The Plague Tales

by Ann Benson

  They slept on the soft sand, their blankets beneath them, lulled to sleep by the thrumming of the nearby ocean. Alejandro awoke to the glint of the sun’s first rays peeping over the horizon. The sea birds fought vainly to be heard above the crashing of the early morning waves, screeching and shrieking as if to waken God Himself.

  He looked around for Hernandez, shading his eyes against the bright sun. He found the huge man splashing in the waves, refreshing himself in the cool salty water. Hernandez motioned wildly to his charge to come into the water, and eventually Alejandro rolled up his trousers and waded a few feet out, liking the feel of the sand and water between his bare toes. He went back ashore, stripped off his clothing, and plunged in.

  And for a few moments they were both untroubled and carefree, Hernandez shaking off his disturbing memories of wars past, and Alejandro recapturing the safer time when he had not been a fugitive. Neither man could name the shapeless dread that had crept uninvited into their journey. It settled slowly in the pits of their stomachs, this nagging undercurrent of fear, and became an unwelcome companion. Each one knew that this brief idyll was a calm before some turbulence, yet the tempest remained hidden, not ready to reveal itself.

  The beach was firm and well suited to riding, so they rode at water’s edge as much as possible, enjoying the cool spray of the surf, returning to the road only when the beach became too rocky for the safety of the horses. They made fair progress, Hernandez hoping to reach the Languedoc sea town of Narbonne by nightfall, for he knew of no fresh water source after Perpignan.

  It was in Narbonne that they heard of the disease’s arrival in Genoa. Alejandro was not entirely surprised to learn of its spread to the region’s most important trading port. Genoa had been the plague ship’s original destination, and its pestilential cargo had been sent there on another galleon. Within a few days of its arrival some members of the crew, who had dispersed into the community after their short voyage, began to experience the same illness as the crew of the ghost ship. Others among the ship’s sailors and trading agents had already boarded galleys bound for other ports, among them Marseilles, taking along the unknown cause of the pestilence.

  The malady first spread to the ship’s rowers, and gradually the entire lot of them was abandoned in their chains, either dead or dying. A gruesome tale was told of one galley slave who could be heard screaming for days, begging to be released, for he had managed miraculously to escape the contagion. Instead he died of dehydration at his oar, surrounded by his shipmates’ stinking bodies, as no one would board the ship to move the water barrel within his reach.

  They passed that night in the coastal town, having found a suitable inn with room to spare. New accounts of the plague’s spread comprised the entire evening’s conversation in the village cantina, no other topic being of nearly as much interest. The tone of the talk was hushed and anxious; there was great fear among the citizens that the mysterious ailment might spread to their region.

  Alejandro and Hernandez set out again at first light, having reprovisioned the night before, for their journey now seemed somehow more compelling and urgent. Although their pace had already been brisk, they resolved to travel even more intently, for Montpellier was now only one day’s hard ride away.

  And as the sun was setting, their lathered horses carried the two men over the last small rise before the gate to the ancient monastic town where Alejandro had spent that portion of his youth given to formal education.

  “It comes back to me so clearly now,” he said to Hernandez, “though the place is much changed! There are houses now where once there was empty land, and some of the streets have stones!” They rode farther into the town and Alejandro pointed out the house where he had boarded with a prominent Jewish family. “Perhaps I should present myself to them,” he said to Hernandez. Montpellier was part of his past, and reminded him of a happy time in his life. He found himself with a sudden and unaccountable ache for something familiar.

  “It would be wiser if you did not,” Hernandez said soberly, “unless, of course, there is no reason for you to fear discovery.”

  Alejandro would not meet his eyes, and let the matter fall without decision. They rode away from the house in silence. Farther along the same road they came to the beginnings of the university, and Alejandro became visibly excited. “Here a Jew can study without fear of mistreatment,” he said. “And yet this is a school founded by priests. The family who cared for me kept me under tight vigil, so I did little more than study while I was here. I regret now that I did not take the time to learn more about this city.”

  There was much activity in the city as they rode through the crowded streets. They were eager to find accommodations for the night, and stopped many people to ask for recommendations. Most were polite, but some seemed distracted and hurried off after brief excuses. Alejandro’s little-used French was weak at best and Hernandez, having even less, relied on Alejandro to speak and hear for him.

  When at last they were settled, Alejandro questioned the innkeeper about the flurry of activity in the city.

  “Monsieur, there is a terrible affliction that has visited our region. We thought it confined to Marseilles, but this morning a farmer came into town to report that his entire flock of sheep lies dead in the field, having succumbed en masse. People are anxious to leave town, fearing contagion, for no one knows who brings this pest or how it travels. And though I am glad to have your coins, you would be well served to travel on, hastening yourself away from this place.”

  After this conversation Hernandez took Alejandro aside. “I agree that we would do well to leave this city as quickly as possible, but we will stay the night. I am not heartened to be in the company of a physician, for you may be pressed into service by a priest or magistrate in authority. Hide your profession from anyone who inquires, or say you are a scholar.”

  “Hernandez,” Alejandro said to him, “you ask too much of me! I am bound by my oath to serve the sick and injured without concern for myself.”

  “Young friend, I implore you to protect your own health now. If you have such a desire to serve, you may find yourself far more useful if the plague spreads farther. When you are dead you can be of help to no one, least of all yourself.”

  Hernandez’s last statement sent a chill of foreboding through Alejandro’s spine. When you are dead, he repeated in his own mind.

  “When I am dead, Hernandez, I will no longer be your responsibility.”

  “Then I humbly request that you allow me to fulfill the terms of my employment with your family by delivering you safely to Avignon, as my full payment will not be received until you present yourself intact to the banker who will honor the letter of credit I carry from your father.”

  Alejandro assured Hernandez that he would stay out of harm’s way until they were safely in Avignon. “Please forgive me, Hernandez; I had no idea of the arrangements. You have been a noble companion and a creditable escort. You have protected me and I am humbly grateful. You shall have your small fortune, for you deserve it well. Alone on this journey I would have certainly perished.”

  Hernandez bowed majestically, sweeping his arm before him, saying, “I am at your service, señor. It has been my privilege to assist you on your journey to a new life.”

  The quarrelsome mood now dissipated, the travelers both prepared to settle into bed, and agreed to leave in the early morning for their final destination of Avignon.

  Six

  Ted found the microbiology lab empty except for the security guard.

  “There was a young lady just here looking for you, sir,” the guard said, “asking about some work she had in here. She was interested in that item there,” he told Ted, pointing to the fabric circle on the microscope. The man stood nervously waiting for some sort of response from the director, who was notoriously spare with his comments to lower-level Institute employees, most of whom felt rather uncomfortable in his presence.

  He looked down his long nose at the guard. “Did she say w
here she was going?”

  “To find you, she said, sir. I assume she went directly to your office.”

  “Then I imagine shell come back when my secretary informs her I’m here.” Ted gave the man a halfhearted smile, a stiff little curl at the corners of his mouth. He had meant to put the man at ease, but his disjointed facial gesture had the effect of making the man even more nervous.

  “Well,” said the guard, stepping backward toward the door, “I have my other rounds to make. If I should happen to see the young lady again, I’ll tell her you’re here.” The guard turned and completed his escape.

  As he waited for Bruce, Ted looked around the lab. True self-esteem comes from real accomplishment, he told himself, and in this building, Ted had accomplished a great deal. Since the Outbreaks he and Bruce had built the Microbiology Department into a scientific establishment of immense importance, not only for the experimental research that flowed out of it, but for its staff’s quick response capability in the face of a field crisis. The staff in this department had developed all the guidelines for the Biological Police Unit—he hated the word Biocop, but it had stuck like cold dried oatmeal the first time it was used by a journalist—and had trained the first officers assigned to that division of the Metro London Police Force. In his office Ted had a folder of résumés at least two inches thick with applicants waiting for the rare opening that came along in the Microbiology Department, and on Monday he intended to open that folder with the notion of separating out the best dozen as he began the process of replacing Frank. One lucky microbiologist would be getting the opportunity of a lifetime: he or she would happily work in England’s finest laboratory, surrounded by glass and chrome and white plastic laminate, with every piece of equipment, every new program, every robotic gizmo, that money could buy. Since the Outbreaks, when the flustered and overwhelmed minister of health saw what public health benefits could be derived from such a facility, funding had not been a problem.

  Ted had shrewdly built it up with Bruce’s support; it was sort of their baby together. Bruce, who insisted on keeping his hands on the actual work, was more in touch with its day-to-day operation. “I’m jealous, you know,” he’d once told Bruce. “You get to play with all the toys.” Bruce had countered, with similar envy, “Yeah, but you get to pick them out.”

  As he looked around at all those toys, Ted’s eyes came to rest on what had been Frank’s workstation. It was, in a true reflection of its former occupant, messy and unkempt, a marvel of contemporary chaos. He walked over to it and poked around among the piles of papers and stacks of research reports, looking for the list of preparations that needed to be made for the upcoming work, but it wasn’t readily visible. In an age when paper’s importance was dramatically diminished, Frank had managed to hold on to far more than his share, most of it, by Ted’s estimation, trivial. Ted hated this kind of disorder, and had frequently spoken to Frank about it. He had been about to make another attempt at correcting this glaring flaw in the otherwise superb technician when the man had the impertinence to expire inconveniently. He realized he’d have to get someone in here quickly to tie up the loose ends. Should’ve done it yesterday when I found out, he thought. But it hadn’t occurred to him that even Frank would leave such a mess behind.

  He began searching the area on the perimeter of the workstation. Lying on a nearby table was a reference book, obviously out of its proper place. He wondered what would happen if it were needed and could not be found. No doubt the party guilty of leaving it there would have been the first to complain. He picked it up and looked at the entry on the open page. Yersinia pestis. It didn’t ring a bell in any recent work. Oh, well, he thought, maybe the pages were blown over by the fan. He closed the book and continued looking around.

  He wondered if the preparation list had been in Frank’s pocket when he died. Stranger things had been found in the pockets of lab coats by the laundry staff. Of course his clothing and possessions would have been cataloged by the police. What would they do with such an article if they found it? He made a mental note to find out the name of the officer in charge of the postmortem investigation. He was grateful, at least, that the untimely death hadn’t occurred in the lab—it would’ve been weeks before the Biocops would let him back in, those very cops whose medical-training routines were developed in that lab. They would not hesitate to cause whatever delays they deemed necessary, and he couldn’t afford to wait that long to get started.

  Getting started would be a lot easier if I had that blasted list! he thought, his level of irritation rising. He decided that the logical place to look, outside of Frank’s pockets, would be the main office cubicle in the lab.

  Only seconds after Ted passed by the small table on which it rested, the edge of the tube of P. coli began to fizzle, exuding tiny frothy bubbles around the rim of the stopper. Thawed and warm, the bacteria had reached new heights of reproductive excess; the gases released by the flurry of microbial activity had increased dramatically. The vibration caused by Ted’s passing footsteps jostled the table just enough to get the gases moving around inside the tube. They swirled and frothed, destabilized, and approached a state of volatility. The stopper, though well enough secured for ordinary cold storage, reached the limit of its holding power; it clung precariously to the smooth glass of the tube until the lab’s automatic venting fan came on, subjecting it to one more wave of vibration. Then it quivered and let go, spraying foamy droplets of Palmerella coli all over the near surroundings in the lab.

  Had Ted actually seen the event as it took place, he would have been surprised by how far the spray carried. But his back was turned, and he didn’t see the frothy liquid fly out in an area about eight by twelve feet, roughly elliptical in shape, to contaminate nearly everything in its path, including the microscope on which Janie’s recent find was mounted. A droplet of P. coli landed directly on the fabric circle, saturating the area in which the mystery microbe rested, dormant again after her reproductive struggles.

  If Frank had been alive to watch, he would have been fascinated once more to see the newly moistened Yersinia pestis stretch and yawn, then begin to heave her sides again, trying with Herculean effort to divide. But this time she had a visitor who provided just the help she needed. Palmerella coli, true to its lusty nature, sent out a host of gene-transporting plasmids in search of a little hot sex, which it found in short order, for Gertrude, having lived in chaste dormancy for over six hundred years, was ready, ripe, and willing, opening her cell wall eagerly for the invasion of the genetic projectile. It slipped easily into her moist cell body, and they were one.

  After that, reproduction by division was a simple matter. Gertrude P. Coli was born.

  When he heard the shattering of glass and the popping of the stopper, Ted turned around, and almost instantly his nose was assaulted by a new odor. Grapes, he thought. Grapes gone bad. Following his nose, he came upon the scene of the small explosion. His eyes scanned the trail of broken glass and frothy liquid, and by following the increase in the intensity of debris he was able to locate the epicenter of the disaster. Shocked by what had happened to the point where he forgot the proper precautions, he picked up a large chunk of the exploded tube and turned it around and around in his ungloved hand, examining it closely. A small shred of its label still clung to the side of the tube. The letters P and c were smudged but readable.

  He knew that P. coli had been on his list of preparatory materials. “Bloody hell,” he said to the ghost of Frank, “I should have figured that you’d get around to taking the sample out of the freezer.” Ted knew that the sample could have been out of the freezer for as long as twenty-four hours, plenty of time for the buildup of pressure needed to cause such an explosion.

  He stared at the toxic mess in front of him, panicking, certain that his blood pressure was about to go through the roof. He’d have to clean it up himself. He couldn’t even let anyone know that this had happened, much less that it had happened during a project under his direction. He was tec
hnically required to report such an event to the Biological Police, and depending on the circumstances, prosecution might result. With Frank out of the picture Ted knew that he would be the focus of any investigation that followed. Good supervisory procedure demanded that he immediately investigate any ongoing work in which Frank had been involved at the time of his death, in order to maintain laboratory safety. Ted had failed to do this, which was a tremendous oversight on his part; he had to admit that he hadn’t even given it a thought.

  What a mess! he thought, and Bruce will be here momentarily.

  He had worked with P. coli often enough to know that it was the bacterial version of a harmless gigolo, and that on its own it was not toxic or particularly dangerous. But Ted was more worried about the microbe’s rather outgoing social behavior, the behavior for which it had been developed and was now cherished for research purposes: it was shamelessly willing to share its genetic material, and often did so with microbes that were the biological equivalent of complete strangers. He immediately ran back to the glass-enclosed office and reviewed the posted schedule of ongoing work, and was relieved to see that there were no open bacterial procedures listed. He went to the lab’s utility closet where he found an appropriate assortment of antibacterial cleaners, all of which were used regularly on the lab floors and flat surfaces. He gathered up an armful of spray bottles, then grabbed a roll of disposable towels and returned to the scene of the disaster.

  He carefully wiped all the nearby surfaces with a towel saturated in the strongest cleaner he could find. The chemical smell almost overpowered him; it was far worse than the fruit-gone-bad smell of the bacterial contamination. He disposed of each dirtied towel in an approved biohazard plastic bag. He wiped down the computerized microscope setup, but had to remove the small circle of fabric that had been on the plate in order to reach to the surfaces that were obscured by its overlap but not protected from contamination. He looked at it briefly as he turned it over in his hands. In his panic it didn’t occur to him to consider that it might have importance in and of itself. He placed it back in the correct position before finishing the wipe-down.