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She’s infected with the plague!

Admiral Drek had reported he’d been sneezing frequently before succumbing to the disease. Later, the GM’s communique had warned what symptoms to watch for.

Oh, Zok, how long has she had it? What’s the incubation period? How is it spread? By air? By casual contact? The GM hadn’t provided any answers. I could already be infected!

He tore at the restraints.

“Stop it! What are you doing?”

“Stay back! Stay back!” His heart thundered in his chest.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

He yanked at the chains, kicking over the bucket of urine.

“Stop! Grav, stop!”

He wrenched at the chains so hard he pulled the bed away from the wall and toppled the table. The lamp shattered, and the oil burst into flames. Burning oil spread across the floor. Flames leapt into the air, and thick black smoke filled the chamber.

“Jesus Christ!” Laurel whisked a blanket from the bed, flung it over the flames, and smothered the fire. The cave plunged into darkness reeking of char, burnt oil, and hot urine.

He heard scuffling. She was on the move, but he couldn’t see her. Don’t come any closer. I don’t want to die. He continued to yank on the restraints. Changing strategy, he grabbed ahold of a bedpost and shook it. He couldn’t drag the bed out of here, but he could carry a couple of posts and worry about freeing himself later.

A light clicked on, and he was spotlighted.

“Don’t come any closer,” he growled, trying to sound menacing, but he had nothing to threaten her with. They both knew it.

“Okay.” She sat on the bed on the other side of the room. “Do you want to tell me what is freaking you out so bad that you nearly killed us both?”

“I didn’t freak out.” But he had. Faced with the prospect of death, he’d panicked. Trying to control his breathing and racing heart, he said as evenly as he could, “You’re sick.”

“Sick? Sick how?”

“You’re infected with the plague.”

“No, I’m not!” She screwed up her face. “What plague? There’s no plague that I’m aware of.”

“The one that killed Admiral Drek.” And everyone else. Was that a tickle in his throat? Was he getting stuffy?

“Who’s Admiral Drek?”

“The Earth campaign commander. I was his aide. While I was away, he fell ill. They shuttled him to the command ship, but the med unit couldn’t save him.”

“That’s how you got separated.”

He didn’t reply, realizing in his panic, he’d already said too much.

“What were the symptoms?”

“Sore throat, runny nasal passages, fatigue, chest congestion. Sneezing was one of the first signs.” The admiral had sneezed during their last conversation. Drek’s voice had sounded nasally, too.

“Ah…” She nodded. “You think because I sneezed, I’m ill?” She regarded him, shaking her head. “First of all, I am not ill. I probably sneezed from dust in the air. We are in a cave. Many things can bring on a sneeze—dust, black pepper, spicy food, and allergens like pollen, dander, mold. And rhinoviruses like the common cold.

“Your admiral couldn’t have died from a cold. Everybody gets them, and they recover. It’s no big deal. It’s not dangerous.”

“Maybe not to you,” he said, realizing he handed her the means to kill him without bloodshed. Maybe he was already dying. The common cold was not common to them. They had no immunity, and the med unit had been unable to fabricate a treatment.

He shouldn’t be talking about this. Admitting the leader of the campaign had died exposed a vulnerability. Thank Zok he hadn’t told her any more—like how many millions of his people had perished and that the takeover of her planet had been aborted as a result.

Those stranded on Earth were in a precarious position. While handheld vaporizers were more effective than guns, the Progg were outnumbered by a no-doubt vengeful surviving populace. They would be hunted. That’s what happened to him; he’d been ambushed by a vengeful human.

For his safety and his fellow Progg, the humans had to believe a major threat still existed.

“Besides,” she said. “I haven’t been around anybody to catch a cold. It spreads by touching a contaminated surface or breathing droplets from an infected person—”

“Like from sneezing—”

“Yes, but I haven’t been in contact with a single solitary person in over a year. More likely, I’ll get a disease from you. So, calm the fuck down.” She glowered at him and then surveyed the singed blanket and the puddle of urine and then scowled some more.

Narrowing her eyes, she cocked her head. “Why did you call it the plague?”

“I couldn’t think of the word in your language for disease,” he improvised and swore silently. I must guard my tongue, watch my words. He was ashamed of his panic, the behavior unbecoming a Progg. He felt a little calmer after her explanation, although his concerns were not completely erased.

He had a hunch how the admiral had fallen ill. The regiment had been working with a human informant to ferret out possible hiding places. The informant must have been infected and passed on the disease.

Earth’s best weapons had been ineffective against Progg superiority. Annihilation had been a foregone conclusion.

Except the humans had won. The mighty Progg had been defeated by their own hubris, by failing to take precautions because they didn’t think they had anything to fear. A minor, common disease posing no threat to the native population had been their downfall.

He prayed to Zok she was telling the truth about not being ill. What if she’s sick and doesn’t know it yet?

She regarded him steadily while shaking her head then spun on her heel and left the room, taking the light with her. He sank onto the bunk and held his head in his hands. Would she come back? What would happen now?

Long minutes passed before she returned with a whisk on a pole, a flat tray with a handle, and a couple of lamps. Grav stood up.

“Sit down,” she ordered.

He eyed her warily.

“Sit down, or I’ll breathe on you,” she threatened.

“You said you weren’t sick!”

“I’m not, but you can’t be a 100 percent sure, can you?”’

He sat.

“Don’t freak out, but I’m going to clean up your mess.”

He scooted to the foot of the bed as she approached.

“Battery-powered, no oil.” She positioned the lamps close to his bed—but not as near as before—and proceeded to carefully lift and then roll up the blanket. She pulled a large, thin black sheet from a pouch in her shirt. As she did so, some of the strips she’d used to tie him to the bed fell out of her pocket. She shook out the sheeting, opening it to a large bag.

She stuffed the blanket inside then swept up the glass shards, depositing them in the bag.

After righting the table, she plunked his water container on top of it and motioned to the bucket.

He picked it up. The urine had soaked into the hard-packed ground. The odor would linger for a long time. Hopefully, I’ll be able to escape and won’t have to smell it for very long.

Hands on her hips, she eyed him. “Trust is in short supply. You don’t entirely believe me when I tell you I’m not sick, well, I’m not convinced the Progg haven’t moved into Big Creek.

“So, I’m going to check out your story. If you’re telling the truth, I’ll be back. If you’re lying, and I get vaporized, you’re going to starve to death. Now, is there something you wish to tell me before I go?”

“I told you the truth.”

“Fine.” She marched out, taking the black sack with her. He eyed the white strips she’d dropped on the floor. Better wait a bit.

A minute later, she stomped in, dropped several of the dry, tasteless food bars onto the table, topped off his water, and left again.

He hoped, for his sake, she didn’t encounter anybody.

He’d told her no lies, but he hadn’t told her the whole truth. Having searched months for his people without success made it unlikely she would encounter a Progg but not impossible. Like he had, someone might enter the town to find food. He prayed to Zok that didn’t happen because if it did, he’d kill Laurel, and Grav would starve.

The strips on the floor called to him, but he held back. Give it more time. Make sure she’s gone.

He didn’t wish to die by any means. He never realized how much dying terrified him. Protected by military superiority and blessed with a strong constitution assisted by medical intelligence, he hadn’t had to face death. When you always won, you had no idea what losing felt like.

Within a short period of time, he’d been shot, possibly had been exposed to a fatal illness, and now faced starvation.

I hope she’s not carrying the plague. He eyed the white strips. Enough time has passed. It’s safe.

He leaped off the bunk and snatched up the white ties. He tested the strength, pulling on one with both hands. Too strong to break. He inserted the tip into the hole. It just slid around. He tried again another way. It locked.

Ah…simple, but ingenious. Insert one way and little teeth caught, and it couldn’t be undone. Insert it backward, and it could be removed.

Unfortunately for Laurel, she’d allowed him too much freedom of movement.

Compassion will undermine you every time.

He lifted a corner of the mattress at the head of the bed. Metal rails supported wooden slats upon which the mattress rested. He ran his hands along the rail. Smooth. No help there. He placed the ties on a slat and lowered the mattress.

He inspected the bedposts. No rough edges. He tore a food bar open and grimaced as he bit into it then set the others on the mattress and placed the water on the floor away from the urine stain. He lifted the metal table onto his lap. Very lightweight. No wonder he’d knocked it over so easily.

No sharp edges. He tested the sturdiness. He might be able to break off a leg but doubted he could do anything with it before she returned. She’d be sure to notice a table with a missing leg.

He set it down. As he bent to retrieve his water, he spied a long, big silver object under the bed pushed to the far side.

By raising the mattress, he used his feet to drag it forward and out from under the bed. A ladder. The flat rungs, their sharp edges bent downward, were screwed in. To his delight, the screws on the lowest rung were loose. He undid the screws and pulled the rung loose.

He shoved the ladder under the bed. While finishing off the power bar, he eyed the chain, contemplating which would be the least noticeable link. Then he began sawing on the link with the sharp rung, keeping an ear cocked for Laurel’s return. If she went to the town, she should be gone a while, but he couldn’t count on it.

After a couple of minutes of sawing, he’d achieved no headway. This is going to take time.

All I have is time.

He continued sawing. It felt seditious, treasonous to admit even to himself that he would miss her when he left. I hope you survive, little human.