by A. G. Riddle
Instead, she let her head fall back to rest on the back of the seat. The slight vibration in the helicopter slowly became soothing. Within minutes, she was asleep.
When Peyton awoke, her head lay on Jonas’s shoulder. A small pool of slobber spread out from her lips. She reached up and tried to wipe it away.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” His voice was barely audible over the helicopter’s rotors.
They were losing altitude, descending toward a large, sprawling city. Lights twinkled below. Dozens of fires burned, some quite large.
Peyton checked her watch. They had been in the air for hours. If the disease had spread this far—to a population center—everything had changed.
As the helicopter descended, Peyton saw that the streets of the city were laid out in a grid pattern. Very few cars moved about, only military trucks, but throngs of people had gathered in the streets, pushing at barriers and shouting.
The copilot turned to look back at them and pointed to his headset.
Peyton and Jonas pulled their headsets on. “Where are we?” Peyton asked.
“Dadaab. At the refugee camps,” the copilot answered.
Peyton remembered the Dadaab refugee camp from the State Department briefing. Located inside Kenya, just sixty miles from the Somali border, it was the largest refugee settlement in the world, home to more than three hundred thousand people, many barely surviving. Over eighty percent of the residents were women and children, and nearly all of them were Somali nationals who had fled the drought and wars in Somalia that had lasted for years. Recently, the Kenyan government had threatened to shut the camps down in response to al-Shabaab terror attacks in the area, which they believed might have been perpetrated by followers recruited from the camps. And in the last year, over one hundred thousand refugees had been sent back to Somalia.
“How many are infected?” Peyton asked.
A woman’s voice answered. Peyton instantly recognized her: Nia Okeke, the Kenyan Ministry of Health official she had met at Mandera. She was apparently in the other chopper. “Thousands. At least two thousand refugees are sick. A hundred have already died. There are cases in the Aid Agencies Camp as well, including workers from the Red Cross and UN.”
Nia detailed the layout of the sprawling complex, which was composed of four camps: Ifo II, Dagahaley, Hagadera, and the Aid Agencies Camp.
In the distance, Peyton saw a transport plane landing on a single-strip runway.
“What are you bringing in?”
“Troops and supplies. We’re quarantining Dadaab.”
“How can we help?” Jonas asked.
“We’d like your advice. How would you handle the situation here? Please.”
Peyton and Jonas asked a few more questions, then talked privately, their voices raised to be heard over the helicopter’s rotors. Finally, they settled on a set of recommendations. They suggested that the Kenyans separate the camp into four separate sections: a quarantine area for suspected cases, an isolation zone for confirmed cases, and two support camps. The first support camp would house personnel who had come into contact with potentially infected individuals. The second support camp would be for workers with no contact with the pathogen. Workers from the safe camp would unload transports and conduct any interactions with people from outside the camps.
In their years fighting outbreaks, neither Peyton nor Jonas had dealt with a situation quite like the outbreak in Dadaab; they were largely making it up as they went. They advised the Kenyans to quarantine Garissa, the nearest town, and to close the A3 and Habaswein-Dadaab Road, the two major routes in and out of the camps.
After some discussion of the details, the helicopter turned and began flying back to the village where Jonas and Peyton were camped.
Jonas pulled his headset off and leaned close to Peyton. “This is bad. This could be the worst refugee crisis since Rwanda.”
“I agree.” Peyton looked out the window. “It doesn’t make sense. Dadaab is too far from Mandera and too far from the village. The American kids were never here—not according to their website or what they told Dr. Kibet.”
“What’re you thinking?”
“Something isn’t right here.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I need some rest. Time to think.”
An idea was just out of reach, but in the vibrating helicopter, Peyton’s sleep-deprived mind couldn’t reach it. For some reason, she thought about her brother for the second time that night. He had died along the eastern border of Uganda, a few hundred miles from here, on another night in November, in 1991.
The sun was rising over the village when the Kenyan air force helicopters dropped Peyton and Jonas off. The white tent complex seemed to shimmer in the sun as the two walked toward it, their hair blowing in the wind the helicopters kicked up.
Peyton was exhausted, but she had to call Elliott—and the CDC’s EOC. The situation had changed. The outbreak had spread much farther than she had imagined.
Day 4
1,200,000 Infected
500 Dead
Chapter 30
When he awoke again, Desmond lay on his side, on hard-packed dirt, in a tiny open-air room. It had wooden walls on three sides and metal bars on the other. At first he thought he was in a shabby prison cell. Closer inspection revealed the truth: this was a stall in a barn.
His hands and feet were still tightly bound. His body was sore all over—even more than on that morning in Berlin. They had not been gentle when they moved him.
With some effort, he sat up and scooted forward. Through the bars, he could peer down the barn’s central aisle. It was dark outside. How long had he been unconscious?
Whoever had converted the barn stall to a holding cell had been thorough. Though the floor was dirt, the wooden walls had been reinforced with vertical rebar that ran all the way into the ground. Given enough time, he might dig out, but he was quite sure he didn’t have that kind of time.
The agony in his body and the feeling of being in a cell brought to life a memory. It replayed in his mind as if he were reliving it.
Desmond was five years old the morning it happened. He had awoken early, thrown on some dirty clothes, and bolted out of the homestead. His mother appeared on the porch as he reached the first gate.
“Be back for lunch, Des, or I’ll tan your hide!”
He jumped the gate, pretending he hadn’t heard her.
He ran through the brown field, his dog at his side. The kelpie’s nose was often red from tearing into the game he chased down; for that reason, Desmond had named him Rudolph.
Desmond was certain that Rudolph was the fastest dog in Australia and the best herder in the world. Though he had not made a thorough survey of the country’s other dogs, there was no doubt in his mind. Rudolph was also his father’s star station hand, but his father had left the dog at home for Desmond today. Des was glad of it. His father could manage, and Rudolph loved their adventures more.
At the top of a hill, Desmond paused to look back at the homestead, the barn, and the painted fences running around both.
Atop a ridge, he saw his father, mounted on his horse. The flock of sheep before him looked like a dirty cloud. He took off his hat and waved it in the air, motioning for Desmond to come.
Pretending not to hear his mother was one thing; ignoring his father’s summons was altogether different. Desmond’s mother was quite a bit more forgiving.
Desmond set out at once, and when he was standing before his father’s horse, his father said, “Don’t go too far, Des. Come back and help your mother with lunch.”
“Okay, Dad,” Desmond muttered, as if merely hearing the words had attached shackles to his feet.
“And bring back whatever Rudolph kills.” He pulled a sack from his saddlebag and tossed it down. “Well, go on. Have fun.”
Desmond took off, sack in hand, Rudolph at his heels. He looked back once, and his father and the flock were nearly out of sight. The state of
South Australia was experiencing its worst drought in years. His father had to drive the sheep farther and farther each week to find grazing land and water. The blistering sun and clear skies were killing their property.
Thirty minutes later, Desmond reached the thicket where he’d been building his fort. Without wasting a second, he set about the hard work of moving stones from the nearly dry creek bed and packing them with mud to form walls. He had left a small hatchet and a shovel in the bush, to help with his work. If his father knew, he would be angry. Desmond made a note to bring them back with him that day.
He didn’t have a watch, but he occasionally glanced up at the sky, dreading midday. In dutiful fashion, Rudolph kept guard while Desmond stacked stone after stone. He was covered from head to toe in mud when the sun told him his time was up.
He wished the creek still flowed, even a trickle to wash his hands with. It had dried up two weeks ago.
He headed back toward the homestead.
The second he cleared the trees, he smelled it: smoke.
Dark clouds rose in the east. A bushfire, moving in from the direction his dad had gone—moving toward their home.
Desmond dropped the hatchet and shovel and ran. He had to get home and warn his family. His father would be okay. He was the toughest man of all time; Desmond was sure of that.
Rudolph was at his heels, barking.
With each step, the wind seemed to gust harder. It whipped at his face. On the ridge to his right, the wind carried the fire, picking it up, tossing it about, slamming it into the land. The blaze danced like a dervish, swirling, jumping, wrapping around trees, turning them into smoke and soot.
At the ridge where he had stopped before, Desmond cried for help, hoping someone would hear him. Smoke surrounded him, a black curtain closing in. And when the wind parted the cloud for a second, Desmond froze, terrified by what he saw.
Flames rose from his home.
He screamed at the top of his lungs. Rudolph whimpered.
Desmond descended into the valley, charging toward the blaze. At the demarcation line where the fire was devouring the tall grass, he stopped and thought for a moment. Rudolph came to a skidding halt beside him, looking around. Quickly, Desmond took the sack from his belt, tore it in two, wrapped it around his forearms, and tied it with the string.
Then he pulled his shirt up to block the smoke and cover his face. He gathered up his courage and ran for his life—for his family’s life—into the blaze.
The first few steps into the fire didn’t faze him. Adrenaline fueled him. The flames singed the hair on his legs. Black ash and red coal kicked up in his wake, tiny specks stinging as they hit him.
When the bottom of his shoes melted, the pain took over. He screamed, almost fell. The fire was only waist high, and through a break in the smoke he saw his home’s roof fall in, the flames devouring it. And with it, a little piece of him caved in too: an emotional wall, a hope he had held out. He screamed at the top of his lungs for the pain in his body—and in his heart.
He turned and ran out of the fire, not as fast as before, his legs shaking now. He screamed for help again, hoping, expecting his father to ride through the fire on his horse, throw him on the back, and charge out of the agonizing inferno.
But he never came.
Desmond’s feet failed him. He wasn’t going to make it. He could hear Rudolph barking. He pushed on toward the sound. He was lost in the smoke cloud. He felt dizzy, like he was going to pass out. Smoke filled his mouth, smothered him. He coughed, doubled over, but the heat of the flames near his waist propelled him back up. He couldn’t think. His pace slowed. He was walking now.
Through a break in the flames, he saw Rudolph, dancing across the singed ground, barking. The sight gave Desmond a burst of energy. He pushed himself, dashed with the last bit of strength he had.
He fell the second he cleared the fire. The simmering coals on the burned ground were digging into his legs. He began crawling, the sack wrapped around his forearms sparing them the agony his legs endured. Rudolph whimpered, licked his blackened, soot-covered face, encouraging him.
Right before Desmond passed out, he thought, I failed. I could have saved them. I should have saved them.
When he awoke, he still had the smell of smoke in his nose—and the taste in his mouth. His body ached, legs burned as if the fire were still roasting them. As he acclimated to the pain, he realized something was on his chest: a cold metal disc. He opened his eyes, which were watery and irritated from the smoke. A brown-haired woman, maybe in her early twenties, leaned over him, listening to a stethoscope. Desmond thought she was incredibly beautiful.
She smiled. “Hi.”
Desmond looked around. He was in a large room with heavy blankets on the floor. White bedsheets hung from twine pulled tight, held with clothespins, loosely separating several makeshift beds from one another.
It was night; he could tell from the air. There was no power where they were. Gas lanterns lit the place.
At the end of the row of white sheets, he saw a blackboard with letters of the alphabet strung across the top.
A classroom. At the school where he would start soon. Or would have.
Moans and cries rose from every corner, seeming to have no point of origin. Screams erupted every now and then. And the smell… it was like nothing Desmond had ever experienced. A barbecue came the closest, but this was different. And he knew why. When animals were slaughtered, the organs and fluid were discarded before the meat was cooked. But here… the fire was indiscriminate. The smells assaulted him. Charcoal. Sweet perfume. Burned fat. Copper. And rot, like a carcass shut up in the barn for a few days.
When his eyes returned to the woman, she said. “You’re going to be all right, Desmond. You were very lucky.”
He didn’t feel very lucky.
“Where’s my family?”
Her smile disappeared. He knew before she told him. He closed his eyes and cried. He didn’t care who saw him.
She returned just before lunch the next day, performed an examination as she had the night before, and changed the bandages covering his legs and a few other places. He gritted his teeth through the pain, but never cried out. From the look on her face, he thought the episode might have caused her more anguish than him.
She told him her name was Charlotte and that she was a volunteer, one of many working in southeast Australia in the wake of the deadly bushfires.
“What will happen to me?”
“We’ll be contacting your next-of-kin. They’ll be around to collect you shortly.”
“I don’t have a next-of-kin.”
Charlotte paused. “Well. Not to worry. We’ll sort it out.”
The other volunteers who had come through that morning had looked at him with sorrow in their eyes. They saw a broken, homeless orphan. Some averted their eyes as they distributed food and water and changed blankets and bedpans. It was as if seeing him could hurt them. Maybe it did. Maybe the more tragedy they saw, the more they felt, the more they hurt. Desmond didn’t blame them. And he always thanked them. His mother was particular about his manners.
Charlotte was different. She looked at him the way people did before, like he was just a normal boy, like there was nothing wrong with him at all. That made him feel good.
Desmond lay there after she left, staring at the ceiling, listening to the news program that played on the radio owned by the elderly man across the aisle.
“Officials continue to assess the toll of the Ash Wednesday bushfires in southeastern Australia. At least seventy are dead, thousands are injured, and property losses are expected to reach into the hundreds of millions. In Victoria alone, over half a million acres burned yesterday. Over a million acres are expected to burn this season. Livestock losses are very high. More than three hundred thousand sheep have been lost, and nearly twenty thousand cattle. For the first time in its history, South Australia has declared a state of emergency.
“Fire crews are still battling the flames
. They’re getting a lot of help, too. Volunteers from around the country are pouring into the region. Over a hundred thousand are expected to join the effort, including military, relief workers, and others.
“The source of the fires is not known at this time, but the extreme drought conditions are no doubt a factor. Wind gusts and dust storms have also contributed. We’ve heard reports of road surfaces bubbling and catching fire, sand turning to glass, and steaks in a deep freezer turning up cooked well done…”
That afternoon Charlotte returned with a gift. She had even wrapped it in newspaper.
“Sorry, best I could do.”
Desmond tore into the gift, then tried to hide his disappointment as he turned the books over in his hands, gazing at the covers.
“What’s the matter?” Charlotte asked.
“I can’t read.”
She was instantly embarrassed. “Oh. Oh, right. Of course.”
“I’m only five.”
“Is that so?” Her tone implied surprise. “I just assumed you were older.”
Desmond liked that very much.
“Well, I’ll just have to read them to you.” She paused. “If you can bear it, of course.”
A few minutes later, Desmond was lost in the story world, the horror around him forgotten, the stench extinguished. Even the moans of the people sharing the room faded away—until a tall, black-haired man interrupted. He was roughly Charlotte’s age, and he stood in the aisle gazing at her in a way that made Desmond want to get up and block his view.
“You coming, Charlotte?”
“No. You go ahead.”
“You were off an hour ago, dear.”
Desmond hated the way he said dear.
“I know. Gonna stay a bit longer.”
“I’ll wait for you.”