Alana feels the dread crawling up her spine. “Is that her Yersinia culture plate?”

Byron nods. “Ms. Barsotti might be the first-ever case of multi-antibiotic-resistant plague.”

“Jesus.”

“Not even sure He could help us.”

“But it does make some sense, Byron.”

“How so?”

“If we are dealing with a genetically engineered bioweapon, it would have been programmed to accumulate resistance.”

“Regardless of where it comes, if the antibiotic-resistant strain of the plague continues to spread beyond the walls of this hospital . . .”

He doesn’t need to finish the thought. Alana knows all too well that, if that were to happen, containment might be impossible.

Chapter

Twenty-One

Today is the ninth day of February. It will also likely be my last one on this earth.

In whatever time I have left, I will attempt to record my final struggles in the clutches of this pestilence. However, I do fear that my penmanship has grown so tremulous that these last pages might not be legible to anyone who were to chance upon them.

The fevers pounce upon me like nothing I have ever imagined. First comes the deep chill, a cold that is colder than snow. My teeth clatter and my bones shake similarly to the convulsions we see when the regulars from the tavern go too long without ale or wine, except, unlike them, I am awake throughout my fits. I yearn for warmth that is not attainable even through layers of blankets. Invariably, the fever follows. It is so intense that I can only compare it to the hottest of kilns. My elixirs and my salves offer no relief, and no wet compresses or exposed skin suppress the fire that rages to my very core.

What demonic force must this pestilence possess, to take a man from the coldest of cold to the hottest of hot in a matter of moments? It defies any science I understand.

New buboes have also developed in my armpits. They make it impossible for me to extend my arms above the level of my waist. There is no possibility that I can drain them myself, were I to possess the strength or resolve to do so.

A day has passed since the brothers of the San Giovanni Monastery collected six live rats for me in a satchel and then carried me home on the back of a mule. Upon returning to my room, once I had mustered strength enough, I grabbed the biggest of the rats. I suffered his scratches and bites, for I needed his heart to be still beating as I turned him toward me and slit his throat. The warm foul blood spurted into my mouth in pulses. I drank it like the lowest of savages might. It took every modicum of the strength I had left in me to keep the contents of my stomach down. However, hard as I tried, I could not swallow down his raw flesh. After two bites, I vomited repeatedly, uncertain after a time whether it was his blood or mine that was spewing forth.