Outbreak

by Chris Ryan

  Seething with frustration, they started trudging to where the man had indicated. But Ben was hardly concentrating on where he was going, his attention diverted by the sight of more sick people being stretchered into the canvas tent. He knew perfectly well what he was looking for.

  A white face.

  He was halfway to the processing area when he saw it. Instantly he ran towards his father, doing his best to keep tears from welling up in his eyes; but before he had run even a few metres, he heard shouts from all around him. Appearing as if from nowhere, two armed peacekeepers stood between Ben and his dad. 'Stand back!' they shouted.

  'No,' Ben snapped at them. 'It's OK, it's my dad.'

  'No cross-contamination,' the peacekeeper insisted in an emotionless American accent. 'If you do not stand down, I will be forced to shoot. There will not be a second warning.'

  Ben stood still. All eyes seemed to be on him. He looked past the guards to where his dad was being carried. Russell Tracey's face was still and pale; Ben watched in desperation as he was carried into the tent. Then he looked back at the peacekeepers, who still had their assault rifles aimed at him. Reluctantly he turned and trudged back to Halima.

  'Maybe he is all right,' Halima said without much conviction. Ben didn't reply.

  Ahead of them was a disturbance. Ben saw without surprise that Suliman was arguing with someone giving him instructions. Immediately he too was surrounded by two more armed peacekeepers, and eventually he moved, with a surly look but without further complaint, towards a group of people milling around waiting for yet more instructions.

  As Ben and Halima approached, they realized that males and females were being separated. Distraught and tearful mothers were being forcibly removed from their sons; and fathers of daughters stood alone and confused as their families were taken away from them. Ben felt a sudden pang. He had been with Halima non-stop for days now; they had gone through such a lot together. Now he was to be separated not only from his father but also from the one person who had helped him through all this. He didn't want to leave her.

  They stopped walking and turned to look at each other. 'We have to keep telling them to shut the mine,' Ben said quietly.

  'I know,' Halima replied.

  There was an awkward stillness between them, as they both searched for the right words to say. 'You will be all right,' Halima managed finally.

  Ben tried to wear a brave smile. 'Hope so. Look, they can't keep us separated for ever. I'll probably see you before-'

  But Halima had put a finger gently to his lips. 'You have done all that you need to do here, Ben. But you do not belong in this place. Promise me you will persuade them to let you go home as soon as possible.'

  He looked into her eyes. 'I'll see you before then.' He glanced towards the medical tent. 'If I'm OK, I mean.'

  Halima smiled. 'Perhaps. Perhaps not.' Her gaze lingered. 'But I will not forget you, Ben Tracey, or what you have done.'

  And with that, she turned and joined the other women, not looking back to see Ben watching her leave, his face expressionless and his jaw clenched.

  He took a deep breath to steady his raging emotions, then stepped towards the male villagers.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur. Ignored by the African men around him, Ben followed as they were led into yet another tent. There they were instructed to remove their clothes. Ben did as he was told, standing awkwardly with the other naked, skinny, bedraggled men while their clothes were taken to the incinerator – in fact more of a huge bonfire – to be burned. They were then led outside again where plastic bottles full of stinking disinfectant were poured over their heads. When it dried, they were handed clean clothes – simple cloth trousers and T-shirts that made them look more like a group of convicts than anything else.

  They then lined up to have their blood tested. The men ahead of Ben looked deeply scared as they waited for the American doctor – also masked and suited – to slide the slim, sharp needle into their veins. Many of them looked like they wanted to run, but they could not do so as they were being held at gunpoint. Eventually it was Ben's turn. The doctor looked at his white skin in surprise. 'You OK, pal?' he asked through his mask.

  Ben shrugged. 'Kind of.' The doctor started dabbing an antiseptic wipe on his arm. 'Have they shut the mine down yet? It's really important.'

  'Not my area.' He picked up a needle. 'You must be the guy that alerted us to the virus.'

  'Yeah.' Half of Ben wanted to go into detail, but he was overcome with exhaustion now. He winced as the sharp needle punctured his skin. His blood slowly filled the syringe. 'What's the blood test for?' he asked.

  'Antibodies,' the doctor explained. 'Some people are immune to viruses like this – that's why not everyone has fallen ill. I'm afraid you won't be able to leave the quarantine area until we've been able to confirm that you're not a carrier.'

  Or that I am, Ben thought to himself. 'How long will that take?'

  'Couple of days. The samples have to be flown back to the lab in Kinshasa.'

  'But I've been in contact with it and I haven't got ill. Surely that proves-'

  'Don't prove a thing, son. These things can take up to twenty days to become symptomatic.'

  Twenty days. Ben felt a sickness in his stomach.

  'And what if I'm not immune?'

  The doctor hesitated before asking. 'Then I'm afraid you're going to have to stay in the village until the virus has run its course.'

  Ben nodded gravely, before he asked the question that had been on his mind ever since he arrived back at the village. 'Um, you know the big tent – the one leading to the incinerator?'

  The doctor nodded.

  'The people they take there, are they all going to die?'

  Again a pause. 'Most of them, son,' he replied. 'We're giving everyone antipyretics to reduce their body temperatures and antibiotics to deal with the virus, although it's too early for us to say whether they will have any effect. My own opinion is that they probably won't. In the end it'll come down to chance. A few people will make it, but it's impossible to say who.'

  Ben went quiet.

  'What's the matter, son?' the doctor asked quietly. 'Someone you know in there?'

  'Yeah,' Ben replied. 'Yeah, you could say that.'

  He walked away from the doctor and followed the line of people to a nearby tent. A sign outside said in big letters 'Quarantaine Masculine'. Male quarantine.

  He took a deep breath, and walked inside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The first few hours in quarantine were the worst.

  Ben had only been in the tent for a very short while when, beyond the hubbub of frightened voices, he started hearing distant screams. At first he thought that they were human, but soon he realized that the sounds were too high-pitched for that, and too herd -like. In an instant he realized what it was. The village's livestock – the mangy cows and goats that he had seen wandering around – would be an infection risk. They had to be slaughtered. Ben couldn't work out if what he was hearing was the sound of animals having their throats cut, or their squeals of terror as they witnessed what was happening to their fellow beasts. Either way, it curdled his blood.

  But it had to be endured. Now that there was nothing for Ben to do but sit and wait, his mind started working overtime. What if he had the virus? What if he was only a few days away from death? He wanted to think that he was brave enough to put up with the agony those who fell ill with this awful disease went through; brave enough to face up to it like his dad had; but he couldn't be sure that he was.

  He was just going to have to wait. Wait for the result of the test, or the telltale signs that the virus was taking hold of him. It was like some awful game of Russian roulette, only someone else was pulling the trigger. He felt horribly alone.

  They had not been in the area for long when a pungent, stomach-churning smell hit their noses. The villagers all started talking to each other in frightened whispers, but Ben couldn't understand what they were saying
. He didn't need to, though. Somehow, without knowing how he knew, he realized that the stench that had filled the village was that of burning flesh. The incinerator had begun its grisly work, and the smell did not let up. It seemed there were plenty of dead bodies to feed the fire.

  Although he could not understand the villagers, he could tell that they were confused and frightened, and he understood why. They had never seen a television programme or a magazine. They had no idea who these masked intruders were, or why they were doing these things to them. There were advantages, though, to not speaking English. Ben realized that shortly after the smell of the incinerators hit him and he overheard the guards talking.

  'It's started,' one of them said grimly.

  'Yeah,' one of them agreed. 'Just thank your lucky stars you're not on grave detail.'

  When Ben heard that, he stared at them in horror, remembering the sight of the mass grave outside the village. Of course, the bodies there would have to be incinerated too. What would these poor people think when they realized what was going on, that their dead relatives were being exhumed and cremated without ceremony? What would Halima think? Her parents were there.

  And what would she say about the ancestors…?

  Then there was another sound – a huge explosion this time that shocked everyone in the tent into silence. When he heard it, Ben jumped to his feet. He was not the only one; once the villagers had shaken off the momentary shock, many of them also stood up and started shouting – scared, no doubt, that something was happening to their families and homes. Sensing a potential riot, the guards started waving their guns towards them, shouting at them to sit down. Gradually the panic subsided; but then there was another loud bang.

  This time, Ben pushed through the crowd. 'What's going on?' he asked one of the guards.

  'Nothing for you to worry about, sir.'

  'There's plenty for me to be worried about,' Ben shouted. 'What's going on.'

  'Dynamite explosions,' the guard told him.

  'Where?'

  'The mine. They're closing it up. Making sure nothing can get in or out.' Suddenly he pushed past Ben. 'Everyone sit down!' he yelled. 'Asseyez-vous! Tout de suite! '

  But Ben hardly heard the instructions he was giving the villagers. For the first time in a long while he had allowed a grin to spread across his face.

  The mine was shut.

  The virus was contained.

  They had done it.

  It did not take long for the smile to fall from his face, however. As he turned round, his eyes immediately settled on Suliman, who was gazing at him implacably from the other side of the tent. Suliman had not appeared distraught at the sound of the explosions; it was clear that he knew what was going on.

  He remained calm; he spoke to nobody; he just kept his eyes on Ben, his gaze steady. He looked for all the world like he was waiting for something.

  Waiting for his chance.

  Ben stayed close to the UN guards, unsure what Suliman was planning, but certain that he was planning something. Suliman realized that Ben knew what he – and his bosses – had been up to. One word from him to the right person could incriminate them all. Ben knew what Suliman was capable of; he knew that Suliman would do whatever it took to silence him.

  Time passed, and Ben grew increasingly nervous. The strain of waiting for Suliman to make his move became increasingly hard to bear in that hot, crowded, terrifying place. Eventually he couldn't stand it any more. He stood up and approached one of the guards who were standing at the entrance to the quarantine tent. 'I need to get out of here,' he said quietly.

  The guard shook his masked head. 'No one leaves,' he stated sternly.

  'Look, you don't understand. I'm not safe here. That man…'

  'No one leaves,' the guard repeated. He was joined by his colleague, and they both clutched their rifles. Ben looked at them in desperate frustration before furiously turning his back on them and going back to find his place.

  The hours ticked slowly by. As darkness fell, the tent became quieter, but somehow Ben knew Suliman was not asleep. He did his best to stay awake, but as the night passed, his body became overcome with exhaustion, and no matter how many times he told himself to remain wary, his heavy eyelids soon started to flutter and close.

  It happened just before morning. Ben, along with everyone else in the quarantine camp, had been drowsing, and the UN guards on duty were standing outside of the entrance to the tent. Suddenly Ben was awakened by a fist across his mouth and his neck in a deadlock. 'Make one noise,' Suliman's voice said, 'and I will break your neck.'

  Ben's eyes shot open and he struggled to breathe.

  'Stand up very slowly.' Suliman's voice was snakelike. Ben did as he was told. In the darkness, he became aware of someone else by his side – one of Suliman's accomplices. He could also tell that a few people around him were awake; they could sense that something was happening, but they weren't going to get involved. Suliman pushed Ben to the side of the tent, his grip round the boy's neck deathly tight, while his man ripped the bottom of the canvas up to create an exit.

  Within seconds they were outside. Suliman spoke to his accomplice in Kikongo and the man slipped back into the tent to keep a lookout as Ben was marched swiftly and silently away.

  They stopped. Ben was feeling light-headed and was unsure exactly where they were, but Suliman appeared to have been able to dodge the peacekeepers in the relative stillness of the night. He didn't speak. He just started to tighten his grip.

  Ben tried to shout out, but the only noise that came was a choking sound from his throat. His arms flailed in the air as he tried to struggle away from his attacker, but Suliman kept his grip tight and hard, and gradually Ben's movements started to suffer for lack of oxygen. His efforts became weaker and weaker; everything started to spin; his limbs became powerless.

  And then, as though in a dream, Ben saw someone approach from the darkness. His gait was stumbling, his expression more dead than alive. But even in his state of strangulated semi-consciousness, he recognized the figure that was drawing nearer.

  It was Abele.

  The expression on his face told of the effort of every move. Painfully, his breath rasping, he bent down and picked a jagged stone about the size of a grapefruit from the ground. He staggered towards the struggling pair and with what strength he had left in his arms brought the stone firmly down on the top of Suliman's head.

  The mine manager roared with pain, but did not let Ben go; so Abele struck him a second time. This time his grip loosened, and Ben – drawing great gulps of air into his protesting lungs – managed to get away. Now Suliman was upon Abele, who stood no chance against a man with his full strength at his disposal. In an instant, Abele was on the ground; Suliman had taken his stone from him and was preparing to pummel it into his head.

  'Stop!'

  The UN guards had been alerted by Suliman's roar, and suddenly there were several of them – Ben couldn't count how many in all the confusion – guns at the ready. Suliman's arm stopped in mid-air as he caught sight of the peacekeepers, but his face was a picture of indecision and fury.

  'Drop it!' one of the masked figures shouted.

  It all happened in a split second. There was a wildness in Suliman's eyes that suggested his anger had taken hold of what good sense he had; with a hiss he started to bring the stone down towards Abele's head.

  It only took one shot.

  The bullet from the peacekeeper's rifle was aimed to kill and it entered Suliman's skull right in the middle of his forehead. The mine manager was thrown down to the floor with a thud, and in the bright moonlight Ben could see the blood dripping from his head into a sticky puddle. There were a few seconds of horrified silence, during which time Suliman's right foot twitched alarmingly; but it was clear to everyone watching that he was quite dead.

  Ben's instinct was to run to Abele, to see if he was OK. But as he tried to do so, he felt himself being restrained from behind. 'Get a stretcher here,' an American voice ca
lled from somewhere. Within moments, Abele was being lifted onto a stretcher and carried towards the hospital tent.

  'You're going to be OK, Abele,' Ben shouted, his voice wavering. But he didn't know if that was true. And of course, Abele didn't reply. Ben listened as his noisy breathing disappeared into the night, before he was led silently back to the quarantine area, his body shaking with the brutal horror of what had just happened.

  The doctor had told Ben he would be in the quarantine tent for two days before he received the result of his test. In the event, it was three.

  It was gruelling. Every couple of hours, someone would start displaying the signs of the virus; they would instantly be removed by the faceless medics and taken, often shouting and screaming, to the medical tents. Word had got round now that few who entered that place would return, and the constant acrid smell from the incinerators served as an ever-present reminder of what would happen to them. Ben felt like he was in some kind of concentration camp, waiting for the inevitable call, and he started to share the increasing panic that the occupants of the tent were experiencing. Arguments began to break out as the villagers demanded to know what was going on; occasionally the guys from the UN had to settle them by force, which did nothing to ease anyone's fears.

  On the second day – when Ben was just thinking to himself that he never wanted to see another bowl of the mashed cassava root that was given to them from a huge cauldron three times a day – the guards were approached by two more masked UN men. They spoke briefly and Ben watched as one of the guards pointed in his direction. The masked men started walking towards him and he stood up to receive them.

  'Hi, Ben,' one of them said. Clearly they had spoken before, but the fact that these people were all wearing masks meant that one American accent merged into another for him. He nodded. 'Ben,' the man continued. 'I'm afraid I have bad news for you.'

  Ben closed his eyes as a sudden hotness ran through his veins.

  'The man called Abele. He was a friend of yours, I understand.'

  Ben nodded again. 'Kind of,' he said, his voice clipped so that it didn't reveal the emotion he was feeling.