A Plague of Demons

***

The brig was a bare-walled cell illuminated by a single overhead glare panel and outfitted with a stainless-steel water closet with stains, and a hinged plastic shelf two feet wide padded with a moldy smelling mattress half an inch thick.

I sat on the floor, leaned against the wall; the feel of the cool metal was soothing to my hot face. The beat of my pulse was like a brass gong behind my temples. My left forearm ached to the shoulder with a deep-seated pain that made every movement an ordeal. I turned the sleeve back; under the crude dressing, the wounds were inflamed, evil-looking.

I got out a tube of ointment Doc had given me, applied it to the ragged cuts, smeared more on the slash across my face, managed to reach the higher of the wounds on my left shoulder before the supply ran out.

A panel covering a peephole in the door clanged open. A pale, fat man with a crumpled white-billed cap peered in at me through the foot-square grille. He muttered and turned away. I keened my hearing, following him:

'… dock at Jacksonville… nine hours…'

'… in touch with 'em…' Carboni's voice said, fading now as they moved away. '… in irons… on the pier…'

'… don't like it… ask questions…'

I sat up, fighting against a throbbing fever-daze in which the events of the past weeks mingled with fragments of nightmare. Jacksonville in nine hours, the Captain had said. It was time to start planning.

I got to my feet, swaying like a palm-tree in a high wind. I went to the door, ignoring violent pains in my skull. I pushed against the door, gauging its strength. It was solid, massively hinged, and with a locking bar engaged at both ends, impossible to force, even if I hadn't been weakened by fever.

I went back, wavered as I walked, and half-fell to the floor. A wave of nausea rolled over me, and left me shivering violently.

I would have to wait… I forced my thoughts to hold to the subject. Wait until they came to open the cell door. There would be a band, dressed all in red, and General Julius would be leading it…

I fought the fantasy away. Delirium waited like a mire beside the narrow path of reason. Nothing to do with Julius. Julius was dead. I had strangled him, while he bit at me. The dog-things had chased me, and now I was on the beach. It was cold, cold… I shivered violently, huddling against the steel cliff…

***

Time passed, Joel was calling my name. He needed help, but I was trapped here. There was a way up the cliff: I could fly. I had the suit, and now I was fitting the helmet in place, and through it, Joel stared with agony-filled eyes There were hands on me, voices near. A sharp pain stabbed in my arm. I pulled away, fighting a weight that crushed me.

'Please, Jones… don't hit the Doc…'

I got my eyes open. Joel's face loomed above me. Blood ran from his nose. Doc's frightened face stared. I fell back, feeling my heart pound like a shoeing hammer.

'Can you hold him, boy?' Doc's voice was anxious.

'S'all righ',' I managed. 'Awake now…'

'You been awful sick, Jones,' Joel said. He raised his bandaged hand, dabbed at his nose, smeared blood across his cheek. Doc moved closer, working over me. I felt his hands on my arm. He grunted.

'My God, Jones, what did this?'

'Dog-bite.' My voice was a hoarse whisper.

'Another few hours… no attention… burial at sea…' his voice came and went. I fought to hold onto consciousness.

'… can't get a hypospray to penetrate,' he was saying. 'Damnedest thing I ever saw. Can you swallow this?'

I sat up, gulped something icy cold. Doc's eyes bored into mine.

'I've given you something to fight the infection,' he said. 'It ought to bring the fever down, too. That arm's bad, Jones. It may have to come off.'

I laughed-a crazy, high-pitched giggle that rolled on and on.

Doc's face was closer now. 'I never saw anything like this before,' he said. 'I ought to report it to the Skipper-'

I stopped laughing; my hand went out, caught at his coat-front.

'I heard some of what you said when you were raving,' Doc went on. 'I don't claim to understand-but I know you for a decent man. I don't know what to think. But I wouldn't throw a sick dog to Carboni. I won't tell 'em.'

'S'all right,' I croaked. 'Go' job do… go' ge' well. Fix me up, Doc…'

'I've got to work on the arm now. Try to relax.'

I lay back and let the dream take me.

***

I awoke feeling weak, sick, beaten, thrown away. I stirred, heard cloth tear. I looked down; my left arm, as numb as something carved from marble, was strapped to my side. I felt the pull of tape at my neck, across my jaw. My mouth tasted as though mice had nested in it. I sat up. I was as weak as a diplomatic protest.

I got to my feet, blinked away a light-shot blackness, went across to the door, and looked out through the bars. Joel lay in the corridor, asleep on a mat. I called his name.

He sat up, rubbed his eyes, smiled.

'Hey, Jones!' He got to his feet, touched his swollen nose. 'Boy, Jones, you sure pack a wallop. You feeling better now?'

'Lots better. How long was I out?'

He looked down at me vaguely.

'How long before we reach Jacksonville?'

'Gosh, Jones, I dunno. Pretty soon, maybe.'

I tensed the muscles behind my ears, tuned through the sounds of the ship, picked up the mutter of voices; but they were indistinct, unreadable.

'Listen, Joel. You heard what Carboni said. There'll be police waiting for me when we dock. I have to get off the ship before then. How long before we surface?'

'Huh? Hey, how come the cops is after you, Jones?'

'Never mind that. Try to think, now: do we surface out at sea, before we get into the harbor?'

Joel frowned. 'Gosh, I don't know about that, Jones.'

I gripped the bars. 'I've got to know what time it is-where we are.'

'Uh…'

'I want you to do something for me, Joel. Go to the crew mess. There's a clock there. Go check it, and come back and tell me what time it is.'

Joel nodded. 'Okay, Jones. Sure. How come-'

'I'll tell you later. Hurry.'

I sat on the floor and waited. The deck seemed to surge under me. Either we were maneuvering, or I was getting ready to have another relapse.

There was a distant booming, the sudden vibration of turbulence transmitted through the hull. The ship heaved, settled. I got to my feet, holding to the wall for support.

There were sounds along the corridor: the clump of feet, raised voices. I keened my hearing again, picked up the whine of the main-drive turbines, the clatter of deploying deck gear, the creak of the hull-and another sound: the rhythmic growl of a small-boat engine, far away but coming closer.

The minutes crawled by like stepped-on roaches. Joel appeared down the corridor, came up to the cell door. There was a worried look on his face. 'The big hand was… le'ssee… Hey, Jones…' He looked at me like a lost kid. 'I got a funny feeling-'

'Sure, Joel. I'm scared, too.'

'But I got this like tickle-feeling in my head.'

I nodded absently, listening for the sounds from above. The boat was close now; I heard its engines cut back, then it was bumping alongside. The sound of the ship's turbines had faded to a growl.

'Does a Customs boat usually come out to meet the ship in the harbor?' Joel was rubbing his head with one bandaged hand. He looked up at the low ceiling and whimpered.

'What is it, Joel?' Then I felt it: the eerie sense of unreality, the graying of the light in the dim corridor, the sense of doom. I grabbed the bars, strained at them. The metal gave, grudgingly, a fraction of an inch. My head pounded from the effort.

'Joel!' I called. My voice had a ragged edge. 'Who keeps the key to this door?'

His eyes wavered down to meet mine. 'Jones-I'm scared.'

'I need the key, Joel.' I tried to keep my voice calm. 'Who has it?'

'Uh-Carboni. He keeps all the keys.'

'Can you get them?'

Joel looked at the ceiling. I heard feet on the deck now-and a soft padding that sent a chill through me like an iron spear.

'Joel-I need those keys. I've got to get out of here!'

He came close to the door, pressing against it. His eyes were sick. 'I got such a tickle in my head,' he moaned. 'I'm scared, Jones.'

'Don't be afraid.' I gripped his hand that clutched one of the bars.

'Sometimes-' he brushed at his face, groping for words. 'When I see the big dogs- It was just like this, Jones; it tickled in my head.'