Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller (5 page)

Ebola, that little bastard of a bug, had
popped up earlier in the summer in Sierra Leone in the worst
outbreak in history. Was it possible that global warming had
changed something important about the ecological balance in Africa
and turned it into an optimal, continent-sized petri dish for
breeding that virus?

No.

As much as Dr. Littlefield liked to toy with
that suspicion, he knew in his heart that a catastrophic Ebola
epidemic in Africa was inevitable. With advances in medicine and
farming, the population density in Africa had tripled in the past
sixty years. Now there were three times as many poverty-stricken
people in large swaths of the continent, with a culture and living
conditions seemingly designed to increase the body count during
disease outbreaks.

And as far as the outbreak in Kapchorwa, it
was likely the case that some local native had been working in
Sierra Leone and had quietly fled when the disease took root there,
unwittingly bringing the Ebola home with him.

Littlefield looked across the rusty roofs of
the houses spread down Mt. Elgon’s slope as the sun slowly rose
over them. He wondered in which of those houses the plague carrier
lay—if not dead already—in the final stages of the disease. He knew
that the plague carrier couldn’t be among those dying in the
hospital behind him. He knew most of those by name or by sight.
None of them had been in Sierra Leone.

But in all of that, the thing that just
didn’t make any sense was how fast the disease had taken hold in
the small population of Kapchorwa. How could any disease
transmitted through bodily fluids have spread so quickly, infecting
so many in such a short time? It didn’t make any sense at all.

Perhaps there was some secret ritual peculiar
to these people that helped spread the disease with such
comprehensive rapidity.

Or, it was airborne. In that case, a single
carrier could infect a few or maybe a dozen, and those people would
infect others, and the process would domino across the small
farming community in no time. Ironically, the only thing that gave
Dr. Littlefield hope was the chance that the disease wasn’t Ebola
but some kind of particularly contagious flu. Kapchorwa lay in the
tropics after all. Who knew how many nasty bugs lingered under the
bushes and in the local monkeys’ blood?

And no one in the village had yet bled out
and died.

With no deaths as of yet, Dr. Littlefield had
to reconsider how he’d arrived at the conclusion that Kapchorwa’s
little epidemic was Ebola. Was it just fear of the disease, due to
the outbreak in West Africa that put the thought in his mind?
Possibly. The symptoms were consistent with Ebola so far: raging
headache, fever, nausea, diarrhea, red eyes, rash, unexplained
bruising, but no external hemorrhaging—not yet. Had the roadblocks
set up by an overreacting Ugandan government influenced his
diagnosis?
Possibly.

Perhaps his Ebola fears were just
that—fears.

Dr. Littlefield told himself that he was not
a fearful man, not a reactionary.

Movement down the street caught Dr.
Littlefield’s eye. He looked up. His heart sank. A guy—that kid who
was teaching the street children for the summer—was carrying
someone else up the center of the deserted road. The day’s count of
new infections was starting early.

In the hospital’s exam room, Austin looked
out through the open door of the ward as the sun shown in through
the east-facing windows. He lifted Rashid’s satellite phone and
dialed Najid Almasi, Rashid’s older brother. On the third ring,
someone answered.

“Hello?” said Austin.

A terse voice said something in Arabic.

“Hello? Do you speak English?” asked
Austin.

The irritated voice said, “Who is this?”

“Austin Cooper. I’m a friend of Rashid.”

“You are American.”

“Yes.”

“Why are you calling me on Rashid’s
telephone?”

“Is this Najid Almasi?”

“I’ll ask again. Why do you have this
telephone?”

Austin was reluctant to divulge his
information without knowing whether the person on the other end was
Najid or not. But what choice did he have? “I don’t know how much
you know about what Rashid is doing in Uganda, but I am his
roommate. We work together with the street kids.”

A long pause followed before the voice said,
“You are the one he talked about.”

“Yes. I’m Austin.”

The voice repeated, “Austin.”

“Yes. If you are not Rashid’s brother, Najid,
I need to speak with him. Please, it’s important.”

“Has something happened to Rashid?”

“He’s sick.”

There was a silence that lasted for a long
time. That was to be expected. Sick could have many meanings—many
deadly ones—with Ebola on the loose.

“Can he talk?”

“Not right now. He’s not conscious.”

“What does that mean?”

“He had a fever when I found him this
morning. He wouldn’t wake up.”

Another silence.

“You are in Kapchorwa?” asked Najid.

“Yes, in the hospital there.”

“I will be there in six hours.”

“What? How?”

“That is no concern of yours. It would be a
great favor to me if you saw to my brother’s care until I
arrive.”

“Um.” Six hours? Najid must have been on his
way already. “Of course.”

“Dr. Littlefield thinks it might be typhoid.”
Nurse Mary-Margaret led Austin into the exam room, then stopped in
front of a wide stainless steel sink. “Wash. Use that soap and
plenty of it. See that poster above the sink?”

Austin nodded at the poster. “You mean this
one that tells me how to wash my hands?”

“Yes. Follow the directions exactly. Just
because you’ve washed your hands a million times since you were
little doesn’t mean you’ve ever done it correctly.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Austin asked, “If it’s typhoid,
it would be in the water, right?”

“We have our own cistern. We only use well
water as a last resort.”

Austin leaned over the sink and turned on the
faucet.

Nurse Mary-Margaret pushed a thermometer into
Austin’s mouth. “I know you think you feel good enough to help, but
if your temperature is too high, you need to be in a cot.”

“A cot?” Austin tried to smile. They both
knew there were no cots available, nor places to put them.

“A pallet on the floor, then. Keep your mouth
shut, so I can get a temperature.”

Austin scrubbed his hands and arms up to his
elbows, and then raised them to let them dry as he’d seen doctors
do on TV.

Nurse Mary-Margaret hung a blue apron over
his head and turned him around to tie it. “Let’s hope this is
typhoid. Thieves stole most of our supplies the day after the
outbreak started here.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not.” Nurse Mary-Margaret took the
thermometer out of Austin’s mouth and looked at it with a frown.
Without looking up, she asked, “And how do you feel?”

Austin figured it would be best not to
mention the four aspirin he’d taken an hour earlier. “I’ll
live.”

Nurse Mary-Margaret shook her head and
directed her frown at him instead of the thermometer. “Those
figures of speech are funny when you miss a day of school back in
Detroit or wherever you’re from—”

“Denver.”

“—but they mean something real here. You
should know that now.”

Austin accepted the scolding without comment.
She was right. “I don’t feel good, but I feel good enough to help
in the ward. If I get too sick, I’ll let you know and take a spot
on the floor.”

She put a surgical mask to his face and
hooked the elastic bands over his ears. “Don’t take this off. We
don’t know for sure yet that you’re sick with what they’ve got, and
if you are, we don’t want you infecting anyone who isn’t.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She instructed him on the complex process of
putting on surgical gloves. After that, Nurse Mary-Margaret put her
hands on Austin’s shoulder and held him in front of her, demanding
one hundred percent of his attention. “You need to understand,
Austin, if this
is
Ebola, odds are—with what little
protection we still have to put on—you’ll catch it and you’ll die.
Most do.”

Austin nodded.

“I know you think you have whatever everybody
else has, but you don’t know that. If you don’t, and you come in
here to help with this inadequate protection, you’ll get what
they’ve got.”

“But it could be typhoid.”

“Don’t do that. You know that hope is as thin
as I know it is. Ebola is sixty to ninety percent deadly. You’re
young and healthy, so that may increase your odds of survival, but
if you walk into that ward, it may be the decision that costs you
your life.”

“
You’re
helping,” he replied.

Mary-Margaret huffed. “This has nothing to do
with me. I’ve already had a good, long life. I have sons older than
you. I have grandchildren.”

“If I go in, will I be helpful? Will it give
some of those people a chance to live? Or will I be wasting my
time?”

“You’ll be helpful. There aren’t enough of us
to help these people already, and if more come today, we’ll be
overwhelmed.”

“Is there any help on the way?” Austin
asked.

She smiled weakly. “We sent word to Kampala,
and we’re praying.”

“What about the short-wave radio?”

“The radio man is down with the disease. He
can barely remember his own name.”

Austin looked off in the direction he’d seen
the shortwave radio antenna attached to a building in town. “I
think—”

Mary-Margaret shook her head. “The real world
isn’t like a Gilligan’s Island episode, Austin Cooper. Operating a
shortwave radio isn’t as easy as flipping a switch. It’s not a
telephone.”

With a tremendous effort, Margaux propped
herself up on one elbow, held the position for a moment, and fell
back on her pillow. “Oh, God.”

From where he sat on her cot, Austin looked
down at Rashid and Benoit on their blankets on the floor and asked
Margaux, “How are you doing?”

In her French accent she said, “That’s a
stupid
question.”

“I know. I’m being polite.”

“You shouldn’t be in here,” she told him.

“I know. I’m being polite.”

Margaux started to laugh, but it turned into
a painful cough, and she rolled onto her side. “I feel like I’m
dying.”

Austin put a gloved hand on her shoulder.
“You’ll be okay.”

“That doesn’t mean anything coming from
you.”

“Not medically.” Austin looked around the
stinking ward. There was barely room to walk. The influx of
patients throughout the day had filled most of the space. “It’s
what people say to sick people.”

“Why?”

“You know why,” he answered. “It means I’ve
nothing meaningful to say, but I hope you get better.”

“Why not say
that
?”

“I hope you get better. When you’re sick,
you’re kind of a bitch.” Austin smiled behind his mask.

Margaux smiled back. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Austin noticed reddish splotches on her face
and arms.

“Is Benoit awake?” Margaux asked.

“He was up earlier.”

“Out of bed?”

Austin pointed at the door in the back of the
ward. “I helped him to the outhouse.”

“Good. I’m glad he was up.”

“Yeah.” In truth, Benoit had barely made it.
Austin had half carried him on the way back, but didn’t recall
seeing a rash on Benoit’s skin at the time. Looking down at Benoit
from his position on Margaux’s cot, Austin saw it now.

He’d seen those same splotches on the skin of
others in the ward—others who were much worse off the Benoit or
Margaux. They’d regurgitate and soil themselves and lie in their
excretions. Half delirious, too fatigued, or in too much pain to do
anything about it or even ask for help.

Once Nurse Mary-Margaret had put him to work,
he started by helping to change the bed sheets under a young woman,
one of the first to arrive, down at the end of the ward. She seemed
to have lost all control of her bodily functions. Her temperature
had set her blotched skin afire. Her blood-filled eyes rolled
around, unable to focus on anything. Her vomitus was bloody and
black. Her gums and nose wouldn’t stop bleeding. She moaned
whenever touched.

Austin didn’t know much about death, but he
was sure that girl was dying.

Heavy slow breathing from Margaux told Austin
that she had fallen asleep.

“Hey.” It was Rashid.

Austin looked down at Rashid and grinned
behind his mask. “I thought you were dead.”

“Is—is this the hospital?”

“Yeah.” Rashid drew in a long, painful
sounding breath. “I feel terrible.”

“Yeah. You look like shit, too.”

“I’m thirsty.”

Austin stood up a little too fast and felt
light-headed. It was time for more aspirin. “I’ll get you some
water.”

A couple of large white plastic barrels were
on tables against one wall. They’d been brought in a few hours
earlier along with a case of disposable cups. The disposable cups
were a good thought, but unless there were lots more somewhere
close by, they’d run out before the end of the day.

Austin filled a cup and brought it to Rashid,
who drank slowly at first and then gulped.

“Thank you,” said Rashid.

“I’ll get you some more in a minute.”

“How did I get here?” Rashid asked.

“I carried you,” answered Austin. “You
wouldn’t wake up this morning.”

“So it was this morning. I was almost worried
that I’d been out for a week or something.”

Benoit squirmed, but didn’t wake up.

Austin said, “No. Just today.”

Rashid reached down and felt his pocket.

Austin said, “I took your phone and called
your brother, Najid. At least I think it was him. How many brothers
do you have?”