by A. G. Riddle
The three physicians spent the early afternoon coordinating with teams in other villages and prepping the camp for disassembly. They planned to leave at dawn the next morning.
By two p.m., they still hadn’t heard anything from Kito or Millen. Hannah had tried to call Kito’s satphone, but had gotten no answer. Hannah was growing increasingly worried. So were Peyton and Jonas, though neither of the older epidemiologists voiced their fears. Peyton decided to send another SUV loaded with four of Colonel Magoro’s men to the first cave Millen was supposed to search—just in case Kito found Millen injured and needed help transporting him out of the cave.
At two thirty, Peyton called Elliott Shapiro’s cell phone. Even after five years in the field without him, she had to admit that it calmed her to hear his voice. And going over the situation with him would help her get her head around what was happening.
She stood outside the large tent, out of earshot of Jonas and the staff.
“What are you thinking?” Elliott asked. “How could it have spread so quickly?”
“We’ve got a few theories. There could have been a group of four to ten people the index patient infected; they would have been traveling throughout the region and would have quickly spread the pathogen.”
“Makes sense.”
“However, I can’t help thinking it could be another method of transmission.”
“Like what? Infected blood? A burial?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Peyton watched the Kenyan soldiers patrolling the camp. “What’s happening on your end?” She badly wanted to know how Lucas Turner was doing, but she resisted asking specifically.
“A lot,” Elliott said. “The US has suspended all travel to Kenya, Ethiopia, and Somalia. We’ve also banned anyone from that region, and anyone who has recently traveled in that region, from entering the US. We’re not alone: Europe has followed suit, Australia, most of Asia as well. They say it will be the death nail in the Kenyan economy.”
“True. But I think it needs to be done.”
“I agree. Also, there’s been a new development here. We’re tracking another outbreak.”
Peyton began pacing. “Really? What are the symptoms?”
“It presents similar to the flu but with less initial intensity. It’s intermittent, too. One day the symptoms are in full swing: headache, cough, fever, exhaustion, the next the patient feels almost fine. The mortality rate is exceptionally low—so far.”
A chill ran through Peyton’s body. He had just described exactly the symptoms the two Americans had experienced before developing the viral hemorrhagic fever that had killed one of them and the British man.
She fought to keep her voice even. “How many cases?”
“Over a million in Asia, another million in Europe. Maybe two hundred thousand in South America so far. But we think there are a lot more. We’ve got half a million cases here in the US, but we’re getting updated stats from state health departments so we expect that number to climb.”
It was officially a pandemic. Peyton wanted to present her theory, but she needed to get all the facts first.
“How could it spread that far so fast? How did GPHIN miss it? How did we miss it?”
“The symptoms aren’t differentiated enough from a cold or flu. When health departments realized that patients who had gotten the flu vaccine were still getting sick, they started tracking it more closely. The intermittent nature of the disease also made it hard to establish a pattern. But we’ve got a sample in the lab, and we’ll have it sequenced soon. Whatever the virus is, we think it must be throwing off a lot of viral escape vectors. It’s pretty tough. The good news is that out of the almost three million known cases, we’ve only seen a few dozen deaths. It’s remarkably non-lethal.”
“Interesting.” Since Thanksgiving was tomorrow, Peyton asked the next logical question: “Is the director considering a travel advisory?”
“He is, but I count it as unlikely. The White House has already come out against it. Better to let a lot of people get the sniffles than kill the economy—that’s the thinking on their end. If the mortality rate was higher, the calculus might be more complicated.”
“Yeah. Figured. Listen, I know this is probably a long shot, but I want to mention it. The Kenyan physician who initially treated the Americans took a detailed history. Both of these guys had flu-like symptoms before they broke with the hemorrhagic fever.”
A long pause, then Elliott said, “You think…”
“I think we should compare the genomes of both viruses to see if they’re related—just to be safe.”
The unspoken implication was that millions around the world were already infected with the deadly virus that was killing so many in Kenya.
Elliott’s voice remained calm. “It’s a good idea. I’ll make it a priority.”
Peyton exhaled and stopped pacing. “Great.”
Curiosity finally overcame her. “How about the kid?”
Elliott’s hesitation gave her the news before he spoke. “I’m really sorry, Peyton. He died in the air a few hours ago.”
The words were a punch in the gut. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she had walked into Lucas Turner’s hospital room and promised him she was going to do everything she could for him. She wondered if she had.
“So much for ZMapp,” she said, trying to sound objective but failing to hide the emotion in her voice.
“You did everything you could, Peyton. And you sent us samples to work with. Let us do our part.”
Peyton thought about the young man’s note to his parents, which Dr. Kibet had transcribed in the notebook. Lucas Turner had been brave. And selfless. And too young to die. Dr. Kibet had taken good care of him—the best he could. She hoped Kibet would fare better than Lucas Turner, but she wasn’t optimistic.
She returned her focus to the phone call. “Right. Also, we’ve got another situation here: a missing EIS agent named Millen Thomas. He was exploring some nearby caves today, and we haven’t heard anything from him for a couple of hours. I’ve sent out a search team.”
“Understood. He’ll turn up, Peyton. Probably lost his phone or batteries went dead.”
“Yeah, I hope so.”
“Anything I can do?”
“No, we’re working on it here.”
“All right. Call me if you need anything. And keep your head up, okay?”
Back at the tent, Jonas was typing on his laptop.
“Lucas Turner passed away en route to Emory,” Peyton said, trying to sound unemotional.
Jonas looked up, his big brown eyes focusing on Peyton. “I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
A few hours later, Hannah ducked through the tent flaps, the satphone held to her ear. “The second team is at the cave site. The SUV is gone. Kito hasn’t made radio contact.”
“Signs of a struggle?” Peyton asked.
“No,” Hannah replied; she had apparently already asked.
Peyton thought for a moment. “Maybe their phone is dead. They could be on their way back here, or they may have moved on to the second cave.”
“Or they’re trapped in the cave,” Hannah said.
“It’s certainly a possibility. Have two of the men suit up and go in. Tell them not to separate and to make radio contact on the minute. Call the Kenyan MOH. Request a medevac helicopter be sent to the location; we have reason to believe that one of our personnel and one or more of theirs is injured. If we don’t find any signs of Millen, we’ll move to the next location on their itinerary.”
To Colonel Magoro, Peyton said, “Can you send more men?”
Magoro looked uneasy. “Yes, but we’re spreading ourselves too thin.”
“Do it,” Peyton said. “And let’s get reinforcements here asap.”
“Understood.”
At six p.m. the team cleared some of the clutter off the long conference table and sat down to eat. They had still heard nothing from Colonel Magoro’s second team. The third team would arrive w
ithin another hour.
The sunlight was fading fast, and the lights were on in the main tent. The army men were changing shifts, and about a dozen soldiers made their way into the tent, seeking their evening meal.
Outside, Peyton thought she heard a faint popping noise, like an air rifle. Jonas glanced at the flaps leading out of the tent. He had heard it too. Together, they walked to the opening. Just beyond the camp’s perimeter, two helicopters kicked up dust from the dry terrain as they landed.
A moment later, a dozen figures emerged from the red dust cloud. They wore black body armor and held assault rifles before them. Two of Colonel Magoro’s men fell as bullets struck them.
Peyton heard Jonas yell, “Contact! Intruders!”
Around her, the camp erupted in chaos.
Chapter 33
The first shots were deadly. The Kenyan troops dedicated to protecting Peyton, Jonas, and their team fell in waves as the invading soldiers advanced. In seconds, half of Colonel Magoro’s men were dead. Bullets ripped through the white tent complex. Return fire shredded the thatched-roof huts of the village.
“Run!” Magoro yelled. “Get to the trucks and go!”
But instead of running away from the tent complex, Peyton ran back into it, to the biocontainment room where the three survivors from the Kenyan village were looking on with fear. She opened the room and pointed away from the camp.
“Go. Hide, like before. Don’t come out until one of us comes for you.”
Peyton felt a hand clamp around her bicep. She turned to see Jonas, panic in his eyes. “Peyton, we need to go.”
Together, they ran toward the three Toyota SUVs parked on the outskirts of the camp. Hannah was ahead of them, already halfway there. She ran in the open, gunfire sounding all around her. Soft pops from the attackers’ suppressed weapons interrupted the automatic rifle reports from Magoro’s men. Bullets raked across the first two SUVs, carving a line of holes in their sides and shattering windows.
“Make for the last one!” Jonas called out.
Peyton put her head down and ran for her life. Her heart pounded in her chest, a bass drum out of tune with the symphony of death the rifles played.
A scream ahead—a woman’s voice. Peyton looked up in time to see Hannah fall. Blood instantly flowed from the young physician. Peyton was at her side in seconds, kneeling, inspecting the gunshot wound in her shoulder. Tears filled Hannah’s eyes, but she was already pushing back up, her teeth gritted. Peyton wrapped an arm around her, and they rushed to the SUV, where Jonas held the back door open.
He slammed it shut when they were inside and yelled, “Stay down!”
He got in the driver’s seat, cranked the SUV, and floored it.
An explosion rocked the tent complex, sending white canvas and red dirt into the air. Remnants of the blast rained down on the SUV like hail.
Jonas was making for the main road away from the village, pushing the vehicle to its limits. It stormed along the rutted road, bouncing, each violent movement bringing a scream from Hannah. Peyton wrapped one arm around her neck, the other around her side, and pulled her student on top of her, trying to cushion her. Their faces were together now, and Peyton could feel Hannah’s tears flowing down her own face, the salty taste touching her lips. Above them, a bullet shattered the back window, spraying tiny bits of glass. Peyton covered Hannah’s face with her hands.
More bullets struck the side of the SUV, a few at first, then a full barrage.
“Hang on!” Jonas yelled.
The SUV turned sharply, bounced twice, then powered ahead, the engine screaming.
A deafening explosion rocked the vehicle, tossing it into the air. Peyton felt herself float for a second. The sensation was sickening, like the moment at the summit of a roller coaster, before it begins its rapid descent.
The SUV crashed to the ground on the driver’s side, throwing Peyton and Hannah’s intertwined bodies into the ceiling and then depositing them in a crumpled mass against the side wall. When the sound of twisting metal and breaking glass stopped, Peyton heard Hannah screaming at the top of her lungs.
Up front, Jonas unsnapped his seat belt and reached for the passenger side glovebox, which was now above him. He popped it open, took out a handgun, and pulled the slide back, chambering a round.
“No, Jonas!” Peyton cried out, but it was too late. He stood, his feet on the driver’s-side door, his head and shoulders poking out through the passenger side window, which was now on the top of the SUV. He began firing, but only got three rounds out before automatic gunfire erupted, ripping into him, his red blood spattering the seats. He fell, and the gun dropped from his hand into the back seat, within Peyton’s reach.
Hannah cried and shook, the pain clearly overwhelming her. Peyton wrapped her arms around her while she eyed the gun.
A second later, the SUV’s back gate swung open. Hands reached inside and dragged the two women out.
Chapter 34
Desmond stared at his legs. For the first time since he had woken up in that hotel room in Berlin, he knew how he had gotten the scars. The memory had left him wanting to know more. At the moment, however, he had a more pressing issue: escaping his makeshift cell.
He lay on his back and listened for a few minutes, hoping for any clues about where he was or who might be around. But the barn was completely quiet, the other stalls apparently empty.
He looked around for something he could use as a weapon. His best option was to pry one of the rebar rods free. He moved around the cell, studying the bases of the rods, searching for a weak link. He settled on a rod on the left wall, then swept his hands across the floor, searching for anything he could use to dig with. He found a rock that was almost two inches long, and went to work scraping the dirt aside.
When he’d moved enough dirt to allow the rebar to be wiggled, he planted his feet, grabbed the rebar with both hands, and pulled. His aching body sent waves of pain through him. He rhythmically pushed out and returned, hoping the change in pressure would crack the weld.
Ten minutes later, his head was drenched in sweat, his body spent, and the weld was just as solid as it had been when he’d started.
He sat down against the wall, panting. He picked up the rock and turned it in his fingers. Without thinking, he turned to the dark wood and scratched the words: Desmond Hughes was here. He sat back on the dirt floor, studying his own name carved in jagged white letters on the wall. He leaned forward and added a second line: I’m innocent.
He had written the line without even really considering it. He wondered if it was true. In his memories, he had seen himself in a warehouse where people were being treated in makeshift hospital cells. But treated for what? He knew there was an outbreak in Africa—possibly of Ebola—and that Peyton Shaw was there. Peyton, the woman he, or someone else, had instructed him to warn.
Had he known this outbreak was coming?
Someone did. In another memory, he had seen a man with a badly scarred face, standing before a group, telling them the world would soon change.
Desmond lay on his back in the cell, his mind wandering. Wherever he was, it was hot and arid, easily seventy-five degrees in the dead of night. He was in the tropics, in a very dry region: Africa, or maybe an island in the Caribbean. No, an island was unlikely—he didn’t smell the salt of the sea. In fact, there was no breeze at all blowing through the open central lane of the barn.
He began assembling an escape plan. He knew his adversaries were pros. They had taken him alive for a reason. That meant they wanted to keep him alive.
The sweat covering his face might work in his favor. He spat on the jagged rock and wiped it on his pants, attempting to clean it. Then he lifted his shirt and scratched the rock against his side, just enough to break the skin and bring blood to the surface. He spread the blood around, then held his shirt to the wound, letting the dark red soak through.
The sound of boots marching down the corridor focused him. He lay on his bad side and slowed his breathing,
trying to look more vulnerable. His best chance was to lure the visitor into his cell. If he couldn’t do that, he’d have to attack the man through the bars and hope he could reach for the key. Perhaps he could throw the rock. With his hands bound together, it would be difficult to throw very hard, but if he could make the man stumble closer to the bars, Desmond might be able to reach through and get his hands on him.
The soldier stopped square in front of his stall. He wore full body armor, including a black helmet with a visor.
“I need a doctor,” Desmond said, his voice weak. “Somebody ripped my side open dragging me in here.”
The sweat on his face supported the lie, but the soldier made no movement or response.
“You hear me? I need a doctor.”
The man’s voice was gruff, hard. “This look like a hospital to you?”
“No. Apparently it’s a home for idiot mercenaries. Incidentally, what do you think your employer will do to you when I die of sepsis shortly after delivery?” Desmond paused. “Gotta think your life expectancy plummets.”
“Show me.” Some of the bravado was gone from the man’s voice.
“Doctor.”
“You’re lying.”
Desmond turned and moved his right arm slightly, revealing part of his blood-soaked side. He made his words come out even more labored. “I figure they’ll kill me anyway. Least I’ll take you with me.”
“Walk to me.”
“Screw you,” Desmond spat.
For a moment he thought the man was going to open the cell. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked out.
He returned ten minutes later, carrying a tray full of food and a small case. Hope filled Desmond until the man slid the tray through the bars. It was flimsy, Styrofoam—useless.
“Eat,” the suited man said.
“Not hungry. Too busy dying.” Desmond was incredibly hungry, but he knew what was in the food; he’d be unconscious shortly after his first bite. Then they would inspect his wound, discover his deception, and regard everything he said afterward with complete disbelief, ruining his chances of escape.