Pandemic (The Extinction Files Book 1)

by A. G. Riddle

  “Don’t harm them!” Peyton said. “And keep your distance. They may be infected.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Peyton’s team was back at the tent complex. Peyton had placed the three villagers in a field isolation tent just in case they were still infectious.

  She sat on the other side of a sheet plastic wall, watching the three Kenyans devour the MREs she had given them from her duffel. Though the sun had set, she was still sweating excessively.

  Colonel Magoro sat beside her, ready to translate.

  The teenage girl breathed in heavily after finishing the meal in the plastic carton. She looked up at Peyton and, to the physician’s surprise, spoke in English. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Peyton said. “What’s your name?”

  “Halima.”

  “Halima, can you tell me what happened here?”

  The teen glanced toward the village. “They got sick. Coughing, sneezing. Like a cold. Then it passed, but everyone got sicker. Started dying. It happened fast.”

  “Who was coughing and sneezing? Just a few people?”

  Halima shook her head. “Everybody. All of us. All the others.”

  Peyton pondered her account. If it was true, it would rewrite the pathogenesis of the disease. Whatever the Mandera strain was, it began as a respiratory disease, then progressed into a hemorrhagic fever. It was the ultimate killer—a virus that was highly infectious in the days after contraction, then extremely deadly shortly thereafter.

  In the distance, she saw a figure suited in PPE advancing toward the village. She rose to find out what was going on, but Jonas was there, leaning against a tent pole, his hand held up. “It’s Hannah. She thought she saw something in one of the huts. She’s going to check it out.”

  Peyton turned to Magoro. “Send some men to follow her. Tell them to stay outside the perimeter of the village and to bring night vision goggles.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  Magoro rose and spoke quickly into a handheld radio. Seconds later, ten men raced from the tent complex toward the village.

  Peyton held a tablet up to the plastic divider. “Halima, have you seen any of these three men?”

  On the screen were pictures of the two American college graduates and the British man.

  The teenager shook her head.

  “Can you ask the others?”

  Halima spoke in a language Peyton couldn’t place. It wasn’t Swahili; perhaps it was a local dialect.

  “No. They haven’t seen them.”

  “Thank you. Can you remember when people began getting sick? When did they die?”

  Halima consulted the other two villagers. “Three or four days ago, maybe.”

  “And the coughing and sneezing. How long ago did that begin?”

  Inside the isolation tent, the three spoke hurriedly, arguing. “We’re not sure. Maybe a week. Maybe more.”

  Peyton nodded. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful, Halima. The information you’ve given us may save many lives.”

  Ten minutes later, Hannah marched back into the tent complex, carrying a dark object Peyton couldn’t make out. Whatever it was, she was taking great care with it. She bagged it before she entered the field decontamination chamber.

  A short time later, Hannah placed the plastic bag on the conference table. Peyton, Jonas, Millen Thomas, and several members from the Kenyan Ministry of Health leaned forward and examined it.

  It was a handheld video camera, covered in blood.

  Hannah took a seat at the table. “They were here. The two Americans.”

  “Good work, Dr. Watson,” Peyton said.

  The young redheaded physician beamed.

  Peyton pointed to a worn, spiral-bound notebook on the table. “I’ve been reviewing Dr. Kibet’s notes. He took a detailed history from Steven Collins before he died. He also spoke at length with Lucas Turner before we sent him back to Atlanta. Both men reported having a cough, headache, fever, and fatigue a week before Steven fell ill.”

  “My God,” Jonas said.

  “We’re dealing with a completely new, unidentified pathogen here,” Peyton said. “In the early days, it looks like the flu. A week or two later, it kills you.”

  “So where did it start?” Jonas asked.

  “I see two possibilities,” Peyton said. “Either it originated here in Kenya, or it was brought here by the Americans.”

  “The package from Desmond Hughes,” Jonas said, looking suspicious.

  Peyton was hesitant. “Possibly.”

  Around the table, the Kenyans, Hannah, and Millen glanced at each other, confused.

  Peyton focused on the head of the Kenyan Ministry of Health team.

  “You sent teams to the surrounding villages where the patients at Mandera Referral Hospital had come from, correct?”

  “We did. It’s nothing like this. Some dead. Everyone is sick though.”

  Peyton stood and put her hands on her waist. “Okay, let’s think about what we know. Our index case is likely either Steven Collins, whose body is in the air on its way back to the CDC, or one of those dead villagers we just saw.”

  Millen, who was a veterinarian, spoke up for the first time. “If one of the villagers came into contact with a fruit bat or droppings, the reservoir hosts might be close by.”

  At the end of the table, a member of the Kenyan Ministry of Health asked their local interpreter if there were caves in the area or other natural habitats for bats.

  The man nodded. “A lot of caves.”

  Millen rose quickly from the table. “I’ll get ready.”

  Peyton held up a hand. “Hold on, cowboy.” She nodded toward the moon, which glowed yellow in the sky. “I want you to set out first thing in the morning—when your mind is fresh and the team supporting you is well rested. Besides, there’s a lot we need to do here. The temperature will drop even more soon, and we’ll be able to work a little longer in the suits. One thing the Ebola outbreak in West Africa reminded us of is that dead bodies carrying the pathogen can be just as dangerous as living hosts. Much of the Ebola transmission in West Africa happened at funerals, where African burial practices, such as kissing the dead, helped the virus explode beyond the villages.”

  Peyton surveyed a map on the wall, then circled the villages adjacent to their location and B9, the main road that led south.

  “Jonas, I think we should deploy teams to these villages and follow our SOPs: isolation and quarantine. I think there’s a good chance we’ve found ground zero here.”

  “I agree,” Jonas said. “I’ll make the call to Mandera and assign personnel.”

  “Colonel, I think it’s time for that checkpoint on B9,” Peyton said.

  The Kenyan officer nodded.

  “And I’d like your men to dig a fire pit.”

  “How large?”

  “Large enough to burn our suits from today and anything in this village that might be carrying the pathogen.”

  “Bodies?” the colonel asked.

  “Not yet. We’re going to put them in body bags in the next hour or two. We’ll make the call later. Right now we need to stop any transmission. If they’ve been dead for at least a few days, bats, birds, rats, and any other hosts feeding on the bodies may already be infected.”

  “When would you want to burn the material?”

  “Ideally at the end of each day.”

  “I’d recommend against it,” Colonel Magoro said. “The al-Shabaab terrorists are likely already aware of your presence here in Kenya. A large fire would paint a target on us.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “We could dig the pit now, fill it, and place a tarp over it, sealing it as best we can. When we leave, I’ll have two men stay behind and burn it after we’re a few hours away.”

  Peyton glanced at Jonas, who nodded slightly. “That works for us.”

  The three hours just after sunset were physically and mentally grueling. When they were done, the pit Colonel Magoro’s men had dug was filled wit
h suits and all manner of items from the village, everything from toothbrushes and toys to clothes and stored food. A patchwork of olive green tarps stretched across the crater, duct tape connecting the pieces together like silver stitching on a plastic quilt.

  A stack of black body bags lay under a white tent nearby. With each passing hour, the smell of death and decaying flesh had faded, until finally, the night’s winds that swept through the quiet village were fresh again.

  In her tent, Peyton plopped down on her cot and began rubbing a topical analgesic over her legs and arms to soothe her sore muscles. She wore a white tank top and athletic shorts that stopped at her upper thigh; both were soaked with sweat.

  Though her body ached, she felt more at home than she had in quite some time. Since her last deployment, she realized. That was the truth: this tent in the third world, not her condo in Atlanta, was home for her. She felt most at peace here—and filled with purpose. Despite the stress and long hours, she was somehow more at ease.

  Tracking outbreaks was her life’s work, but it was also her way of life. Viruses were predictable: they could be tracked and understood. People were different. They were irrational and hurtful and never around when they should be. People were a blind spot for her. And a sore spot. Men in particular.

  Peyton knew she was on the verge of making the biggest decision of her life: whether to settle down and have a family, or dedicate herself to her work. She still wasn’t sure what she wanted, but she knew being here, in Africa, in the middle of this outbreak, felt right to her. At the same time, however, she felt an emptiness inside of her. Being here didn’t fill it, but it did make her forget about it for a while.

  Jonas threw the tent flap open and ducked to enter. He stopped and squinted as he inhaled the vapors from the rub. “Whoa, that stuff is strong.”

  “Sorry. I can do this outside.”

  “No. Stay. I want some myself. My back is killing me.”

  Without asking her, Jonas took the tube from her hand. “Here, let me.” He squeezed some of the gel out. “What have you covered?”

  “Legs and arms,” Peyton said.

  “Let’s do your back.” With his dry hand, he guided her to sit on the floor, positioning her back to him. Peyton sat cross-legged, her back arched, shoulders pushed back. Jonas’s legs stretched out flat on the floor of the tent, the skin on his calves resting against her knees.

  When his hand with the gel touched her back, Peyton inhaled sharply and arched her spine.

  “Sorry,” Jonas said.

  “It’s okay. Little warning next time.”

  Slowly, Jonas massaged the soothing gel into Peyton’s lower back, working his fingers first into the soft tissue above her bottom. She could feel him pulling her shorts down, then tugging the drenched white tank top up as he moved higher.

  “You’ll never get the smell out of your clothes.”

  Without a word she slipped the shorts down her legs and tossed them aside. She pulled the tank top up over her head and laid it on the cot. It wasn’t the first time Jonas had seen her in her underwear, but she still felt a tingle of nervousness.

  His hands moved from her back to her stomach, massaging the gel into her abs. His hands pressed into her in large, rhythmic circles, lightly touching the underside of her breasts.

  Peyton felt butterflies rise in her stomach.

  “That was very smart work, finding the village,” Jonas said quietly. “We might be close to solving this thing.”

  “It was just a guess.” Peyton tried to keep her voice even, despite breathing faster.

  “You guess right a lot, in my experience.”

  He massaged the analgesic into her sides, coating her ribs all the way up to just under her armpits. “You know, as long as we’ve worked together, you’ve never really talked about yourself. I know almost nothing about you—personally.”

  “Not much to tell.”

  “I don’t believe that. Tell me something I don’t know about you. What do you do for fun?”

  “Not a lot. I work all the time.”

  “And when you’re not?”

  “I read. I run.”

  Peyton heard Jonas squeeze more of the gel from the tube, felt his hands moving up her back, applying pressure, slipping under her bra strap, pulling it tight against her chest.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Sure,” she whispered.

  “I think you’re an amazing person. Smart. Funny. You’ve got a wonderful heart. Why haven’t you settled down?”

  Peyton felt his hands stop at her shoulders, him waiting for her to answer. For a moment, she thought about her brother. Then her father. And finally, about the man who had left all those years ago. “I’ve never met a man who was there when I really needed him.”

  “I’ve always been there when you needed me,” Jonas said.

  “That’s true.”

  Jonas pulled his legs back and moved around in front of her. They sat in silence in the tent for a long moment. He searched her eyes, asking a question Peyton was completely unprepared for. When his lips moved toward hers, she felt a completely new type of fear.

  In the next tent, Hannah Watson was busy applying an anti-inflammatory to her own skin. She had stripped down to her bra and panties for the task; her sweat-drenched clothes hung from a string she’d tied across the tent frame. She expected them to be dry soon. The rest of her items were unpacked, aligned neatly on her side of the tent. Her roommate’s side was a sharp contrast: Millen’s personal effects were strewn about like the aftermath of a raid by a family of bears.

  She stood in the middle of the tent, bent over, her legs spread, using both hands to rub the white paste down her thighs and calves.

  Behind her, she heard the tent flap open, and she peeked between her legs to find Millen, his face a mix of shock and fixation.

  “Oh. Sorry,” he said, his voice strained. He was turning to leave when Hannah straightened up.

  “It’s okay. Just… turn around for a sec.”

  She finished applying the last bit of gel and slid under the covers on her cot. “Okay.”

  He turned, and she held the tube out to him. “Want some? It helps.”

  “No. Thanks, though. I’m too tired.” Millen opened a bottle of ibuprofen and took four.

  “Me too,” Hannah said. “I’m too tired to even read.”

  “Same here. But I feel like I can’t go to sleep.”

  Hannah nodded. “Yeah.”

  “I’m too keyed up.”

  She stared up at the canvas tent. “I know. I’m completely drained, but I can’t quit thinking about what’s going to happen tomorrow.”

  Millen held up his phone, showing Hannah the Audible app with a book pulled up. “I was going to listen to The Nightingale. Haven’t started yet.”

  Hannah propped herself up on an elbow, her eyebrows scrunched in surprise.

  “What, have you read it?”

  “No. But it’s been on my TBR list for a while.”

  “What’s a TBR list?”

  “A to-be-read list.”

  “Oh. I don’t have a list,” Millen said. “I just pick a book and read it.”

  That didn’t surprise Hannah one bit, but his choice of books did, and she must have been showing it.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t, you know, think you would like that kind of book.”

  Millen glanced at his phone, scrutinizing the cover. “Wait, what kind of book is it?”

  “It’s a… literary-type book.”

  He reared back, feigning insult. “I’ll have you know that I’m an extremely literary person. In fact, I’m uber-literarial.”

  “All right, Mr. Uber-Literarian, how does this work?”

  “Like this.” Millen plugged the white headset into the phone, put an earbud in his left ear, then crouched at the side of Hannah’s cot and placed the other earbud in her right ear. He sat on the floor of the tent and leaned back against the side of her cot, ensu
ring his head was close enough to hers to allow her to move a bit. He hit a button on his phone, and Hannah heard the words that marked the beginning of so many good reads: This is Audible.

  She pulled the earbud from his ear and said, “Don’t be a hero. Come on.”

  She slid over in the cot, making room for him. He pulled off his shoes and lay down beside her.

  At some point, she wasn’t sure when, she turned away from him, onto her side, to make more room. Shortly after that, she felt his arm wrap around her stomach, pulling her close.

  When Jonas’s lips were six inches from Peyton’s face, she turned her head.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking away.

  “No,” she said quickly. “It’s not that. I heard something.”

  “What?”

  Peyton paused. “Helicopters.”

  She rose, pulled her clothes on, and dashed outside the tent. Two black helicopters were landing just beyond the village. Seconds later, soldiers armed with assault rifles were running toward her.

  Chapter 29

  As the helicopters landed, Colonel Magoro’s soldiers fell back to the tent complex, forming a protective ring around Peyton, Jonas, and the other health workers. Magoro raced out of his tent, barking orders into his radio as he ran.

  When the dust cleared, Peyton could just make out the insignia of the Kenyan air force on both helicopters.

  “What’s happened?” she asked Magoro.

  “It’s spread. They’ve asked for both of you. It’s urgent.”

  Peyton headed back to her tent to pack.

  “Take some food and water,” Magoro said. “It may be a long trip.”

  In the dark of night, the helicopter flew over the loosely populated region of eastern Kenya along the Somali border. Occasionally, thanks to the headlights from a truck or car, Peyton caught a glimpse of arid, rocky terrain and rolling hills below.

  She was dead tired, but she wanted to discuss what had happened—or had almost happened—with Jonas in the tent. Yet she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t know where to start. She told herself it was because she was so tired and because of the low hum in the helicopter and because she didn’t want to pull the headset on and allow the pilots in the front to hear them talking. But none of those were the actual reason.