Plague

CHAPTER 3

Clifford Lane finished the tour near the Jutai River and thanked the five remaining guests, taking a moment to answer questions and exchange emails. A few of them told him they’d like to stay in touch and talk about another tour next year.

When he was done he gathered up his supplies, rolling his tent and strapping it to his backpack, which lay on the ground. He went to stand on the edge of the river and dialed a number on his cell phone. There was still no reception. He turned the phone off and heaved the backpack on before taking a deep breath and starting the two-mile hike to the village and the Jeep that awaited him. From there, it was on to a plane headed for Brazil for a few days of relaxation before going back home to Honolulu.

As he trekked through the vegetation he felt an enormous amount of sweat pouring down his forehead. It made his shirt cling to his back and he had to stop every few minutes and guzzle down as much water as he could. His legs began to feel weak from the dehydration and he stopped underneath a large capirona tree and lay down, putting his arm over his face to shield it from the sun that was beating down through the canopy. He felt hot and faint and remembered that he hadn’t eaten since this morning. He pulled out a granola bar and some jerky and ate them slowly with a bottle of water. Waiting another few minutes, he felt better, rose, and began to walk.

Clifford climbed aboard the 747 bound for Rio de Janeiro and collapsed into his seat. It seemed he couldn’t get the sweat to stop pouring out of him no matter how much water he drank. The fever had increased to the point that he couldn’t sleep and the previous night, which he’d spent in a hotel, he’d lain in bed with an icepack on his head, rubbing furiously at a rash that was developing on his chest.

He reached up and turned on the air conditioning, pointing the fan over his face. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes and his eyeballs felt hot against his lids. He debated just getting a sooner flight back home to Honolulu where his girlfriend, a nurse, could get him in to a good doctor at a good hospital right away.

“You doin’ okay, buddy?” the guy next to him asked.

“Fine,” he said without opening his eyes.

Clifford felt vomit rising in his throat. It came in waves, up and down his esophagus. He unbuckled his belt to go to the bathroom and the motion exhausted him.

“Holy shit!”

Clifford opened his eyes. The man next to him was staring at him liked he’d fallen out of the sky. He was about to ask what was wrong when he noticed the backs of his hands. They were turning a deep black just underneath the skin. Drops of blood fell on them from his nose. The blood was bright red, almost comically red; he’d never seen a red quite that color. He stood up to run to the bathroom when the man next to him screamed. Clifford looked down and saw the blood that had dripped over the man’s face.

“Sorry,” he said to no one as he stumbled out into the aisle. He leaned on the seats and pulled himself forward though his legs were not responding. It was like they were moving in slow motion; heavy, weighed down by something he couldn’t see.

Clifford reached for the doorknob of the bathroom as people on the plane were alerting the stewardess. He grabbed the doorknob, felt its warmth in his palm, and then the world went black as he fell forward into the door.