Pandemic (The Extinction Files Book 1)

by A. G. Riddle

  Chapter 42

  Millen Thomas heard the camp come alive outside his tent. Boots pounded the hard-packed Kenyan ground. Doors slammed. Body bags were tossed onto the bed of a truck.

  He rose from his cot, threw the tent flap back, and walked out. The Kenyan army detail that had rescued him from the cave was scouring the village for their belongings—and for their fallen comrades who had died during the night raid on the camp.

  Millen had known they would leave, but he hadn’t expected it to be so soon. Last night, the CDC and WHO had evacuated all their personnel from Kenya. A flight with the field teams had left from Mandera; another from Nairobi evacuated the support personnel. Millen had been ordered to be on the flight that left Mandera, but he had refused. Evacuating meant leaving Hannah and Dr. Shaw behind. He had decided to disobey orders—to stay, wait, and hope there was something he could do here.

  And now, when the troops left, he would be alone in the village.

  Kito approached him.

  “We’re pulling out, Dr. Thomas. Orders.”

  “Where?”

  “Nairobi. The government has declared a nationwide state of emergency. Martial law. They’re setting up containment camps in every major city.”

  Millen nodded.

  “Come with us,” Kito said.

  “No. I need to wait for my people.”

  “If they’re rescued, they won’t return here.”

  Millen had been thinking the same thing.

  “Where will they take them?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What’s common in kidnap and ransom—after the rescue?”

  Kito considered the question a moment. “Depends on the rescuers. If they’re operating from a ship, they’ll be taken back there—somewhere in the Indian Ocean. Or perhaps to the closest airport. Mandera, likely.”

  Mandera—it was his best shot.

  Kito read his reaction. “A word of advice, Doctor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Set out at daybreak. It will be safer.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

  “We’ll leave you a four-wheel drive, water, and rations.” Kito paused. “And a gun.”

  “I won’t need it.”

  “We’ll leave it just in case. You have a solar charger for your phone?”

  Millen nodded.

  “Very good. Best of luck to you, Dr. Thomas.”

  “You too, Kito.”

  As the Kenyan was walking away, Millen yelled to him. “Kito!”

  When he turned, Millen said, “Thanks again for getting me out of that cave.”

  “It was the least I could do. You came here to help us. We won’t forget it.”

  When the cloud of red dust settled from the convoy’s departure, Millen returned to his tent, ripped open an MRE, and ate in silence, surveying Hannah’s neatly ordered side of their shared domicile.

  He had met her six months ago during EIS orientation. At first, he had thought she was neurotic and uptight. But as he’d gotten to know her, he’d realized the truth: she cared. Being prepared and doing a good job were important to her. She had a kind heart, and it had led her to medicine. She cared about patients like he cared about animals. He had suggested they bunk together in camp during the deployment, to compare notes from the medical and veterinary side of the investigation. Who knows, he had added, in our off-hours we could find the breakthrough to stop the pandemic. But he had been hoping for a different kind of breakthrough.

  When the food was gone, he drew out his phone. The Audible app appeared with The Nightingale’s book cover, ready to resume the story where he and Hannah had left off. He needed a distraction, something to take his mind off the waiting and worrying. He wanted to press play, to listen to the story as he drifted off to sleep, but he decided what he wanted even more was to finish it with Hannah, when she returned, safe and unharmed.

  He set the phone down and closed his eyes. Dr. Shaw was right: thinking was the enemy of sleep.

  Chapter 43

  Elim Kibet drifted in and out of consciousness. Day turned into night and back again, like a light being flipped on and off. The fever flowed like the tide, surging, overwhelming him, roasting his body from the inside, then withdrawing, leaving him to think it would never return.

  His symptoms grew worse each day. He found it harder to think. His hope of recovery faded. Dread took its place. Only when he had lost that last bit of hope did he realize how much he had truly held on to.

  The bonfire outside his window grew larger each night. At first they tossed only the suits and contaminated material onto the blaze. Then came the bodies.

  And then the night arrived when no fire was lit—and Elim knew that he was not the only one in danger. The entire place was in trouble. He waited for the news he knew would come soon.

  The door opened, and Nia Okeke entered once again. The official with the Kenyan Ministry of Health had given him ZMapp and insisted he take the room the American had stayed in. Now she wheeled in a cart piled high with bottles of ORS, clean buckets for bodily fluids, and boxes of antibiotics and painkillers. She parked the cart within his reach and sat on the bed, just beside his chest.

  “We’re leaving, Elim.”

  “You can’t.”

  “We must.”

  He looked down, his fever-ridden mind searching for an argument to keep them here for the sake of his patients.

  She seemed to read his mind. “There’s nothing you can say. There simply aren’t enough patients left here.”

  “How many?”

  “Two, including you. The other young man will likely pass before we leave.”

  Elim exhaled and nodded. “Where will you go?”

  “Dadaab. Then Nairobi. We’re setting up camps with military and health workers.”

  In his mind, Elim could already see what would happen if they couldn’t contain the outbreak. The government would fail. Warlords would emerge. A new civil war would start, sparking an endless fight over land and resources. Bandits would rule the roads. This plague would set Kenya back a hundred years. And it had started here, in Mandera, in this very room.

  “Before you came,” he said in labored breaths, “I was wondering how long I’d be able to keep this place open. I never imagined it would end this way. That I would be the last patient to die here. That it would die with me.”

  “Have faith, Elim. It’s the best medicine. And you’ll need it even more if the medicine doesn’t work.”

  Chapter 44

  In his study in Atlanta, Elliott Shapiro was growing increasingly frustrated.

  “This is no time for politics. These are people’s lives we’re talking about here. Have you found them? Tell me. Please.”

  He listened, then interrupted. “I don’t care what your orders are, listen to me—Hello? Hello?”

  He set the phone down and rubbed his eyebrows. With each passing hour, he knew the possibility of recovering Peyton and her team was slipping away. It was like watching a family member die in slow motion. It was torture.

  He hadn’t slept a wink last night. Neither had Rose. He had sat in the den, scanning news channels and websites, waiting for any news while he listened to Rose sneezing and coughing. He had brought her water and food from the kitchen periodically, sat by the bed, and asked her how her book was. Her symptoms had stabilized, but he was still terrified that the virus she and so many others had contracted was in fact the same virus that had already killed thousands in Kenya.

  They had created a sort of makeshift quarantine in the house: Elliott’s son, daughter-in-law, and grandson had kept to the second floor, while Elliott and Rose occupied the first floor. His grandson was running around in the bonus room over the garage, having a great time, while his parents played with him. Each group was heating frozen food from the freezer and eating separately. It wasn’t the ideal Thanksgiving, but it would keep the contagion from spreading.

  In the family room, Elliott turned on the TV.
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  “Despite growing concerns about the flu-like virus spreading across the US, many families chose not to alter their Thanksgiving plans this year.”

  The video shifted to a middle-aged man standing in front of a brick colonial home.

  “We figured everybody was sick, so, may as well be together. Tradition’s important to us—”

  Elliott flipped the channel, scanning for more news.

  “The infection rate is now estimated at twenty million in the US alone. The virus, which authorities are calling X1, is intermittent in nature and causes symptoms similar to seasonal flu. Those infected report feeling under the weather for a few days, then well for a day or two before the symptoms return. Officials at the CDC and NIH have urged individuals to exercise vigilance throughout the flu season, including washing your hands and—”

  Elliott changed the channel again.

  “Triple-A reports that despite an uptick in flu activity, they expect a record number of travelers to take to the roads this Thanksgiving weekend. Air travel is also projected to set a new high. Retailers are banking on strong Black Friday sales with Wall Street analysts calling for a ten percent growth in sales over last year…”

  It was a perfect biological storm. A highly contagious virus—amplifying at the precise moment when movement around the country was at its highest.

  Elliott walked back into his office, closed the doors, and dialed a number at the CDC. To his surprise, voicemail picked up.

  “Jacob, it’s Elliott. Call me. Thanks.”

  He dialed the man’s cell and was relieved when he answered.

  “Jacob. Please tell me you’ve sequenced this respiratory virus and compared it with the Mandera samples.”

  Elliott sat up at Jacob’s response. “What? … I know it’s Thanksgiving—” He paused to listen. “Listen to me, Jacob, this is going to be the last Thanksgiving if those viruses are the same… No, Jacob. Monday is too late. You’ve gotta go back in, finish it. Call your team… What? Jacob—”

  Elliott felt like screaming.

  He called the EOC once again, hoping to get a different operator. The response was the same: the head of watch had instructed every operator not to give Elliott any status updates. He was officially locked out—at perhaps the most critical time in the agency’s history.

  Day 6

  300,000,000 Infected

  70,000 Dead

  Chapter 45

  At first Millen thought it was the wind blowing through the camp, whipping against the empty tents, the flapping and howling only sounding like voices. As his sleepiness faded, he realized the sounds actually were voices—several people, arguing in hushed tones just outside his tent. He rolled over, careful not to make any noise.

  The morning sun cast three figures in shadow against the tent’s white fabric, like shadow puppets creeping toward him. They paused, pointed, and continued past him, talking quickly. Millen heard them enter the main tent. Crates being opened, ransacked.

  He rose and pulled on his shoes.

  The SUV Kito had left him stood at the edge of the camp, nearby. The main tent was on the opposite side of the camp, away from him, and Millen could see the shadows of three figures moving inside. They were turning the place upside down, looking for something.

  They obviously thought they were alone now. They spoke more loudly, in a language Millen didn’t recognize. Millen wanted to break for the SUV and get away, but what if they knew something? What if they had taken Hannah and Dr. Shaw?

  He pulled on his flak jacket with the CDC logo and grabbed the rifle Kito had left him. It was semi-automatic with a banana-shaped magazine. Millen had fired exactly one gun in his life: a .22-caliber rifle during his stint in the Boy Scouts. The gun in his hand was a lot meaner-looking. And deadlier.

  He gripped the weapon, ensured the safety was off, and crept toward the main tent. The flaps were down, obscuring his approach. His fear gripped tighter around him with every step. His mouth watered. He swallowed, gathering up his courage. His heart was beating out of his chest. If he didn’t charge or run at that moment, he figured he’d have a heart attack.

  With the gun held out, he ducked and burst through the tent flaps.

  Three figures sat around the long table… gorging themselves. Opened MRE cartons lay strewn across the floor and table. Millen recognized them: the three Kenyan villagers they had found hiding when the team had arrived here. The villagers stared at him, eyes wide with fear, then jumped up and stumbled over the folding chairs, falling as they scrambled to escape.

  Millen quickly set the gun on the ground and held his hands up. “Wait. Stop. I’m CDC.” He pointed to the white letters on his jacket. “I was here before. American. Help.” He spread his arms, blocking the entrance. A girl, maybe thirteen years old, stopped.

  “Yes, I’m an American,” Millen said again. “Here to help.”

  Millen finally got the three villagers settled down, and after a few minutes, he convinced them to resume their meal. The teenage girl, Halima, was the only one who spoke English. As they ate, she recounted the raid on the village. Hearing it firsthand was hard for Millen.

  When the shooting began, the three villagers had hidden under their cots in the isolation tent. They fled after Peyton told them to. From the bushes at the village’s outskirts, they watched the raid unfold.

  “They ran, the dark-haired woman with smooth white skin, a man, and the girl with red hair. They shot her—”

  “Who?”

  “The red-haired woman.”

  Millen leaned back in the chair, unable to speak.

  “I’m sorry,” Halima said quietly.

  Millen stared at the white canvas swaying in the morning breeze. “What happened after that?” His voice was hollow.

  “The dark-haired woman picked her up. They ran to a truck and drove away. There was an explosion. The truck crashed. More shooting. I couldn’t see what happened. I’m sorry.”

  Millen nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”

  When they were done eating, he asked them where they would go. The teenager simply shrugged.

  “I’m going to Mandera,” Millen said. “You three are welcome to come with me.”

  She hesitated.

  “I’m sure the Kenyan government will be setting up survivor camps soon. There will be food, water. Probably work to do. Be a lot better than staying here.”

  The teenager conversed with her two companions. Finally, she turned to Millen. “Yes, we’ll come with you.”

  During a deployment, standard operating procedure was to notify ops when changing a fixed position. But since the ops group had evacuated Nairobi, Millen called the EOC in Atlanta.

  “You didn’t evacuate?” the operator asked.

  “No. I’m still here—”

  “Hold the line.”

  Millen could hear shouting in the background. It sounded like a hundred voices talking at once, like the floor of the New York Stock Exchange had been transplanted to the CDC. He caught snippets:

  “Fifty thousand cases in Kansas.”

  “Navy has confirmed cases on three aircraft carriers.”

  The operator came back on the line. “Stay where you are, Dr. Thomas. We’ve got a situation here. Someone will contact you.”

  “I can’t stay here,” Millen said, but the line was dead.

  The call left Millen wondering what was going on in Atlanta—and the rest of America. Fifty thousand cases in Kansas? Had the virus they’d found in Kenya reached the US?

  He desperately wanted to know what was happening—and to let someone know where he was going.

  There was really only one more number he could call.

  Chapter 46

  Elliott didn’t remember falling asleep in the chair, but he awoke in the middle of the night with a blanket drawn over him, the remote in his lap, the TV on.

  He coughed several times, brought his hand to his neck, and felt his lymph nodes. They were swollen. Sweat covered his forehead. The fever was low
-grade, but there was no mistake: he was infected.

  On the TV, a reporter on a financial news network was speaking against a chart with a red trendline dropping sharply as it moved right.

  “Asian stock markets shed more than forty percent of their value today following news that Singapore would close its borders and declare martial law, and claims that China would soon begin closing its ports to prevent further spread of the X1 virus. The WHO has stopped releasing infection estimates, sparking fears that infection rates may be far higher than has been reported. That fear seems to be spilling over into the markets. In America, the New York Stock Exchange and Nasdaq will close at one p.m. in observance of Black Friday, and losses are expected to be steep. Futures are trading off twenty percent…”

  Elliott’s phone rang, and he stared at the number, still groggy. He didn’t recognize it.

  “Shapiro.”

  “Sir, it’s Millen Thomas. I called you day before yesterday. I was working with Dr. Shaw’s team.”

  Elliott sat up. “I remember, Millen. What can I do for you?”

  “The EOC in Atlanta is apparently overwhelmed. I’m here at our camp at the village where the raid occurred.”

  Elliott was shocked. All the CDC personnel in Kenya had been evacuated after the raid. “You’re still in Kenya?”

  “Yes, sir. I… decided to stay. I thought maybe I could help somehow.”

  Elliott nodded. “Okay. What’s happening there?”

  “The Kenyan military escort left yesterday; I’m thinking of going to Mandera, but I can’t get any guidance on whether that’s the right move.”

  “It’s a better spot than the village, but it’s hard for me to advise you. I don’t know who’s in Mandera or the status of any operations in Kenya. I’m sorry, Millen, I’m out of the loop here.”

  “Understood, sir. Well, I feel better knowing at least someone knows my location. I’ve got three survivors here—we found them in the village when we first arrived. I’m going to take them and head up to Mandera.”