Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller Page 3

  “Americans? Brits? Any Westerner? No, I’d be happier to kill soldiers, but it doesn’t matter. In those democracies—if you can call them that—people vote for governments that kill Muslims. They buy the bombs with their taxes, sit their fat asses on their couches, suck in all the Muslim hate propaganda, and tell themselves because they have no uniform on they have no guilt. But they are all guilty.”

  “Be careful, Jalal. You’re starting to sound like a zealot.”

  Jalal laughed. “If we’re not both zealots, what are we doing here?”

  “Sometimes I wonder.”

  “Don’t say that to anybody else.” Jalal looked around. “You hear me, mate?”

  “Yeah.” Salim handed the binoculars back to Jalal.

  “Dhakwan says his cousin was put in a sleeper cell in Germany. He thinks they’re building a network and when the time is right, we’ll take our RPGs to every major airport in the West, sit at the end of the runways, and shoot down airliners until they stop flying.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  Jalal turned and raised his voice. “Stupid?”

  “Calm down, Jalal. That won’t work.”

  “Why won’t it work, Mr. Weapons Expert?”

  Salim said, “You’ve used the RPG. Tell me, what is the range of that weapon?”

  “A few hundred meters,” answered Jalal.

  “Right.”

  Salim asked, “How high is a plane flying when it gets to the end of the runway?”

  “Thirty meters. A hundred meters. It depends on the airport.”

  “And how close can you get to the end of the runway?” Salim asked.

  “Depends, I guess,” answered Jalal.

  Salim kept pushing, “How fast is an airliner moving at the end of the runway?”

  “A hundred and fifty miles per hour? More?”

  Salim nodded. “Probably what I’d guess. And accelerating. How fast does your RPG round fly?”

  “I don’t know.” Jalal shrugged, frowning.

  “I don’t either,” said Salim. “Is it as fast as a bullet?”

  “No, of course not. They don’t tell us these things. You know that. It’s not important for us to know.”

  “Is it as fast as a car?” Salim asked.

  “Faster.”

  “Is it as fast as an airplane?”

  Jalal’s face grew thoughtful.

  “You can see the round accelerate,” said Salim. “You can see it all the way to the target.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know how fast the RPG flies, but I’ll bet a plane flies faster.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Jalal sounded defiant.

  “Why?”

  “If we’re at the end of the runway, we simply shoot the plane as it’s coming toward us.”

  “And if you hit it—and that’s a big if—where will the wreckage fall?” Salim asked.

  Jalal shrugged.

  “I don’t know either.” Salim shook his head. “But I guess some would probably land on you.”

  “I’ll shoot when its overhead.”

  Salim suppressed a laugh. “So on your very first attempt, you’re going to hit an airplane that’s a hundred meters over your head, traveling at two hundred miles an hour away from you with an RPG round that might be going slower than the plane. And on your first attempt, you’re going to guess how to lead the plane by just the right amount? Is that right?”

  Jalal fell silent again.

  “How would we train for that?” Salim asked. “I mean if they wanted that kind of attack to succeed, wouldn’t we train for that?”

  Jalal’s voice faltered as he said, “You’re my only friend here, Salim, but sometimes you make me feel stupid.”

  Salim laughed out loud, then looked around to make sure the instructors weren’t in sight. “I’m not that smart, Jalal. I used to hang out with a bunch of guys in school that made me feel stupid all the time. Not on purpose, but they always talked about computer programming and their calculus homework and stuff. I just felt stupid by being around them, but they were my friends.”

  Jalal nodded for no real reason.

  “I’m not trying to make you feel stupid.” Salim turned to face Jalal. “Just think, that’s all. Dhakwan believes things because he wants to believe them, not because they are based on any kind of fact. I’m not that smart, but I’m smart enough to know to ask questions. And sometimes all you have to do is ask questions and things that aren’t true fall apart under examination. That’s all.”

  Jalal nodded again, “That’s good advice, Salim. “

  Salim pointed to a spot overhead. Jalal examined the blue sky with the binoculars.

  “Do you miss anything about America?” Jalal asked.

  Salim thought about it for a minute, but had trouble gleaning down his long list to something that sounded worthy of being missed. “Do you miss anything about London?”

  “Some.” Jalal sighed. “Coming here, is this what you thought it would be?”

  Salim shook his head, but wasn’t sure what to say.

  Chapter 7

  Kapchorwa’s few hundred shanties, houses, buildings, and huts surrounded a particularly snaky section of red dirt road on the lower northern slopes of Mt. Elgon. The road straightened out east of town and didn’t hit any sizable population center until it was well into Kenya.

  Behind the town to the south, Mt. Elgon, wrapped in misty forests and shades of green, rose to fourteen thousand feet. Up there, locals farmed coffee or worked at one of the resorts that catered to tourists anxious to hike the mountain and stand under Sipi Falls. To the northeast, more mountains grew up out of the fertile plains dotted with farms and forest. Far below to the west, the flat land stretched until all the details faded to a gray that was consumed by a sky blazing yellow and orange in the setting sun.

  Austin always stopped for at least a moment to watch the sun set in the evenings. It was a wholly different experience than what he was used to back home in Denver—being on the plain, watching the sun sink behind the Rocky Mountains.

  “Let’s go.”

  Austin turned away from the yellow sky, took a few quick steps to catch up with Rashid, and together they walked up the center of the dirt road through the deserted town. An occasional muffled cry carried on the wind. Austin cocked his head to try to hear it again, but the sounds were elusive and soft, hard to define.

  Ahead on the hospital’s wide front porch, a heavyset figure was reaching up to put a flame in the lantern that hung above the door.

  “Electricity is out again,” Rashid deduced.

  With the lantern’s glow growing, the woman went back inside.

  Austin said, “That was Nurse Mary-Margaret, I think.”

  “Yeah,” Rashid agreed.

  They continued up the road, seeing no one until they climbed the six steps up to the hospital’s porch and let themselves in the front door. The smell of sickness rolled out of the interior gloom, turning Austin’s stomach.

  Lanterns hanging down the length of the ward on the ceiling’s beams weren’t bright enough to lift the rectangular room entirely out of darkness. The concrete floor reflected little light, and the sea foam green paint on the lower half of the cinderblock walls didn’t help. A dozen screened windows were equally spaced across the white upper half of each of the walls. Those on the west side of the building let in the last of the sun’s rays.

  At the other end of the ward, one door opened to a simple operating room, another to an exam room, and a supply closet. The two shabby desks that usually sat just inside and on either side of the door were gone. Not moved to anywhere Austin could see—they were just gone. Near the far end, Dr. Littlefield, an American, was talking to his Ugandan counterpart, Dr. Ruhindi. Nurse Mary-Margaret had just joined them. The two African nurses, faces covered with surgical masks, full aprons, and rubber gloves, were each busy doing something for one of the—

  Austin’s mouth fell open as his eyes adjusted to the dimness and he saw
the number of patients.

  With forty-eight generously spaced beds, the hospital hadn’t been more than half full all summer. But extra cots had been brought in, all of which were full. Even the space between the beds was covered in rows of people lying on mats and blankets, sleeping, coughing, and bleeding. The smell of urine, feces, and vomit were thick in the air. Austin covered his mouth.

  Some primal memory told him those people were dying, while instinct urged him to run.

  The door banged closed. Nurse Mary-Margaret turned and hurried toward them. The look on her face made it clear that it had been a mistake for them to come inside.

  Chapter 8

  Austin couldn’t take his eyes off of the hundred people lying on soiled sheets as they coughed and wheezed and stared into space with all hope gone from their eyes. Nurse Mary-Margaret bodily pushed him and Rashid out onto the front porch, pulling the door closed behind her. “Why did you come back?”

  “Uh,” was all Austin could think to say, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut.

  In a voice that seemed to come from somewhere down the street, Rashid asked, “Ebola?”

  Nurse Mary-Margaret nodded and tears welled up in her eyes, but they didn’t flow. She had gotten very good at keeping them under control. “You should go to your sponsor’s house. Stay there.”

  “Nobody’s home,” Austin said, as though that had any relevance. He was still reeling.

  Mary-Margaret glanced over her shoulder at the closed door behind her.

  “What?” Austin implored. There was something in that look.

  Rashid asked, “Isaac…is he in there?”

  For a second, Mary-Margaret didn’t answer. “Yes.”

  Austin started putting the pieces together. “Benoit, Margaux. They’re not at the house.”

  Mary-Margaret hesitated again. “Inside.”

  “They have Ebola?”

  Mary-Margaret shook her head but said, “Yes.”

  Rashid asked, “Will they die?”

  Nurse Mary-Margaret didn’t nod, she didn’t shake her head. She seemed stuck between the two gestures.

  “That doesn’t answer the question.” Rashid was afraid. Whether for himself or the others, Austin couldn’t tell.

  “There is no answer,” Mary-Margaret said.

  The three looked at one another in silence, each waiting for one of the others to lead. Austin didn’t know what to do. Going back to the house, drinking—again—from the same water, the same cups, using the same utensils that Isaac, Benoit, and Margaux had used, would put him and Rashid at risk.

  In many ways, it wasn’t a risk. If the Ebola virus was in the house, Austin feared they already had it. “I’ve heard that it’s transmitted by bodily fluids. What other ways can we catch it?” Austin looked at Rashid. “We may already be infected.”

  “Why do you say that?” Mary-Margaret feigned doubt, but it was a thin, pointless mask.

  Austin explained that they drank water when they got back to the house.

  “There’s nothing certain about that.” Nurse Mary-Margaret shook her head. “Direct contact with the bodily fluids of something or someone who is infected is the only way we know for sure to contract Ebola. You’re probably not infected. Dump the water and boil everything when you get back to the house.”

  “How did Isaac, Benoit, and Margaux get infected?” Austin asked.

  “They were helping with the other patients. They’ve been here since it started.”

  “When did it start?” Austin didn’t remember anything unusual in Kapchorwa when they left nearly a week earlier. Had the disease been present and he didn’t notice?

  “The day after you left for Mbale.”

  “How long does it take for the symptoms to show up after you’ve been exposed?”

  “A few days to several weeks,” answered Mary-Margaret.

  Austin gestured at Rashid. “So me and Rashid could already have it. We could have caught it before we left.”

  Mary-Margaret asked, “What are you saying, Austin? You want to have this disease?”

  “No. Definitely not. But if these people started showing symptoms the day after we left for Mbale, they were exposed well before that, while me and Rashid were still here. We may have been infected then, and are just not symptomatic yet. Right?”

  Mary-Margaret nodded. “Just go home.”

  Austin looked back down the street to see the remains of the sunset colors in the western sky, realizing that he was buying time while he searched for a decision.

  Full of idealism, he’d wrangled his way into a program that sent college kids to Africa to help. And the goal was that general, to help. When he volunteered he said he was open to anything. He wanted to do his small part to make the world a better place. So, in a country where parents are charged tuition to send their kids to any level of school, Austin was assigned to teach street kids—kids who otherwise had zero chance at an education—for free.

  But now he was standing on the front porch of a dramatically understaffed hospital full of diseased patients who needed help if they were to have any chance at survival. Even his students were either inside or they had already fled. With quite possibly the same virus swimming in his veins, attacking and bursting his cells, Austin needed to decide if he was going to cower in his dying sponsor’s house, or put his life at real risk to help.

  He needed to decide if his convictions ran deep or if he was just a tourist wearing a humanitarian disguise, looking for the most unique pictures to post on his Facebook page. In a shaky voice, Austin replied, “I’m volunteering to help in the hospital.”

  Rashid said, “You’re taking away my options with your foolish bravery.”

  Austin looked at Rashid. “You don’t have to. Go home. Be safe.”

  “No.” Rashid hesitated an awkwardly long time, before he finally managed to say, “I want to help.”

  “Rashid, you’re only here because your father wants you to learn about life in the real world.”

  Rashid put on a brave face. “I’ve learned enough. I’ll help.”

  Mary-Margaret shook her head. “You boys are fools.”

  Austin looked at Rashid then back at the nurse. “What do you want us to do?”

  “I want you to go home and sleep. Talk about what you think you’re doing, and keep reminding each other that you could be dead in two weeks if you do this. Come see me in the morning if you still want to help.”

  Chapter 9

  Austin woke when the nightmare of a pygmy pounding on his skull with a hammer became too painful to be just a dream. He sat up in his bed and every part of his body ached. The room was hot. The barest sliver of early morning light came in through the window.

  He put his hands to his temples and groaned. Nearly stumbling as he got up, he knelt down beside the bed and pulled his bag out from underneath. He let his face fall on the mattress under the weight of a wave of pain behind his eyes, a throbbing strong enough to take his breath away.

  “Jesus Christ, that hurts.”

  He found a bottle, made out the aspirin label, and struggled with the childproof cap. Another hammer of pain interrupted the effort. He turned and sat on the cool floor, turned his attention back to the contrary little cap, and managed to remove it. He took out four aspirin and put them in his mouth, knowing he had no water. He and Rashid hadn’t boiled anything the night before and he couldn’t bring himself to drink anything still in the house.

  He chewed and grimaced at the bitterness, telling himself over and over again that the taste wasn’t as bad as tequila. He was unable to swallow. His mouth was too dry.

  He chewed and chewed, grinding the bitter pills to powder, then mud, as he slowly generated some saliva.

  Up on his knees again, Austin propped himself on the bed and rested before standing. Moisture was working its way into his mouth. He chewed some more, managed to swallow the aspirin’s crumbs and decided that standing at just that moment was a bad idea. He eased himself down onto the hard
floor, then laid his belly, his chest, and face on the cold tile, and closed his eyes.

  After a while, his breathing stabilized, his head pounded less, and he tried to think of what he’d drunk to give himself such a monster hangover. The fragments of memory slowly fell into place in his mind. He was in Mbale. He’d ridden on the back of a boda for hours. The deserted town. The hospital.

  “Crap.”

  Austin reached up and put a hand on his forehead. He felt hot.

  “Crap.”

  He sat up and leaned back against his bed. Across the room, Rashid was sleeping on his narrow bed, on his belly with an arm dangling over the side. His hand lay on the floor by a puddle of his last meal, spilled from his stomach.

  “Oh, no.”

  Despite the headache, Austin sprang across the room and shook Rashid’s shoulder with one hand as he put the tips of his fingers on Rashid’s jugular, feeling for a pulse. Rashid was alive. At least he hadn’t choked to death in his sleep. But his skin was on fire. Austin rolled him onto his back. Reeking vomit was all over Rashid’s face, down his chest, and on the thin mattress.

  “Oh, shit. Oh, shit.” He shook Rashid again. “Wake up. Wake up.”

  Rashid didn’t respond.

  Austin shook again. “Rashid!”

  Nothing.

  Austin heaved a few deep breaths. He had to get Rashid to the hospital. The specter of Ebola and bodily fluids screamed at him to step away, but in that moment it didn’t matter. Anyone too sick to wake up was too sick to be at home. He needed a doctor. Austin pushed his arms under Rashid and with all the effort he could muster, he hauled Rashid up.

  Chapter 10

  Kapchorwa. In the local language, it meant “friendly people.” And they were. Big-hearted, smiling people.

  Were.

  Thinking about that and starting to feel hopeless, Dr. Littlefield sat on the porch of the hospital and leaned against the wall, feeling stomped on by an extreme lack of sleep. During the night, Dr. Ruhindi fell out of the ranks of caregivers and into the ranks of the patients. The virus hit him hard and fast. Dr. Littlefield suspected that he’d been sick for at least a few days and was hiding the symptoms, just as he knew one of the African nurses was. Just like anyone else, Dr. Ruhindi could only push a sick body so far on willpower. He collapsed late in the night, and by the time the sun was rising, he was barely able to hold himself up on his hands and knees to puke into the bucket by his bed.