Outbreak

by Chris Ryan

  He was awakened by a bump. Bleary-eyed, he pushed himself up from his mattress to see his dad collapsed on the floor. Ben jumped out of bed and bent down to help him up. Russell looked terrible. His face was drawn and had the yellow pallor of candle wax; his skin was moist with sweat. Ben put a hand to his forehead and felt that it was burning hot. He hooked his father's arms over his shoulders, then hoisted him up with all his strength and sat him back on the bed. Russell collapsed once more, heavily and without control, onto his mattress. He lay there for a few moments, his breath still rasping; this time Ben could also hear his chest rattling weakly.

  His eyes were closed, but occasionally they would flicker open with difficulty and stare at the ceiling; then they would shut again. Ben had no idea whether his father was aware of his presence or not. 'Dad!' he said in an urgent whisper, not entirely sure why he was keeping his voice down. 'Dad! Wake up!'

  Russell's eyes opened again, and he turned his balding head to look at his son. He smiled weakly. 'My head…' he murmured, before dissolving into a fit of hoarse coughing that seemed to jerk his entire body. As Ben watched his father struggling, an uncomfortable feeling crept over him. He had deteriorated impossibly fast overnight, and he didn't have to be a doctor to realize how likely it was that the ominous red cross might soon be being painted on the front door of their temporary home. He thought back to the previous night, to Halima's description of her parents' illness. The symptoms seemed identical, and his father had been down the mine only yesterday. 'Dad!' he whispered again. 'Dad, you've got to listen to me. I've got to tell you something.'

  Russell's eyes flickered open and he looked blankly at Ben, who couldn't really tell if he was in a position to take in what he had to say. 'I'm ill,' the older man whispered. 'Malaria… I need medicine…'

  'It's not malaria,' Ben told his father urgently.

  Russell breathed out heavily. 'Ben,' he said wearily. 'This isn't the time. You've got to stop-'

  'No, Dad,' Ben interrupted. 'I know what you're going to say, but you have to listen to me. Even the villagers don't believe it's malaria, and they should know – they've seen enough people dying of it.'

  'Ben.' Despite the weakness of his voice Ben could hear his father trying to adopt that patient but slightly condescending tone he used when he was trying to explain something to his son. 'There are many different strains of malaria. Suliman told us…'

  'I know what Suliman told us, Dad, but he's wrong. Think about it – we've only been in Africa for two days. What's the incubation period for malaria?'

  Russell closed his eyes. 'A week to a month,' he said finally.

  'Exactly. And anyway, you've been taking Larium for two weeks.'

  Russell started to cough again, and Ben found himself wincing at the dreadful sound he made. He grabbed his hand and held it tightly, waiting for it to subside. Finally it did so, but it took a few more moments for Russell to summon up the energy to speak again. 'OK, Ben. Tell me what you think.'

  Ben took a deep breath and started to speak. As he did so, Russell appeared to be trying to regulate his breathing, keeping it as measured as his weakened state would allow him. It clearly took a lot of effort: more sweat started dripping down his face, and his body started to tremble. 'Last night, while you were asleep, I went to the other side of the village with a girl I met. There was a ceremony of some sort, with a witch doctor and the village elders. They believe that the village is cursed because the miners have disturbed some ancient burial site, and that's why everyone's dying.'

  'That's ridiculous, Ben.'

  'I know, Dad.' In the depths of night and the strange surroundings, Ben had found himself half believing what Halima had told him; now, in the reassuring light of day, he knew that the sensible reaction of his scientist father was correct. 'But it's still true that it's the mine-workers who fell ill first, and that their families fell ill next. On our way back, we ran into Suliman. He was angry – angry with Halima, I think. Worried that she might have told me something.' He squeezed his dad's hand a little harder. 'And look at you now, Dad,' he said, his voice a little softer. 'You were only down there yesterday. We need to get you to a doctor.'

  There was a silence between them, which Russell broke suddenly. 'Let go of my hand,' he hissed with surprising vigour.

  Ben was confused.

  'Let go of my hand,' Russell repeated firmly. 'And forget about the doctor for now.' His abdomen arched slightly as he tried to prevent another fit of coughing. 'Tell me more about what you've learned.'

  'Not everyone gets it,' Ben told him. 'About two thirds of the mine-workers. And it's not' – Ben almost stopped himself, but an encouraging look from his father made him go on – 'it's not always fatal, Dad. Halima told me that only about three-quarters of the people who come down with the illness die.'

  Russell gently closed his eyes, as though trying to come to terms with this information. Ben tried to think of something to say, but couldn't. It was his father who broke the silence. 'The bats,' he whispered.

  Ben looked askance at him.

  'A reservoir,' Russell insisted more strongly. 'They found a reservoir.' He dissolved once more into a fit of coughing.

  'What do you mean, Dad?' he asked gently. 'Are you all right? Let me try and phone for a doctor.' He was worried that delirium might have set in.

  'Listen to me, Ben.' Russell managed to sound impatient, despite his faltering voice. 'Have you ever heard of Ebola?'

  'Sort of.'

  'It's a virus – a nasty one. It's very rare, but the first outbreaks were found in this country, near the Ebola river. It causes death in most of its victims – horrible death.'

  'What do you mean, Dad?'

  'Fever, headache, nausea, then internal bleeding and haemorrhaging. Ebola sufferers start bleeding from every orifice and then, in most cases, they die within seven to fourteen days from multi-organ failure.'

  Ben blinked as his brain struggled to decode his father's scientific language; but then Russell made himself plain.

  'They bleed to death from inside and out. It's a terrible way to go.'

  Ben felt his blood run cold. What his dad was saying vaguely rang bells with him: he had seen pictures in a Sunday newspaper supplement of people suffering from something similar. They'd had blood streaming from their nose and even seeping into their eyes; their skin had been covered with huge, weeping sores and welts. It was horror-movie stuff, but it was very, very real. 'Is that what you think this is?'

  'No, Ben. No, I don't. Ebola only rarely transmits itself between humans. But it's not the only virus of its type out there, you can be sure of that. There's a similar strain of Ebola called Marburg that causes the same kind of symptoms; but the chances are that there are thousands of others, undocumented by humans, that have lain dormant for millennia.'

  Russell paused to catch his breath. 'When I was in the mine yesterday, I kept seeing dead bats.'

  'I don't understand, Dad. Why's that important?'

  'Viruses lie dormant in what's called a reservoir.'

  'Water, you mean?'

  'No, Ben. Listen to me. Not that sort of reservoir. A virus reservoir is an organism that plays host to the virus. It could be a plant, it could be an animal or a bird. Nobody knows what the Ebola reservoir is, but there is some evidence that it might be fruit bats…'

  '… and you think the dead bats you saw in the mine were the reservoir for this virus?'

  'No. The reservoir remains unharmed by the virus. I think these bats have disturbed something down there that is hosting the virus, and that they're now passing it on to humans. It's not Ebola, but if what you're telling me is correct, it is a viral infection of some sort; and if it's as contagious as it seems to be, it could be a hundred times worse than Ebola. We have to do something about it.'

  'What can we do?' Ben's voice faltered as he spoke.

  'This village is done for, Ben. Most probably I'm done for too. But if the virus is allowed to spread beyond here, there's no knowing what dev
astation it could cause. Millions of people could die. It can't be allowed to leave the village.'

  Ben looked at his father in awed shock. He simply couldn't believe what he was hearing, couldn't believe that they had found themselves in this desperate situation. Then, in a flash, another thought struck him. 'They know,' he whispered.

  Russell breathed out with a desperate shudder. 'Who knows, Ben? What do you mean?'

  'The mine-owners,' Ben told him. 'They've shut down the village. They won't even allow letters to leave – Halima tried to write to her sister to tell her that their parents were dead, but she didn't receive it.'

  Russell said nothing.

  'Don't you understand, Dad? If these people know about the virus, it means they're sending the villagers down there knowing full well what's going to happen to them. And if they don't want anyone to leave the village, that includes…'

  Father and son looked at each other, waiting for Ben to finish his sentence.

  '… that includes us.'

  'Listen to me, Ben.' Russell's voice was getting fainter from the exertion of the conversation. 'Some people have an inbuilt immunity to certain viruses. That would explain why not everybody contracts the illness. Suliman and the other mine managers – my guess would be that they're immune. As for you…'

  They looked at each other.

  '… it's too early to say. You've been living in the same room as me for the last twelve hours. Even so, you should avoid contact with anyone else. And Ben.'

  'Yes, Dad.'

  'Promise me you won't try to leave the village. We need to get in touch with the authorities, warn them what is going on. If we don't, this could result in a natural disaster the like of which Africa has never seen. Do you understand?'

  Ben nodded mutely, and his father collapsed once more in a paroxysm of coughing. When he had finished, he lay there in sheer exhaustion, his chest rattling, his breathing increasingly laboured.

  He looked like a dying man.

  Ben felt tears of frustration and despair welling up in his eyes, but he checked them almost immediately. There would be time for tears later; now he knew he had a job to do. Abele had told him that there was only one telephone in the village – a satellite phone in Suliman's office. He had to get there without being seen, and fast.

  As if reading his son's thoughts, Russell spoke again. 'Take my business card from my wallet,' he panted. Ben turned and rummaged in his dad's bag until he found the wallet and removed it. On the business card was Russell's name and the number of the company in Macclesfield for which he worked. He hurried back to his father's bedside. 'There's a man there called Sam Garner. He's a friend of mine, an expert in infectious diseases. Speak to him. Tell him… tell him it's a Code Red. He'll understand. He'll know what to do.'

  'All right, Dad,' Ben whispered. 'And then I'm going to find you a doctor.'

  'No,' Russell said. 'Haven't you listened to what I've said? Nobody can come in or out of the village, not until the authorities get this thing under control.'

  'But Dad, that could mean…' Ben couldn't bring himself to say it.

  'I know, Ben.' Russell tried his best to smile encouragingly at his son. 'I'm just going to have to take my chances. We all are.'

  Ben felt sick to his stomach. It pained him to admit it, but he would never have expected such bravery from his father. But then, what had happened to him in London and Adelaide had taught him that you never know quite what you're made of until you've got your back against the wall. He also realized implicitly that, even without the risk of contracting this dreadful virus, he was in a grave situation. If Suliman, Kruger and the rest of the mine-owners knew what was going on here, it meant they were willing to sacrifice scores of innocent lives to get their greedy hands on the Coltan down there. He had no doubt that their murderous ambitions meant they would not hesitate to silence Ben and his father permanently.

  It was probably what they'd had in mind all the time.

  And if that was the case, they wouldn't hesitate to stop anyone who got in their way.

  Ben jumped up, motivated into action by a sudden thought. 'Halima…' he muttered to himself. He grabbed the gun from the table, checked the safety catch and slung it into his shoulder bag; he quickly pulled on the clothes that were lying in a heap by his bed, and placed the business card in the back of his combat trousers.

  'I'll be back as quickly as I can,' he told his father directly, but his father said nothing.

  Ben wasn't even sure if he'd heard him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ben sprinted across the main square to the top of Halima's street, but he was too late.

  He could hear her screams even before he saw her. Staying out of sight with his back pressed up against the wall of another hut, he saw Halima being dragged out of her front door. Suliman was there, watching over three men whom Ben did not recognize – one of them had Halima's hair firmly clenched in his fist, the others were roughly jostling her. Even from this distance, Ben could recognize the weapons each of them had slung over their shoulders: AK-47 assault rifles, complete with fully loaded ammunition belts. Beyond them, parked at an angle across the dusty street, was an old beige Land Rover. The men started pulling the screaming Halima towards it.

  Ben felt his hand reaching instinctively towards his shoulder bag and the gun that it concealed. The steel felt cold to the touch. Whenever he had held it before, he'd had no real intention of using it; the same could not be said now, and somehow that made the weapon feel heavier in his hand than it ever had done. He flicked off the safety catch and held it up. Suddenly his mouth was dry; he licked his lips to moisten them, then prepared to make his attack.

  But something stopped him.

  One of the men no longer had his Kalashnikov slung round his back; he was gripping it firmly and using it to prod the struggling Halima towards the truck. In an instant, Ben realized the truth of his situation: there were four of them, at least three of them heavily armed, and only one of him. And he'd never fired a gun in his life. He stopped in his tracks. Perhaps he should just slip away, do what his dad had told him and try and make that phone call. Suliman was diverted, and now would be a good time.

  Then Halima screamed again, a terrified sound, and Ben realized he couldn't just leave her. He had to do something to help, and it would have to be something more subtle than just charging in there, inexpertly wielding a handgun. An idea formed in his head. It would be dangerous, but he could think of no other option.

  Calmly he switched the safety catch on again, then tucked the gun into his combats, pulling his baggy T-shirt over the top to disguise its presence. Halima was almost at the Land Rover now, and Suliman was making his way towards the front passenger seat. Ben took a deep breath, then ran towards them.

  'Hey!' he shouted. 'What are you doing? Leave her alone!'

  Suliman, the three men and Halima all spun round to see Ben hurtling towards them, his arms waving in the air. He saw the girl shake her head, her desperation suddenly replaced by an urgent if silent warning for Ben to get out of there. The men looked less fearful; they sneered at each other, and then two of them raised their rifles in his direction. Ben skidded to a halt, feigning surprise, then spun round as though looking for an escape route. 'Put your hands on your head, Ben' – he heard Suliman's quiet, intent voice – 'and walk towards us, slowly.'

  Ben did as he was told. As he approached them, one of the men walked towards him and then followed him from behind, prodding the AK-47 into his back. He carried on walking towards Halima.

  'Empty your bag,' Suliman instructed. Ben did as he was told, silently grateful that he had hidden the gun under his clothes. The bag was empty.

  'Get into the back seat,' Suliman whispered. Ben felt the gun jab sharply into his back, and he stumbled forward. Halima was already being bundled into the back, and Ben scrambled in, taking his place next to her.

  'You should not have come!' she whispered.

  'I had to,' Ben breathed. 'I'll explain later.'r />
  'Quiet!' Suliman was in the passenger seat now, directly in front of Ben, and two of his men had taken their places in the driving seat and the third seat in the middle. From the front, Ben could smell stale sweat and alcohol – someone had been drinking. He glanced out of the side window to see the remaining man step back down from Halima's open door, slamming it shut behind him. The engine started and the Land Rover skidded slightly as it set off and made its way to the edge of the village.

  'Where are we going?' Ben asked tensely, watching Suliman's expressionless face jolting in the rear-view mirror on account of the bumpy road and poor vehicle suspension.

  The men in the front remained silent.

  'I know there's something down the mine,' he insisted, ignoring the hiss that came from Halima. 'My father fell ill this morning.'

  Suliman smiled. 'That is good,' he said softly. 'It means there is one less of you to deal with.'

  Ben felt a surge of anger welling up in him. The vehicle was moving quickly. There was no way they could safely jump out, even if they could have coordinated such an action without raising the suspicions of their captors; but the outskirts of the village had already melted away, and a mile after they left the last dwelling place, Ben realized he had to act now or not at all. Slowly, and as inconspicuously as he could, Ben reached his hand under his T-shirt and removed the gun from his jeans. The safety catch clicked softly as he undid it, but the sound was more than overwhelmed by the clattering of the Land Rover over the poor road. Halima's eyes widened slightly when she saw what he was doing, but she managed to suppress the gasp that rose involuntarily to her lips.

  Now the gun was out, he had to move swiftly. He held it up and placed it directly to the back of Suliman's skull. 'In case you were wondering,' he said firmly, 'the thing you can feel is an automatic handgun. Tell the driver to slow down or I'll shoot the three of you – starting with you.' The aggressive words felt uncomfortable in his mouth, but he knew he had to keep up the pretence of confidence. Their lives depended on it.