by Chris Ryan
Outbreak
Chris Ryan
Thirteen-year-old Ben is spending the summer in the Congo where his father is examining a valuable mineral mining operation. But a mysterious killer virus is spreading throughout the country which the mine manager is trying to hush up. It's up to Ben and his friend, Halima, to prevent disaster.
Chris Ryan
Outbreak
The third book in the Code Red series, 2007
Location: Democratic Republic of Congo
PROLOGUE
A small village in the east of the Democratic Republic of Congo, not far from the Rwandan border. Just before midnight.
They would be dead by morning. When you've seen it happen enough times, you get used to the signs.
Naked apart from an old pair of underpants, he lay listlessly on the elderly, stained mattress, its springs broken and its stuffing now home to a thousand invisible bugs. By the dim, smoky light of a candle, she watched his chest rise and fall in time with his heavy, laboured breathing. It seemed somehow too big for the rest of his emaciated body. He had not eaten for eight days, not since he fell ill. And he hadn't eaten much even before that: he was a poor man.
Beside him on the mattress lay his wife. Her body, heavier than her husband's, was covered with a piece of material that had once been colourful but was now ragged and dirty. Her breathing was forced too. Rasping. Occasionally her eyes would open and roll around, unseeing, in their sockets, before closing again. Now and then she would shout out, but it was impossible to understand what she was saying.
She sounded frightened, though.
Her left hand lay lightly against her husband's arm; but like his, it didn't move. The unmistakable buzz of a mosquito hummed around them, explaining the angry welts that covered their skin. And despite the hot humidity of the night air, they did not sweat. Their bodies were too dehydrated for that.
A young girl, no more than fourteen, walked across the dusty floor of the hut with an earthenware cup of water in her hands. Gently she dipped her fingers into it, then brushed the moistness against the cracked lips of her two patients. The man's tongue, furred and leathery, moved slightly towards the wetness, but in the end it seemed like too much effort and it fell back into the hollow of his mouth, giving his tired face an even more spectral appearance. Her wide eyes gazed at them, then she sighed and stepped back to the small wooden stool from which she had nursed them ever since they had become too weak to stand up.
The girl spoke five languages: French, three dialects of Bantu, and even some English. And in all of them she had repeated the same words over the past few days more times than she could count. 'Mama, Papa, please do not die.'
But she knew it was a vain hope. She had seen villagers die of malaria before, driven to madness by their feverish hallucinations, and she muttered a silent prayer of thanks that her parents had, at least, been spared that. It had been the same for the two other families who had been hit by the disease in recent days: quick, virulent. Malaria was a constant presence in the life of these villagers, and the girl had learned enough about it in her short life to know that it came in different forms. But she had never seen it this bad before.
Perhaps that was why there were others in the village who thought there was something more sinister at work.
It had been a year since the mine on the edge of the village had been opened. Originally they had hoped to be digging for tin, but the boss men had found something else down there. Something valuable. It had made some in the village nervous. They knew that the ground was sacred to the village ancestors, being the final resting place of the tribal elders for as long as their people had been in these parts. They knew that great harm would befall those who disturbed it. But the lure of the money had been too great.
Her father had worked hard all his life. When the mine-owners came, he was offered three times his normal pay to work for them – enough to make him forget about tribal superstitions, or at least put them to a far corner of his mind. Many other workers in the village had made the same decision, although most of them carried magical objects somewhere about their bodies to protect them from ancient evils. And now three of them had succumbed to this horrific illness, as had various members of their families. The tribal elders, who had been so keen to welcome the mineowners into the village in the first place, had ordered an X to be marked in thick, red paint on the corrugated iron doors of their dwellings – so that the villagers could identify the cursed houses, and stay away.
But the superstitions were not enough to keep men from going down the mine. Poverty and war had killed so many in this part of the world for so long that death was a common occurrence, more likely to come upon you if you had no money. And money was what the mine was all about.
The girl put all these thoughts from her head. It wasn't that she didn't believe in the malevolent powers of the ancestors; it was just that all she could think about was that her parents were at death's door, and she had to look after them.
But not for long. As the first light of dawn eased the village and the dense jungle that surrounded it out of darkness, her father drew his last breath. He exhaled as though he was breathing his spirit out of his body. Five minutes later, her mother too slipped silently away.
The girl had expected to cry when it happened, but now the moment was upon her, she found she could not. She just sat on that little wooden stool and looked at them, her mind a confusion of memories.
And then she stood up and walked out of the tiny hut. A small group of villagers had congregated at the end of her ramshackle street, looking out onto a stark clearing. They were safely outside the ring of protective symbols that had been crudely drawn in the dusty earth. How long they had been there the girl did not know – all night, probably – but now they watched her expectantly, not daring to draw near to the house that had fallen under this terrible curse for fear of bringing it upon themselves – just like the girl's father had done upon her mother, and upon the girl herself, for all they knew.
She stood up straight and, in a clear voice, spoke in Kikongo, the language of the region. 'They have departed.'
The bystanders looked fearfully at each other, then melted away, no doubt to spread the news around the village. The girl knew what they would be saying, knew the rumour that would be spreading round the population like a contagious infection. She half believed it herself. 'The curse of the ancestors has not been lifted,' the villagers would be muttering. 'Halima's parents are dead. We told you it would be so…'
CHAPTER ONE
Kinshasa International Airport . Four weeks later.
'You have money?'
Russell Tracey and his son Ben looked nervously at the sinewy man in front of them who held their bags as though they weighed next to nothing. Ben had always quietly assumed that he was stronger than most of his friends, but even he had had trouble lifting his dad's heavy suitcase onto the check-in belt at Heathrow when they had started their journey more than twenty hours ago. Now this tough Congolese man, his skin a deep, ebony black and his close-cropped hair flecked with grey, had made him doubt himself.
'Um… I'm not sure what you mean,' Russell stuttered slightly, his northern accent sounding peculiarly out of place in the stark, basic surroundings of the airport. His eyes flicked down at Ben, and then back at the man who had already told them, in a gruff, unfriendly voice, that his name was Abele. A flash of a dog-eared identification card bearing the logo of the Eastern Congo Mining Corporation had told them that this was indeed the person they had been expecting to meet them.
It had been a real relief when they had heard Abele's deep and harshly accented voice calling their names out of the crowd. Within moments of stepping onto the airport concourse, they had been surrounded by a crowd of young Congolese, not much older th
an Ben, all jostling to try and carry their bags in return for payment. Russell had tried to tell them as politely as he could that their services weren't required; but his politeness had been met with indifference at best, aggressiveness at worst. One of their unwanted porters, older than the others and with a nasty glint in his eye, had started to argue with him. His English wasn't good enough for them to understand what he was saying, but the tone of his voice left them in no doubt that he was unimpressed that they were declining his offer of help. Ben's dad had instinctively placed himself between his son and the crowd of people who had gathered round to witness the argument, stuttering politely in English in an attempt to defuse the situation. So when they heard their names being called, he had let out an audible breath of relief.
It took a few harsh words from Abele in a language they didn't understand for the vultures to disappear and swoop on some other unsuspecting new arrival, though these were few and far between by now. But it seemed like this Abele wanted their money too.
He turned and started carrying their luggage towards the exit, with Ben and his dad trotting nervously along, one on either side. 'If you have money, take it out of your wallet. Leave only' – the Congolese thought for a moment – 'four hundred francs.'
They stepped through the automatic doors into the oppressive morning heat as Ben performed a quick calculation in his head. Four hundred francs – about fifty pence. He had forty pounds in his wallet, and travellers' cheques on top of that. Where was he supposed to put the rest of his money if not there? As if echoing his question, his dad spoke. 'What should we do with the rest of it?'
Abele continued walking along a poorly maintained road towards a group of cars. 'Put it in your shoes,' he said bluntly.
'I see,' Russell said earnestly. 'Well, if you think it's sensible…' and he removed his wallet from inside his light linen jacket. Beads of sweat were already forming on the bald part of his head.
'Not here!' Abele snapped, looking around to check that nobody had seen, then flashing Russell an impatient look. 'Wait until the car.' He strode on in silence.
The vehicle to which he led them looked as though it had seen better days. The green and orange stripes along the bonnet suggested it was – or had once been – a taxi, but if that was the case it was like no taxi Ben had ever seen. There were dents all over the side that was facing them, and patches of rust had entirely eaten their way through the metal. The rear bumper was hanging precariously at an angle. As Abele opened the boot, Ben was sure he caught sight of a large cockroach scurrying away from the sudden sunlight. He and his father climbed into the hard, uncomfortable back seat and both looked around for a non-existent seatbelt as Abele tried to turn the engine over. It took six choking coughs of the machinery before he managed to judder it into life, and as it did so, the inside of the car filled with the unmistakably greasy smell of petrol fumes. They jolted as Abele pulled out into the road and sped off, paying no attention to the fact that the rickety suspension made it feel more like a roller-coaster ride than a car.
Ben felt his brown combat trousers and white T-shirt start to cling to him in the heat. 'Why do we need to put our money in our shoes?' he asked, half out of a desire to break the uncomfortable silence that had descended on the car.
'Voleurs,' Abele spoke the word in his native French, and neither Ben nor his dad needed anyone to translate for them: robbers.
'Between here and Kinshasa, you think?' Russell asked lightly, sceptically almost, removing his wallet to act on Abele's instructions and giving Ben a nod that indicated he should do the same. 'We'll be safe in the car, surely?'
Abele smiled slightly, the first time he had done so since they had met, and displayed a full set of yellowing teeth.
'With you, I mean…' Ben's dad continued.
'In the Congo, Mr Tracey' – Abele spoke more slowly now, leisurely almost – 'the only person not at risk from voleurs is the man with no money.' He thought for a moment before continuing in a quieter voice, 'And even he is not safe.'
The car fell silent once again as Abele's passengers secreted their valuables in their shoes. Ben looked out of the window to try and divert his attention from the intolerable heat. The road was busy, and most of the cars were in a state of similar disrepair to Abele's, though occasionally there was something a bit more modern and in better condition. Occasionally they were passed by white minibuses filled with passengers – the bush taxis he had read about, Ben assumed.
After a while he almost managed to forget how fast Abele was travelling, and it came as something of a surprise when he slowed down rapidly. 'Checkpoint,' the black man muttered under his breath.
Ben and his dad exchanged a glance. 'Will we need our passports?' Russell asked.
Abele shook his head. 'No,' he muttered. 'Not passports.' His voice didn't encourage further questioning.
They crawled forwards, and it was five minutes before the checkpoint guards came into view. They wore khaki uniforms and grim expressions, and had ugly-looking AK-47s brandished under their arms. Some of the cars in the queue were waved through without question; others were held for longer before being allowed to go forward. Eventually it was their turn. A guard rapped harshly on Abele's closed window, and he opened it reluctantly. The guard peered in, looked at Ben and his father without emotion, then started talking to Abele. They spoke in deeply accented French that Ben could barely understand. Suddenly the guard turned his attention to the back seat and spoke slowly, more clearly. 'Mille francs, chaque personne,' he instructed.
Ben glanced into the rear-view mirror. Abele was watching him, and he shook his head imperceptibly. Ben took his lead and pulled his wallet from his pocket. 'Je n'ai que quatre cent francs,' he enunciated in his best French. I only have four hundred francs.
The guard looked at him suspiciously. 'Get out,' he said, reverting to English. Ben did as he was told. 'You too,' the guard told his dad, before turning back to Abele and saying, 'You, wait there.'
Ben and his dad stood uncomfortably together by the side of the car. One of Ben's hands brushed lightly against the metal, making him wince: it was piping hot. The guard snatched Ben's wallet from his hand and hungrily rifled through, pulling the few crumpled notes that had been stored away there and then handing it back. He gestured impatiently at Ben's dad, who also handed over his wallet, and was also relieved of his money. The cash in his hand, the guard visibly lost interest in his captives. 'Allez,' he muttered before turning to the next car in line; but he stopped in his tracks when he heard Ben speak.
'What are we paying for?' he asked in a clear voice.
The guard looked back over his shoulder, a dangerous look on his face, then turned round to look at Ben. He licked his lips, and his right hand lightly touched the body of his AK-47 before he answered with a single word. 'Taxes.'
Ben was about to respond, when he heard his father interrupt. 'Just get back in the car, Ben,' he hissed. Another look at the face of the guard persuaded him that maybe his dad was right, and quickly the two of them got back inside and shut the doors behind them. Abele sped off.
Ben couldn't help feeling indignant at having been so blatantly stolen from, and at the same time he felt the heat of Abele's frequent glances in the smeared rear-view mirror. 'That wasn't taxes,' he burst out finally. 'Was it?'
Abele shrugged. 'I already told you, in the Congo the only man safe from voleurs is the man with no money.'
'But they were policemen, not robbers.'
'Then you should think yourself lucky, young Ben,' Abele intoned. 'If they were real' – he struggled with the English word – 'robbers, you would not have got away without being searched. And if they had found more money in your shoe…' He put two fingers to his head to indicate a gun before making a clicking sound with his tongue.
'Then why on earth did you tell us to hide the money away?' Ben's dad asked, unable to hide his anger.
Abele shrugged again. 'On this road,' he said, 'you are probably safe from that kind of robber.' He thoug
ht for a minute, before adding, 'In the daytime, at least.'
They drove on in silence.
Ben felt the sickness of uncertainty in the pit of his stomach. Maybe his mum had been right – maybe he really shouldn't have come. The idea of Dr Bel Kelland, world-famous environmental activist, trying to ban her son from travelling to Africa had seemed pretty out of character, but she'd been adamant. The Democratic Republic of Congo was one of the most unstable places on earth, she had fumed, and she had been shocked that Ben's dad – or 'your father' as she would always disapprovingly refer to him – had even suggested that he accompany him on his business trip to the region.
'It's just too dangerous, Ben,' she had told him.
'More dangerous than Adelaide?' Ben had replied archly. It had only been a matter of months since the two of them had been caught at the centre of the terrible fires that had swept across the Australian city. A couple of weeks of his longed-for summer holiday spent exploring an exciting part of Africa would seem like a walk in the park compared to that, surely. It would take his dad a week at the most to complete his business, and then they would be free to do as they pleased. Russell had even suggested taking a flight to the holiday resorts of Kenya, and Ben was certainly up for that.
'Don't be flippant, Ben,' his mother had chided sharply, before changing tack a little and appealing to his reason. 'Look, love, I'm not going to ban you from going, but just think about it carefully, OK?'
'OK, Mum.'
He'd been as good as his word, reading up on the country that used to be known as Zaire on the Foreign Office's website. It made for pretty alarming reading, and the list of vaccinations he had needed was as long as his punctured arm. Back in England, though, the warnings had just been words on paper; now Abele's words had highlighted the fact that these were not just idle fears: this strange land in the middle of Africa was clearly a very dangerous place.