February 1911

The Bella Dama, a slow-moving supply boat, chugged up the Rio Coco, which defined much of the meandering northeastern boundary between Honduras and Nicaragua. Aboard were Captain Carlos Mejia, First mate Edis “Ed” Rivera, and three crew members. Besides food, tools, and textiles for communities along the river, the craft was transporting an active breeding colony of Rattus rattus, the common ship rat.

When the boat docked at the riverside village of Klubci, several rats fled into the jungle. Foraging on anything eatable, the rats grew fat and multiplied. Because they had had many contacts with the ship’s poisonous bates, the rat’s acquired immunity protected them from the deadly Galerina mushrooms. These they found especially tasty as well as the hallucinogenic mushroom, Psilocybe cubensis.

The alpha pair’s first litter was born in a hollow log near the village. Six healthy pups and a “runt” grew quickly and were busily eating everything in sight. The litter stumbled upon a crop of Galerina mushrooms, dug up its mycelium, and dined. Nearby, they also found an outcrop of Psilocybe cubensis and ate its tasty mycelium as well. Soon, Galerina’s toxins sickened them, and the healthy-born pups died, but the runt laid near death for a day and a half.

Meanwhile, Aspergillus terreus, a fungal spore living in the mycelia, took root in the rat’s lungs and multiplied. Uninhibited by the runt’s compromised immune system, the fungal infection traveled throughout the rat’s organ systems and flourished. The runt recovered and returned to the pack; they greeted and groomed him, licking his weeping eyes, draining nose, and drooling mouth.

Three weeks later, the runt fell ill again. This time, it was bleeding from its eyes, its abdomen was bloated, and it was coughing uncontrollably. It tried but could not vomit. It ran in circles, screeching and rubbing its head on the ground. The runt’s abnormal behavior startled the pack, and they scattered, some into the jungle, some toward the village. By sundown, the runt had died, its body all contorted, its eyes bulging, and its tongue nearly chewed through.

Andres Reyes was cutting wood at the edge of the forest when he disturbed a nest of rats. They attacked, and one bit him on his heel before he could escape. Rushing home, Andres cleaned the wound and put the incident out of his mind.

At the crack of dawn, Andres awoke and nudged his wife. “You awake?”

Sayda yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Now, I am.”

“It’s cool, and the children are sleeping.”

“We’ll wake them.”

“I’ll be quiet this time.”

“Promise,” said Sayda, pulling up her gown.

After breakfast, Andres went off to cut wood with a joyful skip in his step.

Two mornings following their lovemaking, it was well past dawn when Andres finally rolled out of bed. His muscles ached, and his stomach felt queasy. After a light breakfast, he kissed his wife and four children goodbye, as he always did before leaving for work.

By mid-day, the ambient temperature in the jungle was 32-33 C, but Andres felt cold and was shivering. Beads of sweat covered his forehead and temples, and he was nauseous to the point of retching. Andres gathered his tools and started across the village square toward his hut. But half-way to his house, an excruciating, stabbing pain behind his eyes struck without warning. Then the pain migrated to the base of his skull and was so intense he could no longer stand. Andres dropped to his knees, clutching his head.

“Sayda, Sayda, come help me,” he shouted and promptly collapsed.

Severe vomiting and coughing brought the entire village to see what was happening to Andres. His wife, Sayda, rushed to his side. By now, his body was wracked with convulsions. Bloodstained fluids flowed from his eyes and nose. With each coughing-fit, he drooled fresh blood-tinged sputum.

The villagers panicked: neighbors pushed neighbors aside, friends ran over friends, everyone was for himself. Sayda could not move Andres by herself, and no one was willing to help. So she stayed by him, comforting him the best she could. He coughed and retched unabated for an hour, and with one last gasp and scream, Andres died.

Two of Andres’ closest friends dug a grave beside his mother, father, and grandparents. Sayda wrapped his body in white cloth and pleaded for help to carry his body to the grave.

“Esmir, you were his friend. This last act of friendship is all I ask of you. Alyosha, you were boyhood friends. I need your help laying my Andres with his ancestors.”

“We’ll help,” they answered in unison.

Struggling to lift the body, they said, “Someone, help us. Andres was a respected member of our village. Let us honor his memory by giving him a proper burial.”

Four men stepped forward, and together, they carried Andres to the cemetery, followed by Sayda and the children, the priest, and the whole village.

By the evening of the second day after Andres died, Sayda was coughing and vomiting uncontrollably. Her body was wracked with pain as she convulsed time and time again. She was buried next to Andres the following day. Their children succumbed to the plague twenty-four hours later.

When the next five perished, the village was on the verge of panic. By week’s end, all thirty-eight villagers were dead as were countless dogs, cats, and rats—dozens of rats. The whole colony of Rattus rattus was wiped out.

On their return trip, the Bella Dama’s crew expected to see villagers waving from the shore. Instead, a stillness, a silence, an eerie silence, greeted them. Captain Mejia ordered the boat docked, and the First mate Rivera took two crew members to investigate.

When they had gone about fifty meters up the path leading to the village, they stopped, horrified at the vision before them. Bodies, decaying corpses, laid everywhere, and when the breeze changed direction, the stench caused one crew member to retch. They ran back to the Bella Dama.

“What’s up, Ed?” yelled the captain.

“Bodies. Bodies everywhere. Near as I could tell, the whole village’s been wiped out. Men, women, children, animals, and rats...rats everywhere. Ain’t never seen nothing like it, Captain. It’s the Devil’s work for sure.”

“Get aboard. We’ll anchor offshore while I contact the authorities.”

Bella Dama’s Log: Anchored near the village of Klubci, Nicaragua. Found same wiped out by an unknown disease. The search party returned to the village for a fatality count: twenty-eight men, women, and children; thirty-six domestic animals; nine wild animals; and dozens, maybe hundreds of rats.

Since dropping anchor, two crew members have died, and First Mate, Ed Rivera, is gravely ill. Only I and one crew member await the arrival of the authorities.

May God have mercy on our souls.

Signed Captain Carlos Mejia.

September 14, 1911.