The streets are quiet tonight. Clouds slide across a half moon and a breeze gusts. My heart beats slowly. My blood runs sluggishly. It sounds thick in my ears, a faltering rhythm that speaks of fading. Death is coming.

The main square is empty tonight. Wind shakes the shutters and somewhere a dog cries to be let in. My heart beats weakly. The contagion is growing rapidly. The smell of it oozes from my pores, a greasy aura of infection.

The town well is idle tonight. My mouth is thick: I lean forward and into darkness I spit.