Chapter 5c: Sharky's Bad Day

Stiles sat on a small cot and watched a trickle of water as it meandered down the wall. Must be raining outside, he thought, then turned to watch the other men as they drank their ale, rolled their dice and told their tales within each of the four cells. There were fifteen men in all, three of the cells held four men while Stiles only had two others with him in his cell. His cellmates laughed as they exchanged exaggerated tales.

Stiles didn't laugh. Waiting in a prison cell under quarantine didn't amuse him at all. He envied the other guard's ability to carry on despite their circumstances.

Migel turned to Stiles as soon as Oswald finished another one of his stories. "You sure you don't want anything to drink?"

Stiles gave Migel a sympathetic smile. Migel wasn't really asking Stiles if he wanted ale, he was asking him to break in so he wouldn't have to listen to another one of Oswald's stories. The elderly guard loved to tell stories about his past deeds, and they became larger and grander with each retelling. Though Stiles was tired of hearing the same old tales himself, he wasn't in the mood to join in and take some of the aggravation from Migel. "Don't feel much like drinkin'."

Oswald, who was well on his way to being falling-down-drunk, plopped himself on the cot next to Stiles and slurred, "Man yoos sick?" He had a bad case of tooth-rot and his breath always reeked, but the sour smell of ale made the odor even worse.

"Yea Stiles, it ain't like you to pass up a free drink. Everything okay?"

"I'm fine. I just don't feel like drinking is all." He wanted to say more, maybe ask how the rest of them could be getting drunk while there was a chance that they could be contaminated. The rotting images of the lepers kept flashing into his mind, reminding him that he could become one of them. If they had contaminated him he would start rotting away, a little bit of himself dying each and every day, the community shunning him, his family sending him away. The thought didn’t put him in much of a drinking mood.

His mind kept mulling it over as Oswald started another tale of his grand adventures.

"Godsdamned lazy bunch o' bastards!" The barred door to the main chamber burst open and their guard stormed in. He was a slovenly man, even by city guard standards. His bulbous gut stretch his soiled uniform almost to the breaking point, making Stiles wonder why he didn’t request a new one, one that would fit his portly frame a bit better.

One of the men leaned an arm out of his cell, an ale mug in his hand, wanting a refill.

"Hey Sharky, I thought your shift was over?"

The portly guard stared at the man with disgust, a venomous look that made the already ugly man look like a troll. "Godsdamned right my shift is over. Bunch o' lazy bastards."

Seeing that Sharky was in a foul mood, and realizing that getting the man in a worse mood was possible, one of the Night Guard chimed in from another cell. "Well, what the hell are you still doin' here? Shouldn't you be home bangin' the missus' or somthin'?"

Some of the other men began to laugh.

The comment didn't bother Sharky, but a wicked gleam twinkled in his squinting eyes as he replied, "Keep it up, jail-bait, and when I get off I'll go to your place and do a little bangin' on your missus'."

The men began laughing even harder, but not the fellow who had started the banter. He didn't laugh a bit.

When the laughter died down, Sharky continued. "Nobody showed up to relieve me. Can ya believe it? I've been down here over twelve hours watching these cells, waitin' on you assholes like a barmaid for the last three of them hours, and nobody comes in to relieve ol' Sharky."

Stiles sprang off of his cot and strode to the bars. "Nobody came in to relieve you?"

Sharky spat on the floor. "Not a damned' soul."

Another one of the men grinned through the bars. "Hey, Sharky, maybe they quit doing shifts by hours and started going by how hard you work instead. Hell, you're liable to be here for another twelve hours."

Nervous laughter followed his comment.

Stiles stuck his head up to the bars and yelled, "Shut up, Jamee. This might be a real problem." He turned to Sharky. "You need to find your commander and ask him to check on those men."

Sharky's fat lips formed a frown. "Awww, I figured I would give em' another hour and then I would…" Sharky swayed back and forth, reaching out to steady himself.

Stiles hands tightened on the bars. "You okay, Sharky?"

Sharky brought his hand up to his cheek and gave it a little rub. "I…I don't know. Feel hot as hell. Just sorta came over me." He turned and started walking toward the main door. His steps wobbled awkwardly, as if he had been the one drinking all the ale. Sharky tripped and caught himself on an ale barrel, sending mugs flying to the floor in a cacophony of sound, but stopped himself from falling.

Stiles had to lean his head further into the bars to see Sharky's back. "Sharky, what's the matter?"

He saw Sharky hunch up and then heard him retch, followed by the sound something wet splashing onto the floor. The noise stopped, then started again. Sharky tried to push himself off the keg, but another convulsion struck him, doubling him over and sending him crashing to the chamber floor. When the convulsions stopped the room went silent. Everyone stared at the prone form. The keg hid his head and the puddle he lay in was covered in shadows. Stiles didn't need to see the puddle. The odor of rancid stomach acids started to fill the room, a few of the men looked queasy themselves. The smell of vomit didn't bother Stiles. What bothered him was the faint aroma mingled in with the vomit, the trace of a scent that he was too familiar with, the smell of blood.

"Sharky…Sharky, you okay?"

Chapter 5b: Madame Rachelle

Rain began to fall as Madame Rachelle approached the palace walls. She was still a good half block from the entrance, and shelter, but there was nothing to be done for it now. Her pace quickened. Her hard soled boots sounded in sharp splashes against the drumming rain, dress and scarves trailing wetly behind her. She wore several colorful layers of clothes that included a hood, but the water seeped through and chilled her skin. She prayed she wouldn't slip on the slick stone road as she sped through the rain.

Lightning illuminated the sky, throwing her surroundings into crisp black and white as she arrived at the guard station, the portcullis of the Cutter Path Road gate breaking the entrance up into rectangular blocks. Her whole body tensed a second later, as a crackling burst of sound assaulted her eardrums.

Two burly guards stood in a sheltered area next to the gate; not a drop of water shone across their boiled leather armor. Smirks twisted their faces as she ran under the eaves of the gate.

Madame Rachelle pulled her soggy hood back and wiped water from her face. She fought to keep a quiver from her voice as she said, "I need to see the wizard, Wellan."

One of the guards raised an eyebrow and glanced at his partner before turning to her. His snide gaze traveled from her hair to her waist, lingering on her breasts. An uncomfortable feeling of anger and embarrassment contorted her emotions as she returned the guard’s stare. She felt as if she were livestock at an auction. When his sneering eyes returned to hers, he folded his hands across his chest and asked, "Is the Duke's wizard expecting you?"

She didn't expect to easily get an appointment to see the wizard, and the guard's sarcastic tone, not to mention his wandering eyes, didn't making her feel any more confident about her chances. "Please. It's important. I have information the wizard needs to know."

The other guard had been staring at her also, but his eyes shone with curiosity rather than lust. "Aren't you the fortune teller, Madam Roquelle or something like that?"

She didn't know if her reputation was going to help or hinder her. Many of the citizens of Renier loved and respected her, but just as many called her a charlatan. With a hint of hesitation in her voice, she answered, "Madam Rachelle. Yes, I'm Madam Rachelle, the seer."

The guard turned to his sneering partner and whispered something to him, but the pounding rain forced him to raise his voice so that both his partner and Madam Rachelle could hear. "Dale, we had better find out if the Wizard will see her."

Dale turned to the other guard, looking like a child who is told he can’t play in the mud any longer. "What do you mean? No one's told us the Wizard's expecting any visitors today. If Wellan wanted his palm read, I'm sure he would have mentioned it to the Captain."

"She said she has important information, and besides, my wife knows her. If we don't at least find out if she can talk to Wellan, and my wife finds out we just sent her on her way, she's not gonna give me any …" He glanced at Madam Rachelle then looked to Dale, whose frustrated frown had turned into a toothy grin. "…dinner for a month."

Grinning and trying to hold back his laughter, Dale replied, "Okay. Go find out if Wellan will see her, wouldn't want you missing dinner tonight."

When he turned back to Madam Rachelle the grin vanished. "Just wait right here. We aught to know if the Wizard will see you within half an hour or so."

She nodded to the other guard, ignoring Dale. "Thank you." The kind guard nodded and walked through the small guard entrance as Dale responded, his snide gaze returning to her wet clothing. "You're welcome." She folded her arms over her breasts and prepared to wait for the other guard to return.

Chapter 5a: An Ancient Tome

"Your own council you should not keep, neither take the counsel of those who are too eager to give it for in their eagerness they may lead you along the wrong path."

~ Secret Holy Scriptures of the Waken Book.

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Wellan and Duke Renier sat in the small conference chamber. The room was quiet and out of the way, half-hidden in a corner of the castle, and they both felt comfortable in the small area, like a clubhouse shared between friends.

Wellan opened a small black book, which rested upon his knee. Cracks covered the leather cover like an old sea bed, with scrawling cryptic letters pressed into the hide. Time had aged the pages and made them seem brittle enough to crumble to dust at the slightest touch, while undecipherable scribbles neatly trailed across the ancient sheets.

Wellan read a segment of writing in a hushed, almost reverent tone. "Thus do the necromancers' ilk walk the earth, created and used by the black arts of Syn. Syn doth grant the corrupt heart favors in this area, but the unholy God, the Keeper of all that Dies, doeth require a great favor for such blessings which are granted unto such an evil heart. These favors are known not by any but he that requesteth the boon from Syn, and they dare not speak of it.

"A man must die in order for the boon to be granted. Such evil beings which shall be bold enough to ask for such a favor as this will have a heart of stone and will gladly find a victim to use as an unholy vessel of Syn. Once the victim is slain and given over to Syn it shall lie dormant, without sign of life or spirit for a time. When the time has expired, the vessel will still be dormant of spirit yet it shall contain life. With this life shall be only one desire. The desire shall be to feed. Bread shall it not want. Water shall not quench its thirst. The meat of the beasts of the field shall repulse it and make it ill, for the new creature is not of this world. The new being will be a vessel of Syn and require the flesh of it's brethren to fill its hunger. The new being shall require the blood of its neighbor to quench its thirst. The abomination will not see wisdom or reason. It will no longer work the hammer or plow. It will no longer create beautiful works or care of its fellow man. It will be a mindless thing, only existing to feed its hunger for flesh."

Wellan looked at the Duke to make sure he didn't need to stop and explain any of the passage. Sitting on the edge of his seat, with a stern look in his eyes, the Duke waved the wizard to continue.

"It should be known throughout the world of men that these abominations are to be greatly feared. No man shall approach them for Syn holds a fate far worse than any mortal death. Should a man contact an abomination, he shall be burned within the hour, else he also become abomination! Neither grab nor touch one such as these, else ye become as they, an animate corpse, without mind or spirit. Thou shalt avoid them and flee. If thou think to cleave them with great iron thou shall rethink thyself. How shall thou kill that which no longer lives? How shall thou separate a soul that no longer resides within the host? Nay, thou shalt not have the power to kill such a one as this with mortal weapons. Only the plasma of fire or the burning of acid shall destroy such a vile thing. If any but these are used, the abomination's hunger will live and grow with each passing minute, a hunger no mortal can understand."

The Duke stared and the small leather tome and massaged his bare chin. Finally he asked, "Is this true Wellan? These creatures can't be stopped with a sword or an axe?"

Looking at least as grim as the Duke, Wellan answered, "Yes, my Duke, they can be stopped with iron. What the passage said was that they can't be killed by anything short of completely destroying the body."

"Now I understand why you insisted that the 'leper' be burned to ash."

With a barely audible sigh Wellan replied, "Yes. I wasn't sure until I saw the creature, but there was no mistaking what it was. It had to be destroyed and destroyed completely."

The Dukes face brightened a bit. "All five of the creatures were destroyed. The last one, the prisoner, has already been cremated, so other than finding out why they were here in the first place the disaster has been averted."

Wellan shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. The captain of the Night Watch, the one that reportedly went berserk in the streets when he confronted one of these things, never reported in for duty. I requested all of the men involved to meet me on the practice field this morning before they went home. He wasn't among them. When I went to his home, he wasn't there either. Only evidence of his conversion remained."

"If he's loose in the streets…"

Wellan rose from his seat, preparing to leave the room. "Yes. He is loose in the streets, but he shouldn't be able to stay hidden. He probably won't even try, because they truly are mindless beings, as the book said. I have the city guard looking for him, so I expect to see him in the dungeon sometime early today."

As Wellan backed toward the door the Duke grabbed his sleeve. "What if he has touched or…or bitten someone."

Wellan put his hand over the Duke's. "I don't know, my Duke. Let's just pray to the Gods that it hasn't happened."

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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