DRayVan
05-06-2020, 10:22 AM
Tuesday, December 9, 1933
The sun was just rising when Jovani “Joe” Gallo and his friend, Salvatore “Sal” Conti boarded a single-engine plane at the Puerto Cabezas, Nicaragua airfield. Joe was a strapping twenty-eight-year-old hitman for Ignacio Antinori’s Tampa, Florida, mob, and a lady’s man. Sal was a stout twenty-five-year-old, laidback, and shy. They were bound for Waspan, a picturesque, remote town on the Rio Coco, bordering Honduras.
“What’s so special about Waspan?” asked Sal as he settled in his seat across from Joe.
“A woman… With the biggest pair of…”
“Figured it was something like that,” said Sal, laughing.
“And the town’s having a festival.”
“What they celebrating?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. Ignacio said to lie low for a while, so we lie low.”
Sal glanced at the pilot, an older man, scruffy beard, and a dirty uniform and shook Joe’s arm. “You sure this plane will make it?”
“Stop worrying. I come here every winter. It’ll make it; always does; always will.”
“Okay. If you say so,” said Sal, gripping the armrests as the plane taxied for takeoff. Just as the aircraft pivoted at the end of the landing strip, its tire hit a pothole, and the whole craft shook and creaked. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”
Joe laughter could be heard above the roar of the engine as the craft gained speed. Through the small window, Sal watched the ground vanish below him while the plane gained altitude. When it hit an air pocket and dropped a hundred feet without warning, Sal’s face turned green.
Joe offered Sal a flask and a cigar. “These’ll help.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Suit yourself,” said Joe, gulping a swig of the whiskey and lighting the cigar.
“How can you smoke and drink?”
“Was born with a strong constitution.”
“How long’s this flight?”
“Less than two hours.”
Sal groaned and leaned his head against the window.
###
Father Ortega, the priest of Iglesias de Dios, Waspan, awoke early and made a cup of coffee. He stirred one spoonful of sugar, hoping to take the bitter edge off the strong brew but quickly added a second spoonful after one gulp. Pleased that many new faces attended the mass last Sunday, he hummed while bathing and sipping his drink. Behind his back, a rat foraged in the open sugar bowl but scurried when it heard Father Ortega returning. After another cup and more sugar, he made breakfast, ate, and finished dressing. When he heard the roar of the single-engine plane, Father Ortega glanced up to see the craft wobbling in the turbulent air.
Joe and Sal plane touched down on the unpaved runway and bounced to a stop, a few feet from the jungle. It made a tight circle and taxied to the one-story terminal, hitting every rut and bump along the way.
“Trying to get us killed?” asked Sal, wiping the nervous sweat off his brow. “This woman better be worth it.”
“Gee, Sal. Always the worrier.”
When they disembarked, an eager taxi driver approached them. “Transporte, Señores?”
“Si,” said Joe. “Hotelito El Piloto.”
“Equipaje?”
“Si.”
The driver loaded their luggage in the trunk while Joe and Sal sat in the back seat. Then the driver took off like a madman, weaving in and out of the narrow streets, dodging pedestrians, and honking at every opportunity. When the taxi screeched to a stop at the hotel, the driver hopped out and opened the door for Joe and Sal. Bowing slightly, he grinned from ear to ear, displaying several gold teeth. After unloading their luggage, Joe paid the fare, and he zoomed off down a side street barely wide enough for his vehicle.
When they walked through the open door, a woman, mid-twenties, long black hair, shapely waist and hips, and ample bosom, turned to greet them. Immediately, her face lit up when she recognized Joe.
“José,” she yelled. “You’ve come back to me.” She rushed to hug him.
“Rosa, I’ve missed you too,” said Joe, holding his outreached arms ready to hug her back.
“Who’s your amigo?” asked Rosa, stopping short of Joe.
“Sal.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Señor Sal.” Then turning to Joe and wrapping her arms around him. “Staying long this time?”
“Maybe till next year,” said Joe, laughing.
Rosa punched Joe’s shoulder. “Such a clown, my José.”
“Thought we’d celebrate with the town and get me some loving all in one trip.”
“Loving, I got plenty for you. I’ll make your eyes spin and wish you never leave me again.”
“How about now?”
“Si, José, now. Come with me.” When she’d realized how that sounded, she laughed, took Joe’s hand, and led him to the stairs.
Joe turned to Sal and grinned. “Check us in, would you, old pal?”
Fernando, the hotel owner, registered them and assigned rooms. “Señor?”
“Yes?”
“You want I should find a woman for you?”
Blood rushed up to his neck and into his cheeks. “Uh... No thanks, Señor. I’ll just wait for them.”
“Rosa may be a while with José. Maybe, someone to talk to. To pass the time while you visit our fine community.”
“That would okay if it wouldn’t be much trouble.”
“No trouble, Señor. I have many daughters.”
###
Thursday, December 12, was a holy church day, the Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe, and Father Ortega had much to do. He was expecting most of the citizens at mass since it was the annual celebration of the appearance of the Virgin Mother in 1531, and the day would culminate with a parade and fireworks. But he awoke with a splitting headache, and his nightshirt was damp from sweat. Because this was such a special day, Father Ortega tried to ignore these symptoms. He hurried through his morning routine before leaving for the church: bathing, breakfast, coffee, and dressing.
On his way, he encountered a man.
“Good morning, Father.”
“Good morning, Maximillian. Will I see you in the mass?”
“No, Father, I must attend my sheep, but my whole family will be there.”
“I will say a prayer for you then, my son.”
“Gracias, Father.”
Father Ortega passed and greeted several more people before reaching the misión. When he raised his hand to grasp the large iron door-rings, sharp pains in the back of his head caused him to stumble. He leaned against the rough adobe building while the throbbing pain from the back to the front of his brain nearly triggered a blackout spell. Instantly, his body was drenched with sweat, and his knees were weak.
“Mother of God, what’s happening to me?” he thought.
When the pain subsided, the sweating stopped, and Father Ortega regained his composure. He opened the door and entered the church to prepare for the mass.
With great care, Father Ortega poured wine into a silver goblet, blessed it, and covered the cup with an embroidered cloth. He took a loaf of bread, broke it in half, blessed it, put it on a silver tray, and covered it with an embroidered cloth.
###
When Joe opened his eyes, Rosa was already up and dressing to leave for the mass. In the next room, Sal stirred and felt a warm body snuggled against his.
“Waking up, Señor?”
“Yes... Si.”
She leaned over and kissed Sal. Then she hopped out of bed and started dressing. Rosa stuck her head in the room.
“Ready, Maria? We can’t be late for the mass today of all days.”
“You go, I’ll catch up.”
Later, the men stumbled from their rooms. “Well, Señores?” asked Fernando.
“Best night, ever,” Said Joe.
“And you, mi amigo?”
“Maria is a lovely young woman.”
“Maria?” asked Joe. “Who’s Maria?”
“The most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. She’s tall, busty, shapely, and knows how to satisfy a man’s desires.”
“Well, you lucky so and so.”
“If you pay for the rooms, buy meals and drink from me, you can have the women as long as you stay. Por una pequeña carga. What you say, Señores?”
“What’s that there ‘por una’ he’s saying?” asked Sal.
“We can have the women for a small extra charge.”
Joe looked at Sal, and Sal looked back.
“Deal,” said Joe. Sal nodded approval.
###
Across town, more worshipers than usual attended the mass this year. Father Ortega was pleased to see their smiling faces, especially the children. But the service was taking its toll on him: his headache returned, and he was sweating more than before. His eyes were tearing, and his nose was running.
Father Ortega lifted the goblet toward the cross. “This is the blood of Jesus, our Savior, the Son of God, and the Son of the Blessed Mary. Drink in remembrance of His shed blood on the cross.” He brought the cup to his lips and drank as his saliva and nasal mucus mixed with the wine. He took the bread and held it up. “This the body of Christ. Eat it in remembrance of His broken body on the cross.” He tore off a piece of bread and ate it. The sweat of his hands coated the loaf halves.
As worshippers came forward to receive communion, each drank from the goblet, and Father Ortega ripped a portion from the loaves with his sweaty fingers and gave it to them. Rosa and Maria were the last two wanting to receive the elements. By then, he was exhausted and didn’t care that their reputations as the town whores should’ve excluded them from communication. He sighed, gave them the wine and bread, and reluctantly blessed them. His headache was throbbing too much to do otherwise.
Father Ortega made his way to the first row of benches and sat.
“Father, are you coming to the parade?” the children asked, crowding around him.
Father Ortega patted them on their heads and kissed their foreheads. “No, my children, I’m not feeling well today, and I must go home and rest.”
“Alright, Father, but you’ll miss all the fun,” said a small boy next to him.
“Yes, yes, I know. But you go and have lots of fun for me.”
The children found their parents, and everyone filed out of the chapel to see the parade. Father Ortega waved and blessed them as they left.
Father Ortega got up and leaned against the altar, his condition deteriorating by the moment. To save time, he took a shortcut through the large cornfield between the church and his house. Father Ortega was midfield when an excruciatingly sharp pain behind his eyes brought him to his knees. He grabbed his head and screamed, but no one heard his cries.
Vomiting again, and again, the contents of his stomach emptied on the ground until he puked only bile. The spasms of his diaphragm impeded his breathing: he had coughed and coughed, exhaling without inhaling. Blood streamed from his bulging eyes and from his nose. At last, he inhaled and shrieked like his head had split in two. Throwing himself on the ground, he convulsed, trashing against the cornstalks until he died.
###
Joe and Sal spend most of their day drinking, eating, and talking with the locals. They took time out to watch the parade as it passed in front of the cantina. Rosa and Maria, all decked out in their colorful costumes, waved from the procession, having attended the mass earlier that morning. At sundown, the fireworks added a bit of excitement and crowned the full-day of celebration. But, when darkness fell, the women beckoned Joe and Sal to their rooms for another evening of cavorting.
###
The town awoke early on Friday with fond memories of yesterday’s celebration. Several parishioners queued up for confessions, but Father Ortega did not come to the chapel. A couple of townsfolk went to his house but could not find him there.
About nine, Joe and Sal wandered into the cantina and ordered breakfast.
Fernando served them with his usual smile. “Still enjoying the women, Señores? I can find others if you grow tired of them.”
“No. Don’t do that. Rosa and I... Well... We have something special going.”
“Don’t kid yourself, José. Rosa es solo otra puta.”
“What’s he saying, Joe?”
“He’s calling Rosa a whore,” said Joe, rising out of his chair.
“What about his daughter, Maria? What’s he got to say about her?”
“Daughter? Fernando? He ain’t got no daughters. At least none he’d claim.”
“Then Maria’s a...”
“Looks that way, old friend,” said Joe, sitting back down. “We’ve both been had.”
“Wait, Señores. What has changed? You have the best two women the town has to offer, and they are satisfying, no?”
“We don’t like being tricked and made to look foolish, which we are. So, I’m for leaving,” said Joe. “What about you, Sal?”
“After one more for the road?”
“What the hell. We’re paid up for a few more days and have to arrange a flight anyways.”
###
The worshipers assembled the next morning for Sunday mass. Father Ortega didn’t show again, and his whereabouts remained a mystery. They waited for an hour then filed out of the chapel, confused, and frightened.
“What could have happened to the Father?” someone asked.
“Where should we look?” another asked.
###
At daybreak on Tuesday, Bayardo went to work his cornfield and found Father Ortega’s body. He went for several men to help carry the Father’s body to the chapel. A general state of mourning fell on the town.
After they ate lunch, Joe and Sal called for a taxi. Rosa and Maria waved goodbye to them as the taxi zoomed toward the airport terminal. After strapping in, Sal leaned to Joe. “That was one hell of a time. Count me in any time.”
“What are friends for?”
###
Two days later, Rosa awoke ill and died a horrible death within twenty-four hours. Soon after that, Maria and several more people were sickly and perished with similar symptoms. Fernando’s convulsions were exceptionally horrific as he gasped for his last breath at sunset on the following Monday.
Panic swept through the town like wildfire. Some tried escaping into the countryside, but they died a few kilometers from the town square. When the regional army heard of the tragedy, they put in an emergency call to the Regional Health Authorities for help. By the time help arrived, all one hundred fifty-two citizens were dead, as were their animals and hundreds of rats.
###
Meanwhile, Joe and Sal caught a flight out of Puerto Cabezas to Havana, Cuba, with connections to Tampa, Florida. When they landed, Joe suggested they enjoy a few days at an out-of-the-way resort. After checking in, they retired to the bar and ordered beers. For a secluded place, the bar was packed with patrons celebrating a wedding.
As Sal tipped his brew back, the stabbing pain at the base of his brain almost caused his knees to buckle and spill his drink. At the last moment, he caught hold of the bar’s edge and righted himself.
“What wrong?” asked Joe.
“Headache. Stomach’s queasy.”
“Not enough drinking,” said Joe, laughing.
Sal tipped his beer back for another gulp and added his laughter to the din of the room.
The second wave of nausea hit with such force that Sal’s vomit splattered on several men and women standing nearby.
“What’s happening to me, Joe?”
Then a searing pain behind his eyes dropped him like a rock. He convulsed and vomited, nonstop for several minutes. Everyone backed away and watched in horror as he started coughing so severely that he couldn’t catch his breath. Wracked with pain, Sal tried to cry out for help but didn’t have the air to do so. At last, he found some air and gasped, then vomited and inhaled stomach fluids while his back arched, and he thrashed on the floor.
Within minutes, the bar emptied, leaving Joe standing by helplessly watching his friend die. Soon, Sal caught one last gasp of air, exhaled, and was still. Two days later, Joe died like Sal did. Within a week, forty-eight more men and women had succumbed, and then overnight, the plague vanished, but left people confused and frightened.
The sun was just rising when Jovani “Joe” Gallo and his friend, Salvatore “Sal” Conti boarded a single-engine plane at the Puerto Cabezas, Nicaragua airfield. Joe was a strapping twenty-eight-year-old hitman for Ignacio Antinori’s Tampa, Florida, mob, and a lady’s man. Sal was a stout twenty-five-year-old, laidback, and shy. They were bound for Waspan, a picturesque, remote town on the Rio Coco, bordering Honduras.
“What’s so special about Waspan?” asked Sal as he settled in his seat across from Joe.
“A woman… With the biggest pair of…”
“Figured it was something like that,” said Sal, laughing.
“And the town’s having a festival.”
“What they celebrating?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. Ignacio said to lie low for a while, so we lie low.”
Sal glanced at the pilot, an older man, scruffy beard, and a dirty uniform and shook Joe’s arm. “You sure this plane will make it?”
“Stop worrying. I come here every winter. It’ll make it; always does; always will.”
“Okay. If you say so,” said Sal, gripping the armrests as the plane taxied for takeoff. Just as the aircraft pivoted at the end of the landing strip, its tire hit a pothole, and the whole craft shook and creaked. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”
Joe laughter could be heard above the roar of the engine as the craft gained speed. Through the small window, Sal watched the ground vanish below him while the plane gained altitude. When it hit an air pocket and dropped a hundred feet without warning, Sal’s face turned green.
Joe offered Sal a flask and a cigar. “These’ll help.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Suit yourself,” said Joe, gulping a swig of the whiskey and lighting the cigar.
“How can you smoke and drink?”
“Was born with a strong constitution.”
“How long’s this flight?”
“Less than two hours.”
Sal groaned and leaned his head against the window.
###
Father Ortega, the priest of Iglesias de Dios, Waspan, awoke early and made a cup of coffee. He stirred one spoonful of sugar, hoping to take the bitter edge off the strong brew but quickly added a second spoonful after one gulp. Pleased that many new faces attended the mass last Sunday, he hummed while bathing and sipping his drink. Behind his back, a rat foraged in the open sugar bowl but scurried when it heard Father Ortega returning. After another cup and more sugar, he made breakfast, ate, and finished dressing. When he heard the roar of the single-engine plane, Father Ortega glanced up to see the craft wobbling in the turbulent air.
Joe and Sal plane touched down on the unpaved runway and bounced to a stop, a few feet from the jungle. It made a tight circle and taxied to the one-story terminal, hitting every rut and bump along the way.
“Trying to get us killed?” asked Sal, wiping the nervous sweat off his brow. “This woman better be worth it.”
“Gee, Sal. Always the worrier.”
When they disembarked, an eager taxi driver approached them. “Transporte, Señores?”
“Si,” said Joe. “Hotelito El Piloto.”
“Equipaje?”
“Si.”
The driver loaded their luggage in the trunk while Joe and Sal sat in the back seat. Then the driver took off like a madman, weaving in and out of the narrow streets, dodging pedestrians, and honking at every opportunity. When the taxi screeched to a stop at the hotel, the driver hopped out and opened the door for Joe and Sal. Bowing slightly, he grinned from ear to ear, displaying several gold teeth. After unloading their luggage, Joe paid the fare, and he zoomed off down a side street barely wide enough for his vehicle.
When they walked through the open door, a woman, mid-twenties, long black hair, shapely waist and hips, and ample bosom, turned to greet them. Immediately, her face lit up when she recognized Joe.
“José,” she yelled. “You’ve come back to me.” She rushed to hug him.
“Rosa, I’ve missed you too,” said Joe, holding his outreached arms ready to hug her back.
“Who’s your amigo?” asked Rosa, stopping short of Joe.
“Sal.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Señor Sal.” Then turning to Joe and wrapping her arms around him. “Staying long this time?”
“Maybe till next year,” said Joe, laughing.
Rosa punched Joe’s shoulder. “Such a clown, my José.”
“Thought we’d celebrate with the town and get me some loving all in one trip.”
“Loving, I got plenty for you. I’ll make your eyes spin and wish you never leave me again.”
“How about now?”
“Si, José, now. Come with me.” When she’d realized how that sounded, she laughed, took Joe’s hand, and led him to the stairs.
Joe turned to Sal and grinned. “Check us in, would you, old pal?”
Fernando, the hotel owner, registered them and assigned rooms. “Señor?”
“Yes?”
“You want I should find a woman for you?”
Blood rushed up to his neck and into his cheeks. “Uh... No thanks, Señor. I’ll just wait for them.”
“Rosa may be a while with José. Maybe, someone to talk to. To pass the time while you visit our fine community.”
“That would okay if it wouldn’t be much trouble.”
“No trouble, Señor. I have many daughters.”
###
Thursday, December 12, was a holy church day, the Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe, and Father Ortega had much to do. He was expecting most of the citizens at mass since it was the annual celebration of the appearance of the Virgin Mother in 1531, and the day would culminate with a parade and fireworks. But he awoke with a splitting headache, and his nightshirt was damp from sweat. Because this was such a special day, Father Ortega tried to ignore these symptoms. He hurried through his morning routine before leaving for the church: bathing, breakfast, coffee, and dressing.
On his way, he encountered a man.
“Good morning, Father.”
“Good morning, Maximillian. Will I see you in the mass?”
“No, Father, I must attend my sheep, but my whole family will be there.”
“I will say a prayer for you then, my son.”
“Gracias, Father.”
Father Ortega passed and greeted several more people before reaching the misión. When he raised his hand to grasp the large iron door-rings, sharp pains in the back of his head caused him to stumble. He leaned against the rough adobe building while the throbbing pain from the back to the front of his brain nearly triggered a blackout spell. Instantly, his body was drenched with sweat, and his knees were weak.
“Mother of God, what’s happening to me?” he thought.
When the pain subsided, the sweating stopped, and Father Ortega regained his composure. He opened the door and entered the church to prepare for the mass.
With great care, Father Ortega poured wine into a silver goblet, blessed it, and covered the cup with an embroidered cloth. He took a loaf of bread, broke it in half, blessed it, put it on a silver tray, and covered it with an embroidered cloth.
###
When Joe opened his eyes, Rosa was already up and dressing to leave for the mass. In the next room, Sal stirred and felt a warm body snuggled against his.
“Waking up, Señor?”
“Yes... Si.”
She leaned over and kissed Sal. Then she hopped out of bed and started dressing. Rosa stuck her head in the room.
“Ready, Maria? We can’t be late for the mass today of all days.”
“You go, I’ll catch up.”
Later, the men stumbled from their rooms. “Well, Señores?” asked Fernando.
“Best night, ever,” Said Joe.
“And you, mi amigo?”
“Maria is a lovely young woman.”
“Maria?” asked Joe. “Who’s Maria?”
“The most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. She’s tall, busty, shapely, and knows how to satisfy a man’s desires.”
“Well, you lucky so and so.”
“If you pay for the rooms, buy meals and drink from me, you can have the women as long as you stay. Por una pequeña carga. What you say, Señores?”
“What’s that there ‘por una’ he’s saying?” asked Sal.
“We can have the women for a small extra charge.”
Joe looked at Sal, and Sal looked back.
“Deal,” said Joe. Sal nodded approval.
###
Across town, more worshipers than usual attended the mass this year. Father Ortega was pleased to see their smiling faces, especially the children. But the service was taking its toll on him: his headache returned, and he was sweating more than before. His eyes were tearing, and his nose was running.
Father Ortega lifted the goblet toward the cross. “This is the blood of Jesus, our Savior, the Son of God, and the Son of the Blessed Mary. Drink in remembrance of His shed blood on the cross.” He brought the cup to his lips and drank as his saliva and nasal mucus mixed with the wine. He took the bread and held it up. “This the body of Christ. Eat it in remembrance of His broken body on the cross.” He tore off a piece of bread and ate it. The sweat of his hands coated the loaf halves.
As worshippers came forward to receive communion, each drank from the goblet, and Father Ortega ripped a portion from the loaves with his sweaty fingers and gave it to them. Rosa and Maria were the last two wanting to receive the elements. By then, he was exhausted and didn’t care that their reputations as the town whores should’ve excluded them from communication. He sighed, gave them the wine and bread, and reluctantly blessed them. His headache was throbbing too much to do otherwise.
Father Ortega made his way to the first row of benches and sat.
“Father, are you coming to the parade?” the children asked, crowding around him.
Father Ortega patted them on their heads and kissed their foreheads. “No, my children, I’m not feeling well today, and I must go home and rest.”
“Alright, Father, but you’ll miss all the fun,” said a small boy next to him.
“Yes, yes, I know. But you go and have lots of fun for me.”
The children found their parents, and everyone filed out of the chapel to see the parade. Father Ortega waved and blessed them as they left.
Father Ortega got up and leaned against the altar, his condition deteriorating by the moment. To save time, he took a shortcut through the large cornfield between the church and his house. Father Ortega was midfield when an excruciatingly sharp pain behind his eyes brought him to his knees. He grabbed his head and screamed, but no one heard his cries.
Vomiting again, and again, the contents of his stomach emptied on the ground until he puked only bile. The spasms of his diaphragm impeded his breathing: he had coughed and coughed, exhaling without inhaling. Blood streamed from his bulging eyes and from his nose. At last, he inhaled and shrieked like his head had split in two. Throwing himself on the ground, he convulsed, trashing against the cornstalks until he died.
###
Joe and Sal spend most of their day drinking, eating, and talking with the locals. They took time out to watch the parade as it passed in front of the cantina. Rosa and Maria, all decked out in their colorful costumes, waved from the procession, having attended the mass earlier that morning. At sundown, the fireworks added a bit of excitement and crowned the full-day of celebration. But, when darkness fell, the women beckoned Joe and Sal to their rooms for another evening of cavorting.
###
The town awoke early on Friday with fond memories of yesterday’s celebration. Several parishioners queued up for confessions, but Father Ortega did not come to the chapel. A couple of townsfolk went to his house but could not find him there.
About nine, Joe and Sal wandered into the cantina and ordered breakfast.
Fernando served them with his usual smile. “Still enjoying the women, Señores? I can find others if you grow tired of them.”
“No. Don’t do that. Rosa and I... Well... We have something special going.”
“Don’t kid yourself, José. Rosa es solo otra puta.”
“What’s he saying, Joe?”
“He’s calling Rosa a whore,” said Joe, rising out of his chair.
“What about his daughter, Maria? What’s he got to say about her?”
“Daughter? Fernando? He ain’t got no daughters. At least none he’d claim.”
“Then Maria’s a...”
“Looks that way, old friend,” said Joe, sitting back down. “We’ve both been had.”
“Wait, Señores. What has changed? You have the best two women the town has to offer, and they are satisfying, no?”
“We don’t like being tricked and made to look foolish, which we are. So, I’m for leaving,” said Joe. “What about you, Sal?”
“After one more for the road?”
“What the hell. We’re paid up for a few more days and have to arrange a flight anyways.”
###
The worshipers assembled the next morning for Sunday mass. Father Ortega didn’t show again, and his whereabouts remained a mystery. They waited for an hour then filed out of the chapel, confused, and frightened.
“What could have happened to the Father?” someone asked.
“Where should we look?” another asked.
###
At daybreak on Tuesday, Bayardo went to work his cornfield and found Father Ortega’s body. He went for several men to help carry the Father’s body to the chapel. A general state of mourning fell on the town.
After they ate lunch, Joe and Sal called for a taxi. Rosa and Maria waved goodbye to them as the taxi zoomed toward the airport terminal. After strapping in, Sal leaned to Joe. “That was one hell of a time. Count me in any time.”
“What are friends for?”
###
Two days later, Rosa awoke ill and died a horrible death within twenty-four hours. Soon after that, Maria and several more people were sickly and perished with similar symptoms. Fernando’s convulsions were exceptionally horrific as he gasped for his last breath at sunset on the following Monday.
Panic swept through the town like wildfire. Some tried escaping into the countryside, but they died a few kilometers from the town square. When the regional army heard of the tragedy, they put in an emergency call to the Regional Health Authorities for help. By the time help arrived, all one hundred fifty-two citizens were dead, as were their animals and hundreds of rats.
###
Meanwhile, Joe and Sal caught a flight out of Puerto Cabezas to Havana, Cuba, with connections to Tampa, Florida. When they landed, Joe suggested they enjoy a few days at an out-of-the-way resort. After checking in, they retired to the bar and ordered beers. For a secluded place, the bar was packed with patrons celebrating a wedding.
As Sal tipped his brew back, the stabbing pain at the base of his brain almost caused his knees to buckle and spill his drink. At the last moment, he caught hold of the bar’s edge and righted himself.
“What wrong?” asked Joe.
“Headache. Stomach’s queasy.”
“Not enough drinking,” said Joe, laughing.
Sal tipped his beer back for another gulp and added his laughter to the din of the room.
The second wave of nausea hit with such force that Sal’s vomit splattered on several men and women standing nearby.
“What’s happening to me, Joe?”
Then a searing pain behind his eyes dropped him like a rock. He convulsed and vomited, nonstop for several minutes. Everyone backed away and watched in horror as he started coughing so severely that he couldn’t catch his breath. Wracked with pain, Sal tried to cry out for help but didn’t have the air to do so. At last, he found some air and gasped, then vomited and inhaled stomach fluids while his back arched, and he thrashed on the floor.
Within minutes, the bar emptied, leaving Joe standing by helplessly watching his friend die. Soon, Sal caught one last gasp of air, exhaled, and was still. Two days later, Joe died like Sal did. Within a week, forty-eight more men and women had succumbed, and then overnight, the plague vanished, but left people confused and frightened.