The Nightmare Scenario

R
osalinda Mendez, or “Sister Rosa” as she was known to her fellow nuns, cherished the sound of crickets humming along with the buzz of her scooter as she rode down the small dirt trail. It made her feel close to nature. It made her feel close to God.

As usual on Wednesdays she was on her way for her visit to one of the remote villages of the Asmat tribe. The small village didn’t have much contact with the rest of the world. Nowadays they had some of the basic conveniences of modern life, like T-shirts and other western clothing items, but they preferred their old ways, and they preferred to be left alone.

They accepted Rosalinda though. They had become accustomed to her visits and the simple goods she brought, like matches or blankets, and most importantly, the way she cared for the sick. She always made a point of ensuring the medicine man received the credit for her cures.
Yet it was clear to the villagers that for all the medicine man’s powers, Rosalinda was helping him somehow, and they appreciated her for it.

She had joined the order at a young age, having been brought in as a child from the streets of Manila, finding a kind of peace and tranquility she had never known before in the strict routines of the convent. As she grew older, she heard the calling to spread the blessings of Christianity. She became a missionary.

God led her to Indonesia, or more precisely, the Eastern Papua province. The Papua area had several indigenous tribes, with little or no contact with the Western world, and as such they were untouched by the decadence that followed with it. She arrived in hope that these people would be more open to salvation than the busy inner-city dwellers of the bustling metropolises, sprawling around the world.

Gaining access to the villages had proven difficult. The Asmati were suspicious by nature. She finally found a way in when she read about the Nobel Laureate Carlton Gajdusek’s work on curbing Kuru disease among the South Fore tribes in Papua New Guinea. The way in was through the children. She camped away from the tribe, befriending the children running around outside the village by playing with them and offering them treats. Once she entered the village, surrounded by cheering children like a Pied Piper of Hamelin in reverse, the elders recognized that she was not bringing demons to their homes.

She had, however, quickly given up hope of converting the tribes. They had their own ways and were
not open to changing them. Though disappointed at first, she later came to accept it. She was helping them have a better life. Surely, she was still doing God’s work.

As she approached the outskirts of the village, she noticed that something was wrong, very wrong. The village was silent. There were no children playing outside the huts. The children were
always
playing, running about, giggling and screaming with excitement.

She skipped off her scooter and took off toward the nearest hut. What she found when she entered shocked her cold. On the mud floor laid a family: father, mother and child, completely immobile, as if dead. She bent down and felt for a pulse but found none.

With rising fear and a racing heart, she ran out and into the next hut. A similar scene faced her: mother lying completely still, embracing her young son. This time, she didn’t bother to feel for a pulse. The compact stench of rotting flesh that hit her as she entered the hut was proof enough. The deeper into the village she went, the more powerful the ammonia-like smell. Her eyes watered and she had to cover her nose with her veil to prevent herself from gagging.

She broke into a run, peering into hut after hut. It was the same scene everywhere. Dead. All dead. What curse had struck down on these innocent people?

She forced herself onward, head spinning.

When she reached the center, where the villagers would gather around the fire at night, she suddenly heard a faint sobbing from a hut to her left. She pushed
aside the straw door and entered the darkness. Right inside the door was another body, still and rigid.

She located the source of the sound. A young child, no more than three years old, was curled up in a corner, arms clutched around his knees. Next to him was a pile of green mangos, half of them eaten, and a cauldron filled with water. Judging by the amount of mango skins, the mother must have been dead for days, her last act, before strength had left her, having been to gather supplies for her son.

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