James Axler – Judas Strike

There was a gap in the steel box wall surrounding the ville, a section where only one of the shipping containers sat on the ground instead of two. Sandbags lined the top of the container, the cloth sacks bristling with deadly pungi sticks made from sharpened bamboo. A formidable barrier to cross.

“There’s the gate,” Ryan said, sliding the Steyr off his shoulder. “Let’s see if there’s anybody inside. I’m on point. J.B. cover the rear. Five-yard spread.”

“Got you covered,” J.B. said, working the bolt on the Uzi machine pistol.

Spreading out so as to not offer a group target to any snipers, the companions slowly walked toward the gate, the sand crunching under their new boots. In the jungle, monkeys ran amuck in the treetops screeching at the top of their lungs.

“Something has them spooked,” Krysty observed.

“Cannon fire?” Dean asked.

She shook her head. “Something a lot worse than pirates.”

The boy didn’t reply, but loosened the bowie knife in the sheath at the small of his back.

As Ryan got closer, he saw the gate box was shoved back a few feet, leaving a gap in the defenses. Raising a hand to call for a halt, he jerked his head in both directions and the companions split apart, half going to either side of the opening. Then Ryan charged forward and threw his back to the steel box, blaster at the ready. After a few moments, he eased to the corner of the container, then proceeded down the dark ten-foot passageway between the gate and the wall. His nerves were taut. This was the perfect spot for an ambush. Nearing the end of gate, he listened closely and heard birds, lots of them. Not good. Wriggling closer, the man chanced a quick peek inside.

“Fireblast,” he snapped, easing his stance and lowering the blaster. “Mildred, check this out.”

Quickly, the puzzled physician came down the pass and stopped dead in her tracks. A hundred different types of birds covered the ground, steadily pecking at something lying on the ground. Aiming at the scavengers, Mildred fired a shot and the creatures took flight, their beating wings sounding as loud as thunder until they were gone into the blue sky.

“Yeah, just what I thought,” Ryan said. Decomposing corpses lay everywhere in the ville, sprawled on the ground, some halfway through windows as if trying to escape, while others were locked together with knives drawn. The dead were dressed in rags, many wearing loose garments made of woven grass. All of them were barefoot. The ripe smell of rotting flesh was thick in the air.

“Plague,” Doc said, a quaver of fear in his voice. “We should not go any closer.”

“What? Oh, horse shit,” Mildred countered, and kicked over a desiccated corpse lying sprawled in the sand. The birds and insects had done a good job of stripping away the flesh on most of the dead, but this one was fresh, no more than a day or two old. Rigor had come and gone. There was very little meat on the dead man, which told her a lot.

“See? There are no pustules or skin eruptions,” Mildred said, drawing a knife to slit open the men’s chest. Some insects scampered from his lungs, carrying away tiny morsels of food.

She pointed with the blade. “Hmm, yes, look at the kidney, and the belly. This man died of Vibrio cholerae…he died of cholera, I mean. Not the bubonic plague.”

“What is?” Jak asked, holding a handkerchief in front of his face. “Like brain rot or bloodfire?”

“An enterotoxin. It comes from bad water,” Mildred said, cleaning her blade on the rags of the corpse, then stabbing it into the ground before playing the flame of her lighter along the steel. Alcohol would have been better, but she had none. This would have to do for sterilization. “I’d bet live rounds we’ll find their latrine right next to the drinking well. Damn fools did it to themselves.”

“Masks,” Ryan commanded in a no-nonsense voice, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket. All of the companions tied some sort of cloth across their faces to cover nose and mouth.

“Not necessary,” Mildred said. “It’s spread by oral consumption, not breathing.”