations, when the time came neither man was fully prepared to carry out the procedure, and Muñoz’s hand shook as he injected his friend with a dose of Luminal.
Over the next five hours Muñoz labored over the body of his friend, transferring it from cold water bath to hot water both and then back again. Over and over again Muñoz dragged his friend from one extreme to another, always careful to follow the schedule the two had laid out. Time crawled slowly, and on more than one occasion Muñoz despaired that his friend might not respond to the treatment, but always he followed the directions and made sure the procedure was completed. Afterwards, with his friend wrapped in bandages and left in his bed, Muñoz collapsed in exhaustion, disturbed only by the fear that Torres would not survive the treatment.
It was twenty hours that Muñoz had to wait, twenty long impatient hours in which Muñoz could do nothing for his friend but watch and wait. He slept for the first half, and then prepared and ate a modest meal. With five hours to go, it dawned on Muñoz that Torres would be famished when he awoke, that they should celebrate, that he should prepare a feast. So the remaining hours were spent gathering the ingredients and combining them in the most spectacular of ways. He made ropa viejo, picadillo, and arroz con pollo with a black bean sauce. He prepared madeira and bought an exquisitely delicate flan. He brought out the fine silver, the best crystal, and plates they only used for special occasions, matched with silk linens. With an hour left he lit the candles and left to awaken his friend, carrying with him a plate of bread, cheese and a large knife.
It had been nearly twenty hours, and Torres had yet to show any sign of awakening. Even as Muñoz unwrapped the bandages, his friend lay still and silent, and Muñoz began to fear the worst. His fear grew as the bandages parted, revealing the grey, still flesh of the body below. Tears filled his eyes as the stiffness in the limbs hinted at the rigor so commonly associated with death. In despair, Muñoz collapsed at the side of the bed and wept. So deep was his sadness that it was only when Torres sat fully upright that Muñoz noticed that his friend was moving.
Tears of anguish turned to tears of joy, and with unbridled zeal Muñoz embraced Torres, cradling the man’s head against his own. But for all of Muñoz’s elation, for all of his happiness, for all his joy, Torres sat as still as stone, and as silent as the night ocean. He said nothing and his breast did not rise, for he did not breathe. Slowly Muñoz ceased his uncontrolled outburst, and came to realize that the body of his friend was warmer than it should have been; in fact it was more than warm, it was hot, sweltering, feverish.
With a start Muñoz drew back. The doctor looked into the face of his friend, and he saw the eyes, those dark, hollow empty eyes. All trace of his friend was gone, forced out by the infection that brought only rage and pain. In a last desperate gesture Muñoz reached out and placed his hand ever so gently against Torres’s cheek. It rested there for a moment, and for a second there was a glint of something that might have been recognition. Torres reached out and placed a hand on Muñoz’s wrist. A smile broke on Muñoz’s face as hope gave way to belief and then once more a hint of joy. It was just as that joy began to blossom that Torres lunged forward, pushing Muñoz to the floor.
Torres rose up off the bed, and as he did so his jaws opened wide in a great maw of gnashing, ravagi
ng teeth and blood and spittle. He roared as he came up off the bed. Like a great beast hungering for prey, Torres slavered forward, forcing Muñoz to scramble back across the floor until he was pinned against the dresser. Torres—or what was once Torres—stalked toward the cowering Muñoz, slowly and methodically. It gave Muñoz more time, and as he pulled back, the tray of bread and cheese tumbled down off the dresser and onto the floor. With it came the knife; the steel blade shone like a star as it lay there on the floor, calling out to him. With a swift fluid motion the blade was in his hand and a moment later he was on his feet. Torres lunged, but Muñoz slipped to the side, letting the thing that was once his friend slam into the dresser and the wall as well. Unaffected, the creature spun around and searched the room for its prey. There was a flash of brilliant steel, a lightning strike that cut across the thing’s throat, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake. Blood erupted from a gash in the Torres-thing’s neck and flowed like a torrent across its chest. Torres staggered back and Muñoz took the opportunity to strike again. A second gash, a third, and Torres collapsed backwards onto the dresser.
Hours later, as Muñoz fed pieces of the body into the flames, there were tears in his eyes. His friend of forty years was dead, killed by his own hand, and as much as he would want to, there was no time to mourn. The body was infectious, it had to be destroyed, and the rest of the house had to be cleaned as well. Blood coated the floor of the bedroom, and it took hours to mop up and feed the rags into the flames. But it was the last piece that Muñoz held onto that brought the grieving doctor to his knees. He held it at a distance, the thing that he had hacked off of the body of his friend, and with care he said his goodbyes and tossed the severed head into the flames. He watched for a moment, to assure himself that it was well into the blaze, and then despite all of his reservations he walked away, unable to watch as the still undead head of his friend mouthed a silent, raging scream as the fire consumed the last traces of Dr. Esteban Torres.