by A. G. Riddle
He pulled up a video of Peyton Shaw giving a speech at the American Public Health Summit a few months before. She appeared on his screen, standing on a wide stage with a white background. Her white skin was silky smooth, her hair dark brown and shoulder length. She was clearly of European descent, but Desmond guessed there was an East Asian somewhere in her immediate family tree. She was thin and moved about the stage easily, with the grace of someone who did yoga or danced regularly.
It was her eyes that Desmond focused on, however. They were large and bright and radiated an indescribable quality that he found instantly captivating. She wasn’t gorgeous, not a woman who would turn heads, but as he watched her, he was irresistibly drawn to her. She possessed that certain charm that comes from confidence and being comfortable in one’s own skin. And as she spoke, he realized something else: she was incredibly intelligent. Desmond didn’t know what type of woman he had dated before, but if he were to choose at that moment, it would be someone like Peyton Shaw.
On the projection screen behind her, an image appeared of a field hospital in a rural, tropical area—likely somewhere in the third world.
“Humanity is fighting a war,” she said to an unseen audience. “It is a global war—a war that has raged since our ancestors took their first steps. It may never end. This war has no borders, no treaties, no ceasefire. Our enemy lives among us. It is invisible, immortal, always adapting—and testing our defenses for weakness.
“It strikes when we least expect it. It kills and maims indiscriminately. It will attack any person, of any nation, race, or religion. Our immortal enemy is in this room. It is inside you. And me. That enemy is the pathogens that each and every one of us carries.
“For the most part, we live in an uncomfortable equilibrium with bacteria and viruses, both those inside of us and those outside, in the natural world. But every now and then, the war reignites. An old pathogen, long dormant, returns. A new mutation emerges. Those events are the epidemics and pandemics we confront. They are the battles we fight.
“Success for humanity means winning every battle. The stakes are high. Around the world, disease is the one enemy that unites every person of every race and nationality. When a pandemic occurs, we come together in a single, species-wide cause.
“In the history of our battle against pandemics, there have been lulls and wildfires, peaks and valleys. It is the wildfires we know well; they are committed to history. They are the times when we lost the battle. They are the dark years when the human race died en masse. When our population shrank. When we cowered and waited.”
The screen changed to a painting of Europeans with bumps covering their bodies.
“In the third century, the Antonine Plague wiped out a third of Europe’s population. And just when population levels were recovering, the Plague of Justinian in the sixth century killed almost half of all Europeans; up to fifty million people died from what we believe was bubonic plague.
“In the 1340s, the Plague once again remade Europe, forever changing the course of world history. At that time, we believe the world population was around 450 million. The Black Death killed at least 75 million. Some estimates go as high as 200 million. Imagine, in the span of four years between twenty and fifty percent of the world population dying.
“Europe, because of its large cities, population density, and advanced trade routes, has repeatedly been a hotbed for pandemics. But it is not alone.”
The image switched to a picture of Spanish conquistadors meeting indigenous tribes at a shoreline, their wooden ships anchored in a bay behind them.
“Consider the New World when Europeans arrived. We’ve heard so much about the plight of native peoples in the present-day United States, but consider the populations of New Spain, present-day Mexico. In 1520, smallpox killed nearly eight million. Twenty-five years later, a mysterious viral hemorrhagic fever killed fifteen million—roughly eighty percent of their population at the time. Imagine that: a mysterious illness killing eight out of every ten people. In America, that would be over 240 million people. It’s unthinkable, but it happened, right here in North America, less than five hundred years ago. We still haven’t identified the pathogen that decimated Mexico in the sixteenth century, but we do know it returned twenty years later, in 1576, following two years of drought. It killed another two million from the already decimated population. To this day, we still have very few clues about what caused that pandemic. Most importantly, we don’t know if or when it will return.”
The image changed to a black-and-white photo of a field hospital with rows of iron single beds holding patients covered by wool blankets.
“1918. The Spanish Flu. Or, as it’s more recently known, the 1918 Flu Epidemic. Less than one hundred years ago. Estimates are that one in every three people around the world contracted the pathogen. It killed one in five people who fell ill with the disease. As many as fifty million died. We think twenty-five million died in the first six months of the outbreak.
“So. Human history has a repeating theme: we battle pandemics, we lose, we die, it burns itself out, and we rebuild. We always come out the other side stronger. Humanity marches on.
“But today, we are more connected than ever before. Our population is four times larger than it was at the time of the last major global pandemic in 1918. We’re more urbanized. We’re disturbing more animal habitats. Most concerning, we are disturbing habitats where reservoir hosts for extremely deadly diseases reside. Fruit bats, rats, squirrels, fowl, and other hosts for zoonotic diseases are coming into contact with humans with greater frequency.
“If you ask any epidemiologist, they will tell you it’s not a matter of if, but when the next global pandemic begins. That’s why the work you’re doing is so important. You’re on the front lines of the battle against infectious diseases. Your actions may determine when the next pandemic occurs. At the local and state levels, your decisions will determine whether the next outbreak remains contained or goes global. At the risk of sounding hyperbolic, I believe that one or more of you, at some point in your career, may determine the fate of millions, and possibly billions, of lives. No pressure.”
The crowd laughed, and Peyton smiled as the video ended.
Desmond considered Peyton’s words as he washed the hair dye down the sink and applied bronzer to his face, neck, and ears, making his complexion turn darker. How did she fit with his situation?
He needed to talk to Peyton again. She might hold a clue he had missed. It was a risk, but he thought it was one worth taking.
He opened the Google Voice app and called her number in Atlanta.
After three rings, her voicemail picked up. He decided to leave a message.
“Hi. It’s Desmond. I called earlier. Sorry if I alarmed you. I’d very much like to speak with you, Peyton. Give me a call.” He left his number, and wondered if she would call.
Once the bronzer dried, Desmond again left the small flat. He needed cash for tomorrow. At an electronics store, he purchased two iPads with his Visa prepaid cards, then sold them at a pawn shop. The money solved his immediate cash problems, and gave him the funds he needed to execute his plan for the meeting.
At a sporting goods store, he acquired five items he would need in case things went wrong. The purchases might raise suspicion, especially since he had paid cash, but he intended to be out of Berlin before it became a problem.
Back at the flat, he collapsed on the Murphy bed. It had been a long day, and the next day might be even longer.
He bundled up under the covers and stared at the peeling plaster ceiling. The decrepit radiator rumbled to life, the old iron monster grunting and breathing hot air into the freezing flat. Its heat was no match for the chill that beat past the poorly sealed windows. Slowly, the cold filled the room, and no matter how many blankets Desmond wrapped himself in, he got colder.
To his surprise, the feeling of falling asleep in the cold brought to mind a memory. He saw himself trudging through the snow. The freezing powder
was ankle deep. A small home sat in the distance. A wispy column of smoke rose from it, dissolving as it reached toward the full moon, a gray rope fraying in the sky. The snow fell faster with each step, whiting out the column of smoke and the cabin below.
Soon the snow was knee deep, slowing him almost to a halt. His legs burned with exhaustion as he lifted them, planted them, and pushed forward. His lungs ached from the cold. He just wanted to lie down and rest. But he resisted. He knew it would be his end. He had to keep going. Tears welled in his eyes, oozed onto his cheeks, and froze there. He carried something in his hands. It was heavy and cold, but he dared not drop it. His life depended on it.
Amid the wall of white snow, an orange beacon of hope shined through: the glow from the windows of the home. Safety was in sight. Seeing the warm home gave Desmond the energy to push on, even though he wanted to simply collapse in the snow and give up.
At the porch, he grabbed a timber column, panting, willing himself to cross to the door. He imagined it opening, the man inside seeing him, picking him up, and carrying him to the warmth of the fire. But Desmond knew that wouldn’t happen; the demon within the cabin wasn’t that kind of man. He was likely warming himself by the fire, hoping the boy he had never wanted was dead, buried in the snow-covered fields, gone for good.
That thought steeled Desmond’s will to live. He pushed forward, threw the door open, dropped the object he had carried, and stared at the man sitting by the large stone fire, a bottle filled with amber liquid at his side.
Without looking back, the monster called in a gruff, English accent, “Shut the bloody door, boy.”
Desmond slammed the door, stripped his snow-coated jacket off, and rushed to the fire. The heat scorched him at first, and he drew back, collapsing on the wood floor as he pulled more of the frozen and soaked clothes off. Shivering, he stared at the man, silently asking, Why didn’t you come looking for me? Don’t you care at all?
The man snorted dismissively, looked back at the fire, and gripped the bottle by the neck. He took a long pull, then handed it to Desmond.
“Drink. It’s the only thing for it.”
Desmond hesitated, then took the bottle and sipped from it. The liquid was like fire on the back of his throat, burning at first, then numbing as it went down. Despite the wretched taste, he felt warmer. And less pain. A second later, he took another sip of the whiskey.
The memory faded, leaving the taste of liquor in his mouth.
Lying in the flat in Berlin, freezing, Desmond realized exactly what he wanted at that moment: a tall bottle of whiskey. He imagined himself leaving the flat, descending the stairs, and buying the bottle. He imagined the first drink hitting his lips, how warm he’d feel then, how much more relaxed he’d be, how much better he’d sleep, how much better things would go tomorrow.
But just as he was about to rise from the bed, his mind reminded him of something: drinking was something he didn’t do anymore. And he also recalled why: drinking had already taken too much from him. Though he couldn’t specifically remember it, he knew that years ago he had made a promise to himself not to let alcohol take anything else from him.
Desmond knew then that he was the kind of person who kept his promises, especially the ones he made to himself. He wouldn’t seek warmth in a bottle that night—or any other night. He would bear the cold, and the pain in his body, and the painful memories in his mind. He would bear them all alone. He had done it before.
Day 2
900 infected
13 dead
Chapter 13
After his morning ritual, Dr. Elim Kibet donned an impermeable gown, boot covers, a facemask, goggles, and two pairs of gloves. As he walked the corridor, he barely recognized the sleepy, rural hospital. It was bustling with activity now. Everyone who had stayed was pitching in.
He opened a door and greeted his patient, the American named Lucas Turner. The young man had broken with the disease during the night. Despite his discomfort and ill health, Lucas was extremely polite. Elim knew the smell of chlorine emanating from his suit was overpowering to his patient, yet Lucas did not complain. He took the bottle of ORS Elim handed him and drank some, wincing as he swallowed.
“I know,” Elim said. “It’s bad. But it will keep you alive.”
Lucas only nodded.
“I’ve sent another request for help. I’m optimistic that someone will come soon.”
Lucas’s cheeks were flushed, and red rings had begun forming around his eyes. He spoke with a scratchy voice. “I was wondering if you would send an email to my parents. My phone’s dead.” He took a sheet of paper off the side table and held it up. It contained an email address and a short, handwritten message.
Elim reached for it, but Lucas drew it back.
“I didn’t know if you wanted to, like, put it in a plastic bag or… take a cell phone picture of it or something.”
“Yes, that’s a very wise idea, Mr. Turner.”
Elim stripped the outer glove off his right hand, drew his phone out of his pocket, and snapped a photo.
Back at his desk, he composed an email to Lucas’s parents.
Subject: A message from your son Lucas
Dear Sir and Madam,
I am a physician at Mandera Referral Hospital currently caring for your son. He asked me to pass this message along.
Sincerely,
Dr. Elim Kibet
** Message from Lucas follows **
Dear Mom and Dad,
Please don’t worry about me. I know you worry yourselves sick as it is.
Since my last email, I’ve begun running a fever. They don’t know if I have what Steven had, but the doctors and nurses here are doing everything they can for me. I am in no pain.
I want you to know that I love you and I appreciate all the opportunities you’ve given me. I feel very lucky. I’ve had the chance to work on a cause I believe in and see a part of the world few ever experience.
I feel that my life has had purpose and meaning. I don’t want to be grim or worry you. I’ll see you soon.
I love you both. Please don’t worry.
Lucas
Elim sent the email, then started making calls—to the Mandera County Commissioner, the County Health Director, National Disaster Operations Centre, and anyone else who would pick up.
When he was done, he sat back in his chair and realized something: he was running a fever. He pulled his shirt up and froze. The bumps were small but unmistakable. The beginnings of a rash. He was infected with whatever had sickened and killed the American.
The hospital administrator appeared in his door, and Elim quickly jerked his shirt down.
“We’ve got company, Elim.”
They walked to the main entrance and held their hands up to shade their eyes. Three large trucks had pulled up outside. They had just arrived—a cloud of brown dust they had kicked up was now engulfing the vehicles, preventing Elim from seeing any markings or identification.
Figures emerged from the dust cloud. They were dressed in protective suits, but they carried military rifles. They formed up around the hospital and waited. Ten seconds later, a second wave of figures in PPE stepped out of the cloud and walked directly toward Elim.
Off the Horn of Africa, the cargo vessel Kentaro Maru was slowly making its way down the coast of Somalia toward Kenya. It kept its distance from the shore, and out of the reach of pirates, though it was well equipped to repel such attacks.
In his cabin, Conner McClain sat at a desk, watching the drone footage of the trucks rolling up to Mandera Referral Hospital.
Behind him, the door opened and footsteps echoed on the floor.
He didn’t turn to see his guest, who stood and watched the video for a moment.
“You think they’ll take the boy back to America?”
“Yes. I do.”
“We’ve located Desmond Hughes. He’s still in Berlin. We’ll have him within a few hours.”
“Be very careful. Underestimating him will be th
e last thing you ever do.”
When the door closed, Conner opened his email and sent a series of messages. It was time to begin phase two.
On another screen, a map and statistics showed infection rates around the world.
As expected, they were climbing.
Chapter 14
Spiegel Online
breaking news alert
The Berlin Police are asking for help in finding Desmond Hughes, an American man wanted for murder as well as assaulting two police officers. Hughes, pictured above, was last seen near the Brandenburg Gate. If you have any information, call a special police hotline immediately at (030) 4664-8.
At around 7:30 yesterday morning two uniformed police officers and a hotel security guard were sent to investigate a disturbance at Hughes’s hotel room. Shortly after entering the suite, Hughes assaulted the uniformed officers and held the hotel employee at gunpoint. He proceeded to rob all three men, steal a police handgun and ID card, and flee the scene in a taxi, which police have now located. The driver described Hughes as a quiet man who claimed to be a tourist interested in the city’s layout and routes in and out. Authorities believe Hughes is still in Berlin and is considered armed and extremely dangerous.
Hours ago, law enforcement in America launched a raid on Hughes’s lavish home outside San Francisco, California. They’ve told the press only that the home had been recently burglarized and ransacked.
Chapter 15
