The 6th Plague

by Darren Hale

  Eduardo had been right after all. ‘You have done well, Felipe.’

  ‘Thank you Camarada Barrera…’

  Fearing for the safety of the artefacts, Enrique had then dispatched Gomez and Felipe in search of crates, with orders to then inventory and box the artefacts and transport them back to the camp. The return trip would have taken them an hour or more, nevertheless, he’d still been there when they’d returned, marvelling at the wealth they’d discovered.

  In all, he wasn’t sure how long he’d spent inside the tomb, but by the time he’d embarked upon his return, the sun had been high in the sky.

  His chest tickled…

  The tomb had been cold and dusty.

  It was hot.

  Moisture dribbled down from his nose to his lips.

  He dabbed at it.

  Blood…

  Thinking nothing of it, he wiped his fingers against the leg of his pants. It wasn’t the first time he’d had a nosebleed…

  The walk seemed arduous – longer than he’d remembered.

  Had he perhaps gone the wrong way?

  He started to pant.

  The air seemed turgid – heavy to his lungs.

  Or was it just the heat?

  And then came the cough – a hacking, rasping cough that seared his throat, leaving it raw to the breaths that followed.

  He steadied himself against a tree, until his chest had settled and his efforts had been rewarded with a great glob of phlegm that he then spat onto the ground, where it lay; a slug-like smear of mucus stained with flecks of blood.

  42

  Friday 20th October:

  Well, there’s a lot more than seven or eight of them,’ said Martin, lowering his binoculars.

  ‘I could have sworn there were only seven or eight at most…’ Juliet whispered.

  ‘Well princess – looks like you were wrong.’

  She punched him in the leg. ‘Stop calling me that – it’s so patronising! And while you’re at it – how’s about letting me take a look for myself?’

  ‘Okay princ… Okay… Have a look for yourself,’ he said, as he passed the binoculars across to her.

  Juliet took them from his hand and shuffled forwards until she was lying on her belly next to him, her shirt acquiring a number of new stains in the process. At his insistence, she’d traded her brightly patterned blouse for one of his own khaki-coloured shirts. He grinned inwardly, having recalled her rather animate protests at having to wear it, though her objections lay not so much in the choice of garment, but the fact that he’d already used it, soiling it with his own sweat and grime. When advised that the shirt was in fact only one of a pair, the companion to which he was currently wearing (but would have willingly surrendered had she so desired), she had finally relented and disappeared into the tent to change, a grimace plainly inscribed across her face.

  Juliet raised the binoculars and looked out across the camp.

  ‘Oh my…’ she exclaimed. ‘I see what you mean.’ As far as she could see there were at least twice the number of men she’d originally estimated. She jutted her chin towards a group that were working in the forest at the far end of the camp. ‘And what are they up to?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not quite sure I know who you’re referring to,’ said Martin, a little peevishly. ‘You have the binoculars remember.’

  Juliet continued without lowering the binoculars, having missed (or perhaps ignored) the not-so-subtle cue that he wanted her to return them. ‘It looks like they’re wrapping string around the trunks of the trees.’

  ‘It’s det-cord,’ he explained. ‘A high explosive cable that burns so quickly, a mile-long piece of the stuff will go up almost instantaneously.’

  ‘So what are they using it for?’

  ‘I imagine they’re trying to clear out room for a runway. It’s one of the reasons these bastards are so hard to keep track off. Using that stuff, they can carve out a new runway in a matter of hours, fly in or fly out whatever it is they’re trafficking, and move on before anyone’s the wiser.’

  She lowered the binoculars to look at him but ignored his out-stretched hand. She had no intention of returning them just yet. She wasn’t finished. ‘So, what would they be flying in?’

  ‘I think it’s more likely to be a case of what they’re flying out… The treasures you found, cocaine from one of the nearby plantations, or even prisoners perhaps?’

  He’d mentioned the last item without thinking.

  Juliet scowled at him. ‘Prisoners… You think they’re planning on keeping them prisoner?’

  ‘If they’re lucky…’

  ‘And if they’re unlucky?’

  ‘Then they’ll probably just execute them…’

  The thunderclap of an explosion drew their conversation to a close. It echoed through the jungle, sending the trees along the northern edge of the camp quivering as if slapped by a mighty hand, as clouds of birds darted skywards; dirty smudges against a honey-coloured sky.

  43

  Friday 20th October:

  Eduardo lay in his hammock, his chest rising and falling in a feeble affirmation of life. The bag that had trickled fluids into his veins, had wilted above him, now drained of every drop: as empty as the shell of the man it had sought to nourish. It didn’t take a doctor to know that he was dying.

  And Enrique did not need a doctor to tell him that he was dying too. He’d reached that conclusion all on his own. He had that same bloody cough and bruise-like welts as the bastard who’d infected him.

  Raging inwardly, he uncoiled his arm like an explosion, striking the drip bag and sending it spinning to the floor amid a cascade of tiny droplets. The fragile needle tore from Eduardo’s arm, liberating a stream of blood that curled languidly across his skin, propelled by nothing more than the feeble whisper of his heart.

  Having arrived back at the camp, Enrique had gone straight to the medical tent, where he’d found the little bottle of pills resting on a trestle table at Eduardo’s side. He’d poured two into his own hand and swallowed them, chasing them with a few sips from his canteen before pocketing the rest. Only then had he noticed the florid sores on Eduardo’s arm, peeking out from beneath the sheets, and only then had he thought to check himself, only to discover that he had been similarly afflicted...

  Footsteps came running…

  It was Jorge.

  ‘Camarada Barrera. Is everything okay?’ he enquired, clearly confounded as to what he should do next.

  Enrique waved him away. ‘Go fetch me the doctor!’

  ******

  ‘Will you stop pushing me!’ said Catherine testily, as she stepped into the tent, having been goaded onward by another shove of the hand. Having endured many very long and sleepless hours lying on the hard ground, with her hands and legs tied so tightly she’d feared for her circulation, she was not in the best of humours, and inclined to forget that their captors carried guns…

  Her eyes strayed past the figure standing inside, and on toward the body lying in the hammock behind him. ‘Look – it’s like I told you,’ she said wearily, ‘there’s nothing more I can do for him. Not without knowing what I’m dealing with.’

  ‘How could you not know – you are a doctor are you not?’

  ‘I am a doctor!’ she protested impudently, bringing her tired eyes into focus on the figure standing ahead of her and recognising him belatedly as the man in charge of their captors – Enrique Barrera. ‘But I am not a hospital… And this man needs a hospital. He has a serious infection and without access to the right treatments – he will die!’

  Enrique opened his mouth to speak.

  And coughed instead…

  The short inhalation that should have preceded his words had instead provoked a fit of coughing, so severe it would have been more accurate to describe the product of his efforts as blood tinged with phlegm, rather than the other way around.

  His chest spasmed as he coughed again and again before, with a hand resting on the table and head bowed, he
brought it under control.

  Catherine’s chest tightened as she realised. “Eduardo’s not the patient, is he?”

  Enrique spat the blood from his mouth, then shook his head.

  She folded her arms defiantly. Being so tired, both hate and fatigue had looked the same upon her face, and the look she had given him had not, therefore, incited reprimand. ‘And why should I help you? Will you let us go free when you’ve taken whatever it is you want?’

  ‘Perhaps…’

  Having come a little too easily, Enrique’s answer had lacked conviction, and Catherine was not convinced. Nevertheless, sensing that she might have some advantage over him, she decided to press the issue. ‘You have treated us like animals. My friends and I are tired, hungry, and thirsty. You barely give us enough to survive and you leave us sleeping on the floor. I want food, water, and medicines. And blankets to sleep on!’

  Enrique smiled, though there was clearly nothing sincere behind the gesture. ‘And, if I don’t agree?’

  Catherine glared at him. ‘Then you can rot for all I care!’

  Enrique’s smile became a scowl. ‘Do you hear that Jorge? We are accused of being poor hosts.’ He started to laugh, only to have the laugh become another series of hacking coughs, following which his scowl transformed into a malicious grin. Having wiped the bloodstained mucus from his lips, he took his canteen from his hip and sipped from it, carelessly letting blood and water mix. He then stoppered it and handed it to Jorge. ‘See that our guests receive this as a gift from me…’

  Catherine lunged; her hand outstretched to intercept the canteen.

  Enrique caught her by the wrist and spun her around, forcing her towards the ground as Jorge accepted the flask. ‘And now perhaps, I can be sure of your unwavering commitment?’

  44

  Friday 20th October:

  ‘Hey – I think I just saw Catherine,’ said Juliet excitedly. ‘I’m sure it was her…’

  Martin held out his hand again. ‘Let me see.’

  Juliet pouted and handed him the binoculars.

  ‘I can’t see her,’ he said a moment later.

  ‘I saw her – I’m sure. She was coming from Eduardo’s tent. There was someone guarding her.’

  Martin panned the binoculars across the clearing. ‘Did you happen to see where they were taking her?’ he asked.

  Juliet nodded, though there was no way he could have seen the movement. ‘It looked like they were heading towards the dining tent.’

  Martin focused his gaze in that direction. ‘That would explain the two guards,’ he said. ‘And, given that they’re still there, I can only imagine they’re holding the others prisoner too.’

  Juliet’s face flushed with excitement. ‘You think they’re still alive?’

  Martin lowered the binoculars but did not offer them up. ‘I think that’s quite possible. I suspect they’ll keep them alive just as long as they’re here. They’re not likely to dispose of any bargaining chips unless they have to.’

  ‘We have to save them!’ said Juliet impulsively.

  ‘I’m sorry princess, but there’s no way we’re going to rescue them. We wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  Juliet’s face was a sea of conflicted emotions as she battled her internal angst. ‘We need to get that spare battery at least,’ she conceded.

  ‘Look – I’m not going back into that camp…’ he started angrily, though she did not give him a chance to finish.

  ‘So just what kind of spy are you exactly?’ she asked. ‘Because right now I can’t see that you’re much use to anyone. If you haven’t got a radio, how do you plan to let your bosses know what you’ve found. Or do you plan to let them get away?’

  ‘Look I…’ And then he changed his mind. ‘We’ll have to wait until it gets dark...’

  To Juliet’s relief, the wait had not been as long as she might have anticipated. The undergrowth around the edge of the clearing had provided them with ample cover; lush, dense tangles of greenery that, in the months they’d been there, had competed to exploit the light they’d been afforded once the canopy had been removed, nevertheless, she’d felt vulnerable and exposed, to the few men patrolling the perimeter of the camp as well as the many-legged things patrolling her immediate vicinity. As the day had progressed from morning to afternoon, the sky had filled with brooding clouds that had encroached upon her position, chaperoned by the barbs of lightning as they brought darkness ahead of the dusk.

  Having decided that now was his opportunity, Martin had ventured into the camp, though, with time being the ephemeral thing that it was, the minutes that followed had quickly outweighed the hours that had come before, and his absence had seemed like a lifetime.

  A whip-like crack of lightening bristled from the sky. It seemed odd that a storm might rage so close without a drop of rain, but as Juliet knew well, the rain was coming, bringing with it a downpour worthy of the old testament. And that was no bad thing... Not for Martin at least…

  But she on the other hand, was about to get very, very, wet…

  There was another thunderous clap and the sky lit up like a flashbulb, albeit just long enough for it to leave a lasting impression on her retina before it was gone again.

  And then came the first, pregnant drops of rain, soaking everything they touched.

  She pulled herself forward, beneath the leafy fronds of the plants that surrounded her, only to distance herself again, having remembered the rather unsavoury beasties that might well have been doing the same thing. The rain was now coming down in bucket loads, and leafy cover or not, she would soon be soaked through. The sound of it was almost deafening, and when added to the cacophony of thunder strikes, it was almost impossible to hear anything more than a few feet away…

  A boot landed next to her head…

  She had been so preoccupied she’d failed to notice Martin’s return.

  He reached down and grabbed her arm. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said, brandishing the battery pack.

  45

  Saturday 21st October:

  Angus felt miserable. The pain in his leg had been intensifying by the hour and it now felt like something was festering there. He wanted to reach down and explore it with his hands but the knots around his wrists prevented it. Hunger roiled in his stomach and his lips felt like soot, aching for water. The guards had only once thought to bring them something to drink.

  ‘Where’s Catherine?’ he moaned. It had been some hours since his last dose of painkillers and antibiotics, and the foggy-headed oblivion that came with the tablets was far preferable to the hell of his reality.

  ‘They’ve taken her,’ Carmen coughed, her voice a hacking rasp. Angus had not noticed it before, though in truth much of the last twenty-four hours had passed beyond his awareness. That slight tickle, that had at first done nothing more than trip a few of her words, had become a troublesome bark that did not wait for her to speak. ‘Why?’ he asked. And then he realised. ‘Ohh… Is he not dead yet?’

  It seemed odd having no Juliet or Catherine to berate him for his choice of words, and when Carmen answered in their place, she did not sound the least bit judgemental, having perhaps shared his opinion that the punishment fitted the crime.

  ‘It would appear not...’

  The tent flap rustled.

  And Catherine stumbled inside.

  ‘The wanderer returns…’ Angus observed. ‘We were just talking about you.’

  ‘Why? Did you miss me?’

  ‘No half… My leg is killing me,’ he groaned.

  ‘Then you’d best let me take a look at it,’ she said, sagging to the floor next to him. Having removed some packets of bandages and a bottle of pills from her pockets, she started to loosen the bonds around his ankles.

  Half delirious, Angus pulled away. ‘No don’t – they’ll kill us.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she assured him. ‘They’ve given me permission to remove the ties – just as long as you don’t try to escape.’

  Ang
us relaxed. ‘Why the sudden change of heart do you think?’

  ‘Seriously… Have you seen yourself recently?’ she said as she started to untwine the bandages covering his wound. ‘I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere…’ Her voice tailed off. She’d spotted the empty canteen lying on the floor, drained of every drop…

  ‘How’s it doing?’ Angus asked, as the last of the bandages came away.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she lied.

  ‘Yeh – except that your face says it isn’t,’ Angus observed.

  And he was right… Had this been a hospital patient in a hospital bed, her words might have conveyed some hope. A few intravenous antibiotics and an operation to clean the wound was all that was needed. The bullet had passed through the muscle and emerged the other side, nevertheless, it would have deposited bits of bacteria-ridden dirt amongst the rich compost of dead tissue it had created. Add in the heat, flies, and dehydration, and the wound was destined to fester, no matter how many antibiotics she fed him.

  And it had…

  …To the point that her nose had alerted her to the fact long before she had removed the dressing that covered it. The skin surrounding the wound was puckered and red and oozed a thick yellow pus.

  She cleaned it as best she could with sterile water before applying some clean dressings.

  ‘They let you have those?’ Angus enquired somewhat circumspectly.

  ‘Uh huh…’

  ‘In return for treating Eduardo…’

  ‘Sort of…’

  Angus groaned as she fixed the bandages in place.

  Catherine then took a little green capsule from an unmarked bottle and fed it to him.

  Angus swallowed the pill. ‘Sort of – how?’ he asked, pressing her for a response. ‘You’ve been gone for hours.’

  Catherine gave a brief account of her day as she turned to treat the others in turn.