One man now broke away from the others and, in slow steps, closed the distance to the helo. Placing one hand on the outside handle, he raised his weapon with the other as he peeked through the glass with visible apprehension. Anna recoiled in fear, clinging to Tom as the masked face filled the window, but soon relaxed as Tom first waved at the man and then raised his hands in a sign of surrender. Satisfied there was no immediate threat, the man slid open the large cargo door with one move, revealing the group of survivors inside. He stood there for a moment, motionless and unsure of what to do. Between Mama Samaki in her tight-fitting purple tracksuit, Nadia in her designer outfit, and Anna clinging to Tom, this was not the kind of crew he had expected to find inside a military aircraft. Tom wanted to move but knew better than to do so without instructions. Given what these troops had seen and done, they would be in no mood to give anyone the benefit of the doubt and were probably liable to shoot first and ask questions later. The standoff continued for some seconds before the man finally spoke.
“What’s this, then? Any of you sick or bit?” The survivors shook their heads in unison.
“Alright then, let’s see what we’ve got.” The man’s voice inside his mask sounded doubtful and irritated.
“I need you to disembark. Slowly, you hear? I am in no mood for this shit or any other shit, so move slowly.” He emphasized every word in order not to leave any doubt.
“Let’s do what the man says,” Tom nodded to the others, casting a special do-not-mess-this-up glance at Amadou.
One by one they clambered out of the helicopter and into the bright sun, lining up in a neat row next to the landing skids. The tropical heat had hit them as soon as the cargo door had opened, but it seemed even worse out in the sun. By now, they were all sweating profusely, and Tom was not in the least surprised at the man’s crankiness. Having to extract potentially sick survivors while wearing full gear and a gas mask in the heat was no picnic and would push even the strongest close to the edge, if not over it. The man waved, and a white hazmat suit-wearing medical staff came running, checked each one of them over, first with a thermometer, and then by taking a close look at their eyes and mouths. Satisfied that there were no obvious signs of infection, he nodded, and the soldiers ushered Tom and the others away from the helicopter towards a checkpoint at the first fence line. The man with the gasmask retreated along with his men as a small fuel truck arrived on scene.
“Name?” The checkpoint sentry asked with obvious disinterest, while two others had their weapons trained on the group.
They all wore regular fatigues, along with surgical masks and gloves, plus gumboots over their uniform trousers, but none of the other heavy protective clothing.
“Name??” The guard asked again, even more impatiently.
They each gave their full names, with the man here and there cursing as his clumsy fingers hit the wrong keys on the laptop computer or whenever a name wasn’t easy enough to spell.
‘The finest of the finest out here.’ Tom tried to suppress a smirk. These were not elite. They weren’t even second tier. These guys were here on the outskirts of it all because they were expendable. And this made them more dangerous than any special forces out there. They were angry, hot, and disillusioned. Tom smiled a placid smile, and the others followed suit.
‘No need to antagonize, just go with the flow.’ Tom kept repeating to himself as the checkpoint staff went through the motions.
They were each searched for weapons, and it was only when one of the soldiers wanted to pat down Anna that Tom got involved, nearly earning him a rifle butt to the jaw. But surprisingly, the man behind the laptop had stepped in and told the others to back off. Tom reasoned he was probably a family man or at least someone of halfway decent character.
Formalities completed, they were escorted to the nearest medical tent, set back around a hundred yards behind the second fence line and in unobstructed territory, allowing for a clear view of the entire perimeter. One of the soldiers opened the large tent flap and waved them in. The mobile medical field unit was not unlike Tom had seen when he first arrived back in the Congo. There were more registration desks with laptops, blood pressure apparatuses, heart monitors, and drips, along with several gurneys. Nurses in surgical masks were going about their business, and two or three medical staff in Hazmat suits were examining patients behind lightweight, frosted plastic dividers.
“Tom Railsback?”
The Kenyan nurse in his late twenties looked up from the laptop on the registration desk. Tom nodded and was directed to one of the improvised cubicles. They were assigned stalls next to each other, where they were told to wait for a basic exam.
“You don’t think they are going to do the ‘finger thing,’ do you?” Amadou’s head popped up behind the divider next to Tom’s cubicle.
He looked genuinely frightened.
“I don’t think so, but if they really like you, they might make an exception.” Tom joked.
As it turned out, though, the examination was but cursory. The friendly doctor with a heavy Kenyan accent and a deep voice behind the tinted visor of his Hazmat helmet, asked the usual questions about where they had been, whom they had come into contact with, whether they had felt or were feeling unwell. He then went into a brief family history, asking whether anyone close to them had succumbed to the illness. Tom grew tense at the question, hoping Anna wouldn’t answer them too honestly and potentially risk being quarantined, but soon relaxed as within earshot of her stall he could hear her telling one white lie after the other. His smile gleamed with pride at her ability to not only keep a straight face but discern the danger they were all in if one of them said the wrong thing. Despite the turmoil of the last weeks and the trauma of losing Julie, Anna had kept it together when it mattered most, a trait imparted on her by Julie, no doubt. Tom’s eyes welled up at the memory of the strong woman Julie had been, how he had fallen in love with her all these years ago, and the precious gift of Anna, now an enduring reminder of their bond.
“All done here.” The doctor announced and gave Tom a red plastic wrist band.
“You are British?” The doctor examined Tom’s file.
“Yes. Half, anyway.” Tom relaxed a little now that their initial ‘check-in’ seemed complete.
“Good for you.” The doctor’s response seemed almost cynical as he assisted Tom with putting on the band, but Tom decided to let it go.
The current situation would make anyone touchy, and a slight anti-Western sentiment was nothing unusual. In fact, it was quite understandable. Eventually, everyone emerged from their cubicles and regrouped towards the back of the tent.
Amadou looked visibly relieved at the lack of invasiveness of the examination. And both Nadia and Mama Samaki likewise were in a much better mood, now that they had been given the ‘all clear.’ Tom hugged Anna and whispered a ‘well done’ into her ear. She smiled back broadly at having made her dad proud. From the outside, their little gathering, were it not for the surroundings, could have been mistaken for some kind of a reunion. As much as the armed soldiers, the heavy artillery and barbed wire fences under normal circumstances were not something to be welcomed, for now, they offered the one thing everyone needed most. To stop running and, hopefully, for at least a little while, just be. Be without the ever-looming threat of death around every corner. Be in the company of more than just a handful of living humans. Be themselves in the relative safety of surrounds where rules still applied.
“Sergeant Oweno over here will take care of you from here.”
The registration nurse pointed to the exit where a clean-cut man wearing a surgical mask and a clipboard under his arm stood to attention. Outside the tent, the heat was still sweltering despite the late afternoon breeze. Sgt Oweno or ‘Louis,’ as he insisted everyone call him, accompanied them to what he referred to as general quarters, a small village of white containers arranged in a large rectangle and surrounded by their own cyclone fence complete with armed guards and checkpoint.
&
nbsp; They all produced their wristbands and were shown to their respective containers. Reluctant to be split up at first, they understood the need for separation by gender. Only Anna was allowed to stay with her dad, much to Tom’s relief, who would have fought tooth and nail had it been otherwise.
Inside the austere accommodation, well-worn beds were pushed against the walls, with a table and a handful of chairs in the middle matching the number of bunks. Despite the tired interior, the sheets and surfaces were clean. The place smelled of bleach and sweat, but Tom found the windows welded shut, with an old air conditioner providing the only airflow. Curiously, next to the door, a large red button labelled ‘emergency’ was mounted.
“This is quarantine,” Louis explained, writing the new occupants’ names on his clipboard. “You will be here for 48 to 72 hours, depending on your condition.”
“What’s this for?” Tom nodded at the button.
He suspected he knew the answer but figured he’d ask anyway.
“It’s just an alarm. You know, sometimes people come in, and they look fine, but they’re not.” Louis shrugged, already heading for the exit. “Oh, I almost forgot: Mealtimes are at 0700, 1200, and 1800 hours. Quarantine has a separate section in the mess hall, so just follow the signs and don’t mix and mingle.” Louis laughed at his own joke. And with that, he was gone.
The survivors regrouped under the large olive drab gazebo in the middle of the complex, in which they seemed to be the only guests.
“What do you make of this place?” Amadou asked what everyone had been thinking.
“Seems pretty organized.” Tom opined, looking around at the neat rows of containers and tents beyond the mesh fence.
“Would be good to know what happens after this quarantine thing, though.” Nadia nodded towards the entrance, where armed guards were busy doing nothing in the shade of their hut.
“I am pretty sure someone will enlighten us.” Tom tried to sound positive. ” Until then, I’d say we relax and catch up on some sleep. This place looks secure enough. For now, anyway.”
“They didn’t notice, did they?” Nadia’s question caught him off guard.
“Notice what?”
“The bite on Anna’s arm,” Nadia whispered, and Tom motioned her to step aside.
“I’d rather we didn’t talk about it here, or in fact, at all.” Tom frowned.
“But if she really is immune…” Nadia persisted
“Then that is nobody’s business until we know we are in the right hands. In good hands.” Tom hissed, cutting her off mid-sentence.
She searched his eyes for some kind of answer, but his glare was enough to put an end to the conversation. He could see she had understood.
They sat together for a while, chatting about this and that while Anna had a look around the containers and the more or less empty yard. Shortly before 6 pm, one of the guards approached and pointed them in the direction of the mess hall. Keeping his distance, he accompanied them until they reached the quarantine entrance on one side of a large rub hall tent, its dining area completely sectioned off from the rest of the structure. Inside a number of soldiers already sat around long catering tables, digging into food on plastic trays. They briefly looked up as Tom and the others entered, but just as quickly returned to their conversations. Tom figured people came and went all the time and most probably didn’t return. No need, thus, for hearty welcomes.
They made for the queue near a line-up of chaffing dishes at the far end, where staff in white coats and more surgical masks were dishing out indiscernible meals. The queue moved fast. Most of the dishes looked unappetizing, only appealing to the extremely hungry or virtually starving. Tom and the others found themselves to be neither and contented with some fruit from a basket at the end of the line instead. They had seen and gone through too much, and with the adrenaline wearing off, they did not feel like anything other than sleeping. After a brief and virtually conversationless dinner, they were all ready to leave the hall and head straight for their bunks, when a voice from one of the tables had Tom stop in his tracks.
“What’s up, pig-licker?”
Tom would have recognized that voice anywhere in the world. He smiled and without turning, replied: “Not much, fart squirrel.”
The others, already outside, looked at him dumbfounded.
“If it ain’t old Tom Tom’s the snake-eater!” Arms outstretched, a man jumped up and came running towards the survivors.
Tom spun around just in time to receive a hearty hug from a skinny, unshaven soldier who looked like he hadn’t bathed in days.
“Jimmy, the grunt. I can’t believe it!” Tom exclaimed and returned the hug in equal measure.
“Look at you, Mister!“ The soldier pushed himself off, looked Tom up and down, and flicked his tongue. “Someone sure did a number on you. They don’t feed you where ya’ll from?”
Tom hadn’t realized it before, but he, just like the others, had lost a lot of weight in the weeks since he left for the Congo. Now, unshaven and unkempt, his clothes sagging, it was no wonder that his appearance seemed rougher than it ordinarily would, or at least would have, had he still been in active service.
“Everyone,” Tom turned to the group, “meet Jimmy. PFC. At least that’s what he was, the last time I saw him in Afghanistan. You might say we go way back.”
“Darn toot’n,” came Jimmy’s instant reply, and he slapped Tom on the back, “Waaaay back!”
“Why don’t I take Anna back to the dorm to get some rest. I sense you two have a lot to talk about.”
Somewhat irritated by his boisterous demeanour, Nadia looked sceptically at their new acquaintance. She took Anna’s hand, and Tom reluctantly agreed.
“You going to be alright?” He looked at her with concern, but Anna just smiled back.
It had been a while since she had seen her dad’s face light up outside of conversations with herself.
“We will all be fine.”
And with that, the others left, and Tom joined the soldier at one of the tables.
“What on earth are you doing here?” Tom was perplexed to see his old pal.
“Long story, my friend. Let’s just say them powers that be don’t like me going home all that much. Either that or brass didn’t like my little Kabul liquor store, if you catch my drift?” Jimmy laughed.
Revealing a set of partially decaying and missing teeth, he spat a wad of dip onto the dirt floor. He had always chewed, and it had begun to show. He had also been the proprietor of a secret basement den fitted out like a small bar in a house captured from some Taliban sympathisers during one of their raids. It became known as the J-store, where he sold both boot-legged top-shelf liquor and some kind of homebrew concoction that later dubbed and even gained popularity as ‘J-store Suds.’ Some even asked for the drink by name, especially when in need of a believable bout of diarrhoea in order to get out of one of the many recce missions which often resulted in casualties. He claimed that he himself had hand-crafted the formula, but most people who tried it suspected that instead, it was probably from an internet recipe for prison pruno. Be that as it may, it made him a pretty penny on the side, and as a logistics officer, he miraculously never ran short of supplies, even when the MP and customs officers clamped down on everyone else’s incoming shipments.
“Well, you made money while the sun shone, I’ll say that much. But it still doesn’t explain you being here in this facility.”
Jimmy looked around and realized what Tom meant. Being a soldier deployed into a new country was one thing, but finding yourself in quarantine was something else entirely.
“Apparently brass don’t like us ordinary folks mingling with the local ladies neither. All me and my buddies did was snuck out for a peek. Wasn’t my fault that some bleeder had turned and bit one of our ladies! She wasn’t even sick yet or nothing, but here we are, stuck in detention, cooped up with your kind, at that.” Jimmy winked at Tom, delighted to see his old friend.
“You still have
a knack for getting into trouble by the look of things.” There and then, Tom missed the old days and even wished they could toast with a tumbler of Jimmy’s ‘suds.’
“And a knack for getting out of it, don’t you forget it.”
Jimmy was right. His ability to negotiate and ‘accidentally’ drop a packet of cigarettes or a box of whiskey in the right lap had been legendary back in Afghanistan. Tom had no doubt that since then, Jimmy had turned that skill into nothing but a fine art. They continued chatting for a while, reminiscing about their deployments and swapping stories of this person and that and whom they had served with, remembering them all fondly, especially those that hadn’t made it back.
“Wait here.” Tom jumped up as he remembered something.
Within minutes he returned with his pack and rummaged around in it until he proudly retrieved a small bottle.
“35 years old. Single Malt. That ought to do it.” Tom grinned, proud that for once, he was the one with the goods.
“I’ll be danged!” Jimmy exclaimed, immediately hushing his voice as not to alert the guards.
He quickly produced two plastic cups, and they sat and chewed the fat, their now even more spirited conversation continuing late into the night, removing all traces of the tiredness Tom had felt earlier.
“I see you have one of them red ones?” Jimmy, already slurring his speech, had noticed the wristband when Tom rolled up his sleeves.
“Yeah?” Tom sensed there was more to his friend’s casual remark than he let on.
“I mean, it’s good. A red one’s good, is all I’m sayin’.”
Jimmy had become visibly uncomfortable with going any further. Tom’s suspicion peaked as a familiar sense of dread made itself known in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t and wasn’t going to let this one go.
“Come on, spill the beans, Jimmy.” He tried to sound as casual as possible. “It’s just the two of us and Mister Single Malt here.”
The Virophage Chronicles (Book 2): Dead Hemisphere [Keres Rising] Page 23
