A chilly breeze washed over the river, and the captain pulled his jacket tighter, gritting his teeth at the sharp pain the movement caused him. Underneath his arms, there were more swellings, unnatural lumps that seemed as if they were nothing but bundles of nerves. Pulling the jacket tighter had been like jabbing a flame-heated knife, point first, into each of his armpits.
Without warning, he began to cough like he had never coughed before. Black spots swam in front of his eyes, and for a brief moment, he thought, This is it. This is how I die. But then the coughing passed, and he was able to grab a raspy breath of air. The muscles in his back felt worse for wear, and he spat a wad of red-flecked phlegm into the river.
The breeze kicked up again, but this time, he didn't bother to readjust his jacket. Instead, he let the wind wash over him, evaporating the fever sweat from his brow.
"Captain," his first mate said, "Old Gert is dead."
It took a while for the words to sink into his fever-addled mind, but when they did, he did the only thing he could do. "Pitch him over the side, lad. It's a water-burial for him."
Normally, they would keep the body in the cold hull of the ship so that his family could bury him proper, but with all of the rats on board, it would be more dignified to give him to the river than to let those furry bastards make a meal out of him.
The first mate scuttled off to do his bidding without question. That was good. It meant that the crew didn't think he was responsible for the plague that had descended upon them. Sailors were a superstitious lot, but the captain had never held stock with the ridiculous notions of superstition. But that didn't mean that his crew wouldn't turn on him if more started to die.
He heard the sound of scurrying across the deck. "What the hell was that?" he wondered aloud. Spinning around quickly, he caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. It was another rat, a huge one. He chased it across the deck for a few steps, but then stopped due to the pain. After the first couple of steps, the lumps in his groin shot fire through his entire body. He vowed to find a cat when they got to Hamelin. In the meantime, he said a prayer for Old Gert as his body splashed into the river.
The rats watched and listened, the fleas on their backs oblivious to everything but the flesh in front of them and the blood underneath.
Click here to buy The Pied Piper of Hamelin now!
