Chapter 1d: Leper's Mission

One leper didn’t run very far before scurrying into an alleyway. The Voice compelled him to hide there until told otherwise.

He hungered, but he couldn't feed. The Voice wouldn't release him to feed. He could sense food everywhere. It walked in the streets all around him, ignorant of his desires. Oh, how he wanted it. Tender flesh. Warm blood, pulpy organs. He craved the elastic texture of the flesh as it parted between his clenched teeth. He needed to taste that coppery tang on the remains of his decaying tongue. The desired to feel skin stretch to its limits then rip as he bit down and pulled filled his cold chest and made his mouth water with excitement. He wanted these things more than anything but he wasn't free yet.

Voices tormented him as more food strolled by his hiding spot. His tongue pushed against the bandages with a will of its own, hoping to get a taste of the flesh he craved. The bandages parted and his gray and black-splotched tongue protruded past the gauze, swiping back and forth with a mind of its own.

A dozen tormenting minutes passed before the Voice spoke. The time had come to continue his mission. He stepped out of the alleyway and walked through a maze of streets. His gaze pointed to the ground, and kept his head hidden deep within the hood of his robes. He stayed on the side streets and moved within the lengthening shadows; the Voice instructing his every move. It was his master and he had no choice in the matter. Choices had been given up long ago. He didn't miss them. He didn't remember them. The Voice and his hunger defined his world. Sometimes the Voice left him and only his hunger remained to guide his actions.

Within minutes he arrived at his destination. "Wait!" The Voice commanded. He stayed in the shadows, just another dark form in a pattern of silhouettes. More meat moved nearby. He could see them, could sense their presence. Two women stood with buckets next to a well. The sound of their laughter drew him like a leach to blood. His tongue darted out through the gauze; a snake tasting the air for prey.

He stumbled forward, overcome with hunger. "Wait!" He stopped, hunger almost overriding the Voice. The desire for flesh buffeted him in painful waves, but he stopped. He could taste it. He could feel it. The smell of flesh drifted through the air tantalizing him and calling him forward. His jaws worked up and down. His mouth began chewing what remained of his lips, biting down on his decayed and rotting tongue. A black flood filled his mouth and soaked the bandages, spilling over the ragged slit where his tongue protruded through the gauze. He didn't notice. He didn't feel it. His own blood didn't help; an hours d’oeuvre held before a starving man. The chewing was neither a conscious nor unconscious reaction to his hunger, it just happened.

If he could have let out a gasp of frustration he would have, but his lungs had given up on the same day that he gave up having a choice about matters.

The women collected their buckets and walked away, their voices fading into the darkness. They became like wisps of smoke in the lepers mind, diminishing in proportion with their voices until they were forgotten about all together.

"Now!"

As commanded, he walked to the well and pulled a narrow black dagger from within his robes. He placed his boil riddled hand over the edge of the well. Without hesitation he brought the edge of the dagger down on the last two fingers, pinching them between the blade and the hard stone of the well itself. He pushed down on the knife and didn't stop until his fingers separated from his hand and tumbled down the narrow shaft. They hardly made a splash as they fell into the water far below.

"Good. Good. Now on to the next one."

Chapter 1c: Drummen's Rotter

Drummen never lost sight of the rotter. The crowds parted as the leper passed through the street, making him easy to spot. Within seconds the other lepers had disappeared around corners and behind buildings, but he kept his eyes on the leader. That rotter was his.

The man moved faster than Drummen had given him credit for, weaving in and out of the crowded road, but he wasn’t fast enough to get away. Drummen closed the distance between them running just behind the leper. He gave the rotter a push. The man didn’t raise his arms to break his fall and crashed face first into the rough cobblestone street, skidding several feet before stopping.

Drummen towered over the rotter as air billowed in and out of his lungs and sweat dripped from his nose. Blood pulsed in his ears with the force of a drum and the acids in his stomach pushed against the back of his throat with more force than ever. He had reached the end of his already limited patience. “Get up.”

On his hands and knees the leper turned to Drummen letting out a hissing gasp of foul air.

The bandages on the rotter's face were skewed and for the first time Drummen could see the horror lying behind the mask. Two mucus filled holes dominated the face where a nose had once rested. Part of the bandages had fallen away from the man’s mouth displaying crooked, rotting teeth and gums peppered with rot and decay. The lips were a thick jagged line, chewed off at the base of the blackened teeth, giving the rotter a ghoulish grimace.

People screamed and back away from the disturbing site.

Drummen stepped back in horror as the leper stood and extended a gauze wrapped hand. He stepped toward Drummen, arms stretched out before him as if expecting a hug. Drummen stood, frozen in place with loathing and disgust. His eyes rolled down to watch the leper grasp his leather chest plate with bony fingers. The rotter’s saliva-dripping mouth rose to Drummen's neck.

The paralysis left as quickly as it started. Rage replaced Drummen’s fear. He pushed the rotter away and drew his sword. The leper stumbled back, but didn't flinch, and resumed his advance toward Drummen.

He didn’t think about what he did as his sword pierced the lepers stomach, meeting little resistance when the blade passed through the disease infested body. The leper continued walking, impaling himself further along the gore coated steel. A thick black ichor oozed from the wound and flowed down the blade, filling the air with the stench of hell itself. Enraged and reviled Drummen used all his might to jerk the sword sideways. The force of the swing spun the rotter as the blade ripped through organs and muscle slicing through the leper's side. More black ichor, slimy gray intestines, and other foul pieces gushed from wound.

The few gawkers that remained rushed from the scene. Drummen didn't notice them.

The mortal wound didn't bother the leper, with an awful limp he continued to lumber toward Drummen.

His heart pounded, threatening to burst through his chest as he swung the sword again, severing the leper’s hand at mid forearm. Little of the black substance dripped from the ragged stump, but tiny maggots fell to the cobblestone road, squirming on the hard surface.

Drummen could feel his sanity slipping away from him. His mind couldn't make sense of what he saw. A voice within him screamed Get the hell out of here. Instead he took a step back.

The leper took two steps forward.

With a roar of fury and desperation Drummen swung the sword again. This time the steel connected with the rotter's neck. The head tumbled away, landing with hollow thump a short distance from the body. The corpse swayed for a few seconds before collapsing to the ground.

Drummen stared at the lifeless mound. His dazed gaze moved from the body to his ichor covered sword. He slung it away. Bending over with his hands on his knees he began retching. Only bile and a thick stream of water dribbled down to mix with the dirty road.

No more gawkers stood about to see Drummen empty his stomach, only the sound of their presence several streets over gave any indication that he wasn't alone. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement. Not wanting to look, but not being able to turn aside, he shifted his eyes to see. The rotter's decapitated head wobbled back and forth. Drummen gasped. The head continued to warble until it rolled itself onto its cheek, facing Drummen. The jaw continued to work up and down, chewing and biting what it could no longer reach. The sound of teeth clacking together echoed like horses hooves in Drummen’s mind.

"Oh…..Oh Gods no!" Drummen cried.

The living decapitated head and clacking teeth were more than his mind could stand. With a maniacal roar he ran to the severed head and stomped on it with the heel of his boot, cursing and screaming. The first stomp was answered in a satisfying crack. He stomped again and the crack became louder, accompanied by a wet, splattering noise. He continued to stomp, and stomp, and stomp until some of the night watch arrived to pull him off. It took them almost a half dozen tries.

Chapter 1b: Lepers at the Gate

Renier was the largest city on the Gulf Coast, a gateway of trade and commerce. The city itself didn't manufacture a product, raise livestock, or farm the land, instead Renier stood as a trading hub for other communities that had products and services to sell; a gateway to a larger world.

The ever-growing city meant streets full of shoppers, vendors, hawkers and gawkers. People continuously bustled back and forth, running errands, delivering products and shopping.

Most people enjoyed the growth and commerce, but it only made Drummen’s job harder.

As Drummen and Stiles navigated through the cities fading light the crowds of people parted before them. Most made it, but many didn't. Drummen shoved the ones that didn't to the side. Everyone knew of the burly man’s temper so no one protested the occasional push.

"Just a little farther Sir. They came through the port gate." Stiles huffed as he squeezed between two citizens. Unlike his captain he didn't have the heart to push people around without a good reason. "They must have a boat moored out there somewhere."

Drummen didn't answer as he bulled his way through the crowded street.

They only traveled a few blocks when Stiles pointed at five figures in gray robes shuffling against the flow of the crowd, toward the Open Market. "There they are sir!"

As Drummen neared the cloaked figures he bellowed. "You. You there in the robes. I order you to stop!" The five gray shapes continued on.

Drummen turned to intercept them.

He sped up with Stiles in close pursuit, slinging people aside as they stepped in front of him. When he caught up to the little group he stood in their path, lifted his broad hand and yelled, "Stop!"

The five lepers stopped and stared at him with pale milky eyes. Filth stained bandages left their faces blank other than a small hump in the center of their faces. A wet, sickening yellow stain around the nose-shaped hump tarnished the soiled bandages. "Didn't you rotters hear me?" Drummen roared.

Five pairs of milky eyes continued to stare straight ahead without fear or concern. Being shorter than him they didn't even stare at his face, but at the top of his chest plate.

Their lack of fear enraged him and he callously raged, "Have your blasted ears rotted off too? Maybe your tongue?" They didn't respond, not caring that Drummen had begun to scream and his face had turned a deep shade of red.

People stared and whispered as they passed, but continued to go about their business.

Drummen opened his mouth to start a cursing that would make most sailors cringe when the lead rotter said, "I'm sorry, my lord. We are just passing through." The bandages hardly moved as the leper spoke in a flat, passionless voice that sounded as blank as his eyes. His gaze never left the base of Drummen's neck, and the raspy voice sent a chill down his spine. Stiles stepped back, behind Drummen.

The chill made Drummen raise his voice, partly to make himself feel in control again, and partly to let Stiles and the crowd know that he wasn't afraid of these abominations. "You're sorry? No, you just think you're sorry." He pointed back at the port gate where the rotters had come from. "Your going to march your rotting, stinking carcass back through that gate, get on whatever ungodly transport that brought you here, and paddle your stinkin' asses back to whatever gods-awful hell you came from!"

The lepers stared straight ahead. He didn’t see the fear in their eyes that such a ranting should have made.

He became furious and began to take a step forward but stopped when he noticed the stench. He had heard stories about lepers, how they lived while their flesh festered and rotted away a little more every day. The odor confirmed the stories. The scent wasn't strong, but it carried a foul and decaying odor; the smell of death.

The emotionless voice of the leader whispered again, "My Lord, we merely wish to pass through your…"

The monotone voice stopped. His eyes still locked on Drummen’s neck with an eerie detachment. The bandage squirmed between the rotter's parted lips as its tongue worked through the gauze; making a wet circle appear around the rotters mouth, reminding Drummen of an eel he had once netted.

He had seen enough. He reached for the speaker but stopped himself.

Weren't lepers contagious?

Pulling his hand back he roared, "I said to turn around and get the hell out of here! You won't get another warning!"

With empty stares the rotters ignored the command. Again that little chill of fear shivered down his back. Fear was an alien emotion for Drummen, it’s presence enraged him and drove him to action.

He grabbed the speaker by his shoulder, fingers sinking deep into fabric. Soft, boneless meat rolled beneath the material as a wet stain formed below his hand and an unholy stench filled the air. "What the…"

"…..pass through your city." finished the rotter. Drummen’s vise-like grip went unnoticed and he spoke as though nothing had taken place since he started his sentence almost a minute ago.

Drummen yanked his hand away, holding it in the air so the slime on his palm and fingers wouldn't touch his clothing or armor. His eyes widened with fear, a fear of the unknown, and a fear of something he no longer understood.

The lepers burst into action, five lepers bolted in five different directions; their gray robes bobbing through the crowded streets.

Drummen watched them go, too overwhelmed by the encounter to grasp what had happened. He held his ichor-stained hand to his face and looked at it. A shiny yellow film covered his palm and fingers. The smell of wet puss filled his nostrils and made the stale whiskey rise in his already upset stomach.

Stiles voice shook as he asked, "Sir, should we go after them?"

Drummen stared at the foul stain on his palm, collecting his thoughts and getting himself under control. He wiped his hand on his britches several times and replied in a shaky voice. "Yea Stiles. Blow the whistle and get us some assistance. We can't chase five rotters down by ourselves." He ran after the lead leper, the shrill sound of Stiles whistle shrieking in the background.

Before he got too far away Stiles yelled, "Sir, why did they run? Why did they run away like that?"

Without slowing or turning Drummen mumbled back, "I don't know, but I'm damned sure going to find out."

Chapter 1a:Night Shift

"The heart and souls of men are linked to the waters of life. Should the waters run dry whence then will men drink. Shall they die of thirst praying to their gods for something that is no more."

~Secret Holy Scriptures of the Waken Book

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Drummen’s brow throbbed with each heartbeat as his stomach churned, grumbled and percolated bitter acid up his throat every few minutes. To make matters worse every turn of his head brought nausea, forcing him to take deep breaths and think about anything but vomiting. He didn’t even want to consider what his bowls had to say about his pre-shift escapades.

He was the captain of the dock area city watch, night division. Gods blasted night division! He should be spending his evenings drinking and having a good time, instead he arrested those who were drinking and having a good time. Something just didn't seem right about that. Hell, he would have been arrested twelve hours ago if he hadn't been captain of the city watch. All the guards knew the hell they would pay should any of them ever take it upon themselves to arrest Drummen. He almost wished one of them would try it. Yeah, that would make for an interesting evening.

Drummen smiled to himself as he remembered the previous night. It had been one hell of an evening, and most of the next morning too. The fun started as a bit of rough-housing with some blokes at old Jon Geary's Tavern, which progressed to singing then wenching then…well, after that he wasn't sure, but he must have had a great time to feel so bad.

He reached across the knotty wooden desk and grabbed a mug of tepid water. Normally he would dump it out and get something fresher, but the stale taste of whiskey made his thirst almost unquenchable, and he just didn't have the energy to get anything better. He emptied the mug in three gulps. Liquid trickled down his bearded chin and dripped onto his leather armor. The warm water only made him want more. He needed something better.

He looked around the table and chair filled station, making sure no one hung about. The station was empty except for some loser the day watch had arrested, and he restlessly slept in a cot perched against a cell wall. Drummen reached into the shoulder section of his armor and extracted a metal flask. Taking one last look he tipped the bottle to his lips and took a deep, throat burning gulp. He belched to relieve the biting fumes that rose in his throat as the amber liquid met his molten stomach acids. A little hair of the dog that has bitten you was Drummen’s motto when it came to hang over recovery.

The station doors burst open. One of the night watchmen rushed through. In a 'you aren't going to believe this' tone the guard grinned, "Hey Drummen…Sir." Drummen coughed and spun away, stashing his flask back into his armor.

Glancing over his shoulder he growled "Doesn't anybody stinkin’ knock anymore!"

The guard noticed Drummen's bloodshot eyes, ornerier than usual look, and the faint whiff of strong spirits and his smile disapeared. Drummen liked making smiles vanish. Stiles was a good soldier but Drummen really didn't feel like listening to the guards cheerful yapping at that moment.

Running his large hand over his red bearded face Drummen asked, "What's so bloody important that you gotta come bargin' in here like that?" He spun around in his chair to face the guard.

"Lepers sir. Stinkin' rotters are inside the city gates."

Oh yeah, what a way to start his shift. Drummen sighed, "Who let them in?"

"Don't know sir." Stiles grinned. "Wasn't me."

Drummen would have to work on cowing this one down. The guy just couldn't take a hint.

Shaking his head Drummen replied, "Let's get this crap over with. Show me where the bastards are so we can give them an escort out of town."

With an eager stride the guard strolled out the door. Drummen grabbed his helmet and followed close behind.

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Prologue: The Darkest of Sorcery

"In the last days of the reign of men, when their sins have overcome them and they are choked on their own pride, she will come to put them back in their place and remind them that the Gods do reign on high in Heaven and in Hell!" ~Prophecy of Dokkien the Wise

Shadows hid the cavernous room in darkness. The flickering glow of black candles formed havens of light making the archaic etchings in the large stone columns stand out all the more, vile runes long since forgotten by the likes of men. The candlelight danced around the obscene pillars, casting wavy ghosts that undulated across the walls. Darkness competed with light for control of the room. Had there been the slightest sound it would have echoed throughout the chamber, but within the stone walls only the utter silence of the grave existed. Even the chilled air felt stagnant and damp with a stench of sulfur. freeview redhot pin code

Image by Alex McVey

In the center of the room, alone and forbidding, stood a rune-etched pedestal. An obsidian bowl sat on the pedestal, black as the void of space. The dark object absorbed the light as the candles flickering glow danced like dozens of small souls offering their essence in worship. A gray robed figure bent over the bowl; the dark hooded opening gazed into the dish. Tiny ripples pulsed across the surface of the liquid void as it gazed into the black water. A bony, clawed hand gently waved over the waters. New ripples formed, fighting with the existing ones for control of the liquid. The cowled form watched the pulses carefully, for in the ripples it could see things taking place far away, and could even control those events to a certain extent. As the ripples began to take on another ever-changing form, yellowed teeth gleamed within the darkened cowl like a wolf baring its fangs at an enemy. "I'm sorry, my lord. We are just passing through," whispered the thing within the robes. The sound hissed with an odor of rotting meat and festering wounds. Silence again gained possession of the room as the dark form stood transfixed before the obsidian bowl. The quiet lasted mere seconds before the vile whisper began again, "My Lord, we merely wish to pass through your…" "Maaasssster..." An emaciated man stepped out of the shadows, shattering the silence and severely hindering the hooded being's concentration. His milky eyes gazed at his master with empty intelligence and the slack jaws didn't have a great deal to add. The man continued speaking at a slow, lumbering pace without noticing the aura of menace radiating from the robed figure , "Eeeat. Food. Reeeeady..." The eyes of the cowled figure continued to watch the ripples as a robed claw flashed up, palm facing the man with fingers extended like a spider ready to pounce. Without the slightest change in expression the man dropped to the floor in a heap. In a rage the cowled being pulled its hand back to its chest and then flung it toward the heap of flesh on the floor. The body flew across the room, propelled by an invisible force. The man crashed into the far wall with the sickening crack of bones and the wet bursting of meat, adding a new heresy to the unholy quiet of the once silent room. The robed figure again concentrated on the black liquid, waving an appendage over the void. The whispering began again, "...pass through your city." The wolf-like snarl never left the darkness within the cowl, but it had changed, no longer a malicious grin. The snarl dripped with hatred. The creature burst into movement. Bony hands waved across the dark water. Back and forth the hands worked. From one end of the obsidian bowl the claws traveled back to the other. Not a sound could be heard within the room except for the rustle of cloth and occasionally a shifting of feet. With an angry hiss the figure stopped and spun away from the bowl. The yellow teeth gleamed within the cowl, and the eyes blazed with cold fury. After a few moments to collect its thoughts the figure strode across the chamber. As the robed creature passed the body on the floor it extended a claw toward the corpse. The man's eyes opened, the dull orbs gazed at its master. There was still no intelligence in the slack-jawed look, only a semblance of life, a mockery of what it had once been. Its master closed the clawed hand into a fist, and the skull of the once faithful servant imploded likewise. The robed figure stormed across the chamber and out into the corridors.

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Plague by Bret Jordan

Story Synopsis

Renier is a port city that stands as a glorious gem on the edge of the kingdom. The people are justly ruled by their beloved Duke with the assistance of a benevolent wizard and a self-involved priest. Within twenty-four hours everything changes as a small group of strange lepers enter the port and cause a mysterious and deadly illness to rage through the city, killing most of the residents. Violent illness and gruesome death isn’t the end of the horror for the residents of Renier. Not by a long shot, as thousands of dead bodies rise from the cobblestone streets in search of living prey. Sword and sorcery battle against an unstoppable hunger as the few living residents try and escape the walls of an undead nightmare.

"Bret Jordan's Plague blends dark fantasy and zombie horror with genuinely chilling results. You won't be disappointed - get hooked on this serial!"
~David Dunwoody, author of Empire

"Bret Jordan has created an intriguing medieval world where blood & guts zombie mayhem is delivered with the brutal edge of a sword, not the barrel of a .45. Read it - you'll dig it!"

~Vince Churchill author of The Dead Shall Inherit the Earth & The Blackest Heart

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*****PLAGUE*****

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