Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller Page 7

  “And?”

  “Most wouldn’t come out. The ones who did kept their distance, which was smart. A few admitted that at least someone inside was sick. In some houses, everyone is sick. Everyone. But they were afraid to come to the hospital.”

  “Do you blame them?” Dr. Giovanni asked.

  “No. There’s little we can do for them. Most of our protective equipment was stolen early on.”

  “That’s what happened to it?”

  Dr. Littlefield nodded sadly. “What you see is what we have.”

  Dr. Giovanni started to raise his hand to shake, but quickly put it back down. “I’m sorry. I owe you an apology.”

  “You do,” Littlefield agreed. Giovanni had been unnecessarily harsh.

  “I admire your dedication and bravery.”

  Dr. Littlefield glanced at the hospital doors over his shoulder. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Are you symptomatic yet?”

  “I have a headache and a fever,” Dr. Littlefield admitted.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Littlefield shook his head. “It was inevitable.” And for so many caregivers in Africa that was indeed the case. He walked around Dr. Giovanni, climbed the six stairs up to the hospital’s porch, and went to his favorite spot to lean and look at the small farming community. “I’m afraid.”

  “Of dying?” Dr. Giovanni asked.

  “Something worse.”

  The Italian doctor waited silently for the explanation.

  “Are you familiar with the Ebola Reston strain?”

  “Of course. Named for Reston, Virginia. Did I say that correctly?”

  Dr. Littlefield shrugged at the accent. “Close enough.”

  “There was a company there that quarantined monkeys imported for scientific research. I believe they had five hundred monkeys on the premises.”

  “Yes, that’s the place. In the monkey house.” Dr. Littlefield’s heart sank just to be talking about it—the thoughts had been haunting him for days. “Maybe fifty or a hundred monkeys died before they figured out it wasn’t Simian Hemorrhagic Fever, but Ebola. The Army came in and destroyed all the monkeys. I think four people became infected, but didn’t die. That strain was damned lethal for monkeys, but it let humans off easy.” He stood up straight and looked out across the town.

  Dr. Giovanni waited patiently for Dr. Littlefield to finish.

  “The monkeys didn’t get infected through direct contact. Monkeys in one room had come into the facility with the virus, then monkeys in other rooms became infected and started dying. There was no physical contact between the monkeys.”

  “What are you saying?” Dr. Giovanni asked.

  “Like Ebola Reston—” Dr. Littlefield hesitated. It was a frightening thing to think, a hard thing to say. “I think this one is airborne.”

  Chapter 20

  Nurse Mary-Margaret finished crying. Sufficient tears had fallen to let her find her strength again.

  Austin was sitting on the ground by then, not caring that the smell was still coming from the buckets or even that it seemed to be permanently burned into his nostrils. He was watching the late afternoon shadows grow across the town.

  “Are you okay?” Nurse Mary-Margaret asked.

  “I’m okay.”

  “After you clean those, you should rest,” she said.

  Austin shook his head and said nothing. He still had a lump in his throat. His thoughts were on Rashid, Margaux, and Benoit. They’d grown close in the previous seven weeks.

  He thought about their hike up to Sipi Falls that first time. It was a little bit dangerous, but thrilling and magical. They’d met a coffee farmer up there who’d let them sleep in his storehouse. It was far from fancy—just a dirt-floored shack—but the family’s kindness eclipsed the accommodations. To think that a coffee farmer who made less in a year than his dad made in a week was happy to share what he had with some wide-eyed mzungu kids gave Austin optimism for the future of humanity. They’d all become friends after that, and the kids had been up to visit the farmer several times. It was the kind of experience neither he nor his friends would ever dream of back in Denver. It was so much more real than a t-shirt from the Louvre or a postcard from Rome.

  Austin looked away from his thoughts and said, “I’ll be okay, Mary-Margaret. You go ahead. I’ll be inside in a minute.”

  “Okay.” Nurse Mary-Margaret turned and headed back to the hospital.

  The familiar sound of tires on gravel caught Austin’s attention. On the road coming into town from the east were two Land Rovers, with paint shiny under red dust. Curiosity kept his eyes on the Land Rovers until they came to stop on the road in front of the hospital building. Car doors opened. Men in bright yellow Tyvek suits with hoods, gloves, goggles, and surgical masks got out.

  Thank God. The cavalry had arrived.

  Chapter 21

  The sky was getting dark and the cicadas started their nightly ruckus. Austin walked in through the back door of the ward with clean buckets in hand. Immediately, he sensed something wasn’t right.

  The guys in the yellow HAZMAT suits nearly glowing in the lantern light had arrayed themselves around the ward, seemingly doing nothing except watching. One was kneeling over Rashid, hands busy. In the center of the ward, three of the Tyvek-clad guys were squared off, facing Dr. Littlefield and Nurse Mary-Margaret in their pitifully inadequate—by comparison—protective gear. Between them stood a tall man in some kind of light blue protective suit.

  Austin couldn’t make out what was being said, but it sounded tense. The body language was combative.

  He quietly crept through the ward, trying not to be noticed, placing the empty buckets back in the spots where they’d been, and carefully navigated around the rows of patients to get to the center aisle, a six-foot wide strip up the center of the building. It was the only part of the floor not covered by a cot or colorful plastic woven mat.

  Careful not to get too close to Dr. Littlefield and the others, he worked his way across the rows of villagers lying on the floor. He approached Rashid from the opposite side of the man who was tending to him.

  Things weren’t making sense. The HAZMAT-covered aid workers weren’t rendering aid to anyone except Rashid. Austin looked down at Benoit as he stepped over him. Benoit was unconscious, pale, and splotched. Austin knelt beside Rashid and said to the person in the yellow suit, “Who are you?”

  The man in yellow looked up at Austin, said nothing, and went back to his work.

  Seeing that one of the men in yellow was coming toward them, Austin said to the man at Rashid’s side, “I’m Austin Cooper. This is my friend, Rashid.” When the man didn’t respond, Austin ventured a guess. “Are you Najid? I’m the one who called you.”

  The other Tyvek-clad man arrived and roughly put his hand on Austin’s shoulder.

  The guy at Rashid’s side gestured to the other and the hands came off of Austin. He said, “I am a doctor. Mr. Almasi brought me here.”

  “Najid Almasi? Rashid’s brother?” asked Austin.

  “The same.”

  Austin looked down at Rashid. “Can you help him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Austin was finding it very strange talking to a man clad in a yellow Tyvek suit, with goggles and a duckbill-shaped surgical mask. He felt like he was talking to a mannequin. “Is it Ebola?”

  “It would seem.”

  “Do you have a name?” Austin asked.

  “Yes.”

  Austin waited for the name, but the yellow doctor didn’t share it.

  The doctor pointed at a big cardboard box in the center aisle that had gone unnoticed by Austin until the doctor pointed. The doctor said something in Arabic, and the man with the rough hands knelt down and dug into the box, coming out with a few IV bags. He brought them over and elbowed Austin aside.

  Keeping his comments to himself, Austin stepped to the other side of Benoit, becoming aware of raised voices coming from the people at the center of the ward. Lo
oking around, he figured the guys in yellow Tyvek were together. The guy in the blue plastic suit, with goggles and mask, had to be the doctor from the WHO Nurse Mary-Margaret mentioned. He was pissed and raising his voice as he towered over the other men in yellow. The angrier he got, the more pronounced his Italian accent became, until Austin heard a word that took his breath away.

  “Airborne.”

  Airborne?

  Oh my God.

  Austin had no medical training but he knew enough to understand that the words Ebola and airborne were a bone-chilling combination.

  “Ebola is not an airborne disease.” The man at the center of the yellow trio was doing the talking for the Tyvek-clad group. His stance and the tone of voice indicated he was in charge. Austin surmised he was Najid Almasi.

  “Look around, you fool!” the Italian man yelled. “There is no explanation for all of this except Ebola. Even if it isn’t airborne, how could you take the chance? Do you know how many people you would kill if it is airborne? Do you? Including yourself? Is that what you want?” The Italian doctor looked past Najid at the other HAZMAT guys, and yelled, “Is that what any of you want?”

  Not a one of them reacted to the outburst.

  Dr. Littlefield said, “Please, Mr. Almasi, I’m asking you not to take Rashid out of here. But do understand, I will forbid it. This is not a decision for the family to make. It is a medical decision.”

  “You forbid it?” Najid laughed. “You are mistaken, Doctor.”

  The Italian doctor spoke up, “No, you are mistaken.” He pointed at Rashid. “That boy will not leave this place until he has recovered. Do you understand?”

  Najid didn’t say anything after that, instead staring inscrutably from under his protective gear.

  The Italian doctor wasn’t intimidated. He put his hands on his hips and made it clear that he had no intention of considering any position other than his own.

  After a few tense moments, Najid abruptly turned, and without a word walked toward the door. As he passed Rashid’s bed, he said something in Arabic to the doctor. The doctor responded with a few Arabic words. Except for the doctor at Rashid’s side, all of the other men in bright yellow filed out after Najid.

  Austin looked at Dr. Littlefield, the Italian doctor, and Nurse Mary-Margaret. They seemed as surprised as Austin.

  A moment later, Rashid’s doctor came to a stopping point, stood up, and followed the others out the door.

  Chapter 22

  It wasn’t that Paul Cooper was pro-gun or anti-gun. He simply didn’t have one. He didn’t have any interest in hunting. He didn’t worry that his house would be burglarized or that he’d get mugged and have to shoot the mugger. He never imagined himself taking up arms against the government or threatening to shoot the neighbor’s dog. And though he often fantasized about shooting holes in the cars of particularly obnoxious drivers, those thoughts never evolved past the fantasy phase. There was no scenario in Paul’s imagination that required him to have a gun in his hands.

  However, when the fifth case of Ebola on American soil was reported on the news, he worried. And he worried enough to find himself sitting in his truck before work, parked in a little strip mall parking lot, ambiguously positioned for access to the little barbecue joint or the gun store next door—a gun store he knew about only because it was next door to the barbeque joint—the only gun store he could find without Googling.

  Five cases of Ebola in New York in two days.

  The first had prompted that trip to Costco. Now he was sitting in front of a gun shop wondering if he was crazy for thinking prepper thoughts. Did Colorado have a mandatory waiting period on handguns? Would he pass a background check? Did that even pass in the last election? What about assault rifles? An AR-15 would be cool. At least that’s what he’d been thinking in the back of his mind ever since he’d held his buddy John’s AR-15. What about a shotgun? He remembered hearing that shotgun purchases didn’t require a waiting period. But the truth was, there wasn’t a thing he knew about guns that he didn’t pick up from watching TV. That meant he probably knew just enough to hurt himself with a gun.

  And that brought his thoughts back around to the top of the circle. Did he need a gun? Was he overreacting to the news?

  He’d had similar thoughts when he was stocking up with prepper food at Costco. And though it embarrassed him when Heidi told the neighbor, he felt better knowing he had it. Why? Because if an Ebola epidemic spread across the country, everything would go to shit. Of that, he was sure.

  With people bleeding out in the street from Ebola, who would go to work at the grocery store—or anywhere for that matter? When contact with a coworker or a customer could lead to a horrific death, going to work would be the last thing on anyone’s mind. Not even the police or the National Guard would be on duty. They’d all be home, either afraid of the virus, or choosing to put the protection of their families above the protection of strangers. Not an unreasonable position to take.

  That implied supply systems would break down. Law and order would crumble. Power systems might stop delivery, and water might stop flowing. The most modern country in the world would take a hard backward turn to the Dark Ages, leaving three hundred million people a few days or a few weeks away from their first ever experience with real hunger.

  That’s when things would turn ugly.

  Paul was a parent. And whenever he asked himself that one question—what wouldn’t he do for the welfare of his children—the answer was always the same. There was pretty much nothing he wouldn’t do for his children’s sake.

  It stood to reason that other parents felt the same.

  That led to the next step in the logical chain. A parent who had to look at his starving children would go to the grocery store and get the last of what was available, despite the infection risk and the risk that bad people would be out doing bad things. But it wouldn’t be long before even those grocery store shelves emptied out. Where would a man with hungry children turn after that?

  The neighbors’ houses. That was the simple answer.

  He’d look at his neighbors, but he’d be afraid to go into the houses where the residents had died of Ebola. Instead, he’d open his gun safe and decide that his odds were better going to the house of the guy who’d put the Obama sticker on the back of his car while living in one of the reddest counties in the country.

  Because in Paul’s mind, people who voted Republican were more likely to own a gun than people who voted Democrat. He guessed he wasn’t the only person in the country who thought that way. So that bumper sticker—long since removed—was a target for those neighbors of his who remembered he’d put it there. It said, Come take my food. I don’t have a gun.

  Of course, Paul knew he could be wrong. He was letting his fears run around in escalating circles, but he still thought rationally enough to know that. As he sat in his truck, looking at the gun shop, smelling barbecue, and working himself into a panic, he couldn’t get past the fear that Ebola was coming. And when the food ran out, his neighbors that were still alive were coming, too. They’d have their guns, and thanks to Heidi, they’d know he had a hoard of food in his basement.

  Paul needed a gun.

  Chapter 23

  Standing on the porch, evaluating his options, Najid waved his men away. “Dr. Kassis, stay up here with me.”

  The other six men spread out by the Land Rovers and took to keeping lookout over what they could see of the village in the dark.

  Najid turned to Dr. Kassis. “Do you think they are lying?”

  “Who is to say? I was never good at reading other men’s hearts.”

  “Always loathe to commit.” Najid’s derisiveness came through. He had respect for the doctor, for his skill and his loyalty, but deep down the man was never brave enough to speak his mind. “What they were saying about the virus being airborne. Does that make sense?”

  The doctor looked back at the door they’d just come through. A ward full of dying townsfolk lay beyond. “I hav
e no reason to believe they lied about the rapidity and seeming universal spread of the disease. If I accept that—” he looked back at the small collection of houses and businesses that made up Kapchorwa, and took a deep breath, “—I would have come to the same conclusion.”

  “Would you be right?”

  “Maybe,” the doctor replied.

  “That is a guess even I could make. Tell me what you think the chances are.”

  Dr. Kassis looked at the porch and used the toe of his rubber boot to grind something into the concrete while he thought. “Tomorrow’s reality—if this is an airborne strain of Ebola—is so horrific that it begs me to hope the evidence I seem to see here is wrong. But if these were our people, and this outbreak was in our homeland, I would say the same. I would beg for help from the WHO, even the Americans. I would beg you not to take Rashid out of here until I knew the disease was not airborne.”

  “And how can I find out for sure?” Najid asked.

  “That would be a long process with many tests and many specialized doctors, and he could die before we find out. Otherwise, we may not know for months.”

  “But if it is airborne, that knowledge will come too late for these people, am I right?”

  “You are correct.” Dr. Kassis nodded obsequiously. It was a habit of Kassis’s that irritated Najid endlessly.

  The doctor went on to say, “On this continent, it will be obvious to every doctor that this strain of Ebola is airborne a long time before the tests confirm it. It will be obvious in the mountains of bodies—bodies of the millions who die because they have no access to healthcare that could potentially save some of their lives.” He was looking out at the dark sky when he absently repeated, “Some.”

  “What will happen then?”

  “As soon as that Italian doctor notifies his superiors and convinces them to come, the world will start to change. Slowly at first, but as the evidence builds over the coming days and weeks, the Western countries will close down every airport in the world. Commerce will stop. They will do whatever they can to save their own people. They will have their telethons, make ads showing sick children, cry for the suffering, but this part of the world will still be ravaged by the disease.”