When Ferek came back with the purple juice, fourteen jugs of it, Hale was ready for the fun to begin.
He woke up the next morning with a head that felt the way it deserved to feel. He vaguely remembered being courteously escorted back to "the brig" and ceremoniously locked in with the best of good wishes. He'd felt fine then; he didn't now.
He sat up, wishing he had his pack back so that he could get a couple of aspirin tablets.
Then the noise came to his ears—an excited muttering outside the window. He got to his feet carefully and walked over to the barred opening.
Outside, a group of men were standing across the narrow street from his cell. They seemed to be staring at the window, and when Hale's face appeared, they moved back a little, almost as though he'd struck at them. At the same time, the muttering ceased.
"What's going on out there?" he asked in his heavy baritone voice.
"It's the Plague," said one of them. Hale recognized him as the gun-wielding guard of the day before.
"The Plague?"
"That's right. Yon the Fisher has it. Seven others. I think you may have it."