Victor Methos - Plague

It began with a cough.

Michael Pettrioli sat on a large stone near the Amazon River, sipping warm water out of a plastic bottle. The river churned its brownish contents into white foam and though he was only a few feet away from his adventure guide, who was convincing a local tribesman that they were not here to steal their women, he couldnt hear anything but the river.

Itd been two days since hed felt feverish and last night hed been up at least half a dozen times either vomiting or with diarrhea. For several days before, he was unable to sleep from the blanket of insects that would attack him at night as he lay in a hammock a couple feet off the ground. Even with nets and repellent he seemed helpless to fight them. They ranged from harmless pests to life-threatening monsters. There was one type of biting fly that sought the fleshy part of the lip and injected her eggs there. One person in the group had already become a host and the guide had said theyd need to wait until the eggs are larger and cut them out with a hot scalpel.

The adventure guide, a tall Australian man by the name of Clifford, finished speaking with the local villager and then came over and leaned down in front of Michael. He placed his hand on his head and then his neck.

You dont look so hot, mate. Feeling warm.

Just a little fever, Michael said. Its nothin.

Well, isnt nothing out here nothing. I think I need to send you back to the village to see a doc.

No way. I blew ten Gs for this trip and I aint goin back to spend the next week in some filthy hospital bed. Im fine, seriously. I think I caught a stomach bug or somethin. Im sure Ill be cool in another day or two.

Clifford shrugged and stood up. If you say so. Stay hydrated best you can. If were moving too fast, you let me know.

Thanks.

It wasnt long until Clifford gave the word that it was time to move out. They had at least a six-hour trek ahead of them before nightfall and much of the terrain they needed to cover was either dense vegetation that needed to be cut through or muddy ground that would come up to their ankles. It was tough going for the most experienced of guides and Michael knew for an amateur like him, feeling like he did, it was going to be hell.

But this wasnt the first time hed experienced hell.

He grabbed his backpack and followed the group of seven into the dense jungle canopy. They didnt speak or laugh or crack jokes as they did the first few days. Everyone was dehydrated and tired, a few of them sick, most of them hungry, and none of them having a good time.

Michael kept his eyes on the ground, watching his feet as he pushed one foot and then the other in front of him. That was how he had climbed Everest and how he crossed half the continent of Africa. One step at a time. But this was much harder. With each step he felt his strength leaving him and his mind turning to mush. He couldnt think clearly and after about an hour his vision began to blur.

He kept this to himself. The girl in front of him was ten feet away and he kept his eyes on her boots, a magnet to draw him forward. But as his vision grew worse, so did his nausea. He felt bile in his throat and tried to swallow it down but could only do so much before it burst out of his mouth.

Considering there was nothing in his stomach but crackers and water, hardly anything came up. But it was so violent that it brought him to his knees. He felt the soft, wet dirt underneath him, against his skin. It felt welcoming, much more so than the humid air and the insects burrowing into him. He collapsed onto his back, certain he would just take a quick nap and then catch up to the group.

When Michael awoke he was in a hospital bed, staring up at dirty ceiling. He glanced next to him and saw a nurse wiping a needle that she had just removed from the arm of the patient in the bed next to him. She then placed it in a bottle, withdrawing fluid before sticking it into his arm. Michael looked away and saw Clifford sitting in a chair by the bed.

Where are we? Michael said, his voice raspy.

Hospital in Iquitos. How ya feeling?

Like I got hit by a truck. You drive me back here?

Came in by plane.

Man, he said, turning his face up to the ceiling, dont remember that plane ride. How long it take?

Bout twenty minutes.

You dont have to sit here with me, Cliff. You need to go with the group.

Nah, I aint never left a fella behind yet. Groups good. I got someone to cover for me. I just wanted to make sure youre feeling right as rain before I go on my way.

Michael took a deep breath. Ten grand down the crapper.

Well, well give you a discount next time. Cheer up and get better. There are more adventures yet for a young bloke like you.

The nurse jabbed a needle in his arm again and Michael flinched. Ouch. What is that?

Chloroquine. They think you got yourself a bad casea malaria.

Shit, he said, shaking his head, can she at least get a new needle?

Dont work that way here. Clifford rose to his feet. Well, I leave you in good hands. I got some things to do in town and Ill be back to check on you tomorrow before I head out.

Thanks. Sorry about all this.

Clifford put his hand on Michaels shoulder. No worries.

Ten minutes after Clifford had left, the nurse gave Michael a shot of morphine. That feeling he knew. He drifted off into his memories, remembering playing with his grandfather in the garden by his house. He was smiling and relaxed when he felt a wet sensation on his chin and chest. He looked down to see black blood spreading in a large pool. Lazily, he brought his hand up to his mouth and came away with dark ooze on his hand. It was coming out of his mouth, nose, and eyes and he was choking.

He tried to scream and it came out a gurgling wet mess. He began coughing violently, spatters of the black liquid flying over the hospital room. The nurse was shouting something and a doctor came in. They held him down as he thrashed violently, the pain rising from his stomach to his throat and out of his mouth. The morphine didnt touch it.

He gurgled one final scream before he lay back on the bed, his lungs filled with blood, and life began to leave him.

Dr. Jose Cabero sat in his office on the second floor of the Health Administration Building in Lima and wondered why he had been sent a file about a death from over 629 miles away. This was something the locals should have dealt with. He sighed as he opened the folder, looked at the photo of the patient, and saw his nationality: American. That was the reason. The death of an American in a high tourist locale had to be addressed immediately. Americans were prone to panic and tourism was the lifeblood of many of the small villages. Without the guided tours and photo safaris and sightseers, many would starve.

He read the autopsy report of the treating physician, Dr. Alvarez, and reread the cause of death: DEATH BY MISADVENTURE. It was a way of saying they had no idea how he died without saying it officially.

Cabero looked at the autopsy photos and saw the young man covered in a thick, black liquid. It appeared like blood from a liver wound. He had seen many abdominal gunshot-wound victims with similar-looking blood. But underneath the skin was a thick, purple coloring giving him the appearance of being charred in a fire. That, he had not seen before. At the end of the file was a note from Dr. Alvarez: Call me right away.