The Extinction Files Box Set

by A. G. Riddle

  “And a nephew, niece?”

  “Both now. Madison had her second child last year, a girl this time. Olivia.”

  He nodded, still seeming uncomfortable. Peyton was surprised by his sudden personal interest. Jonas had been a great partner over the years, but their relationship had remained strictly professional.

  “What about you?” she asked, unsure what to say.

  “No one missing me back in Geneva. Or Heidelberg. Parents passed away a few years ago. I have a sister in London, but she’s got her career and family; keeps her pretty busy.” He fidgeted with his bag a moment, then said, “So no strapping young man counting the hours until you return to Atlanta?”

  “No, not for a while.” Peyton looked around, wondering if he would say something else. Finally, she said, “What about you?”

  “No, me either. Kind of tough with the job.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Jonas’s mood seemed a little lighter, his nervousness gone. He put the backpack over his shoulders and walked to the door. “All right then. Lock up tight. See you in a few.”

  “Will do,” Peyton said, watching him leave, a puzzled expression still on her face.

  She took a triangular wooden block from her duffel and wedged it under the door. Just in case, she also moved a wood-framed chair from the desk and placed it against the door handle. She set a can of mace by her bed and hid a sheathed boot knife under the pillow beside her.

  She assumed that the hotel washed the sheets regularly but figured the comforters were rarely cleaned, just wiped off and left to collect all manner of germs and bugs from hundreds of guests each year. So she took the comforter off the queen size bed she would sleep in and placed it on the dresser. She definitely didn’t want it near her face. Being germ-conscious sort of came with the territory in her line of work.

  For the first few years of her career, she had done exactly what she’d advised her EIS agents to do: she had called her mother whenever she landed for a deployment. As she’d grown older, she had gotten out of the habit, but that night in Nairobi, sitting on the stripped bed in her hotel room, Peyton dialed her mother.

  Lin Shaw answered on the second ring, and Peyton got the impression that she had been crying.

  “Everything all right?” Peyton asked.

  “Yes, dear. Where are you?”

  Peyton told her, and they made small talk, about the flight, and her sister, and her mother’s quilting. After Peyton’s father passed away, Lin had raised her son and two daughters alone. Peyton had always been close to her mother, but that night, for the first time in years, her mother ended the call by saying, “I love you very much.”

  When she hung up, Peyton wondered if her mother was sick. She got the distinct feeling there was a secret of some sort her mother wasn’t telling her.

  For some reason, her mind wandered to her brother, Andrew. He had died in Uganda, in 1991, while working on an AIDS awareness campaign for the WHO and Ugandan government. On a hot summer day in August, he was working in a village in the eastern part of the country, inside Mount Elgon National Park, when a forest fire consumed the village, killing Andrew, his Ugandan liaison, and all the residents. They had to verify his identity based on dental records and personal effects. At the funeral, on an overcast day in San Francisco, there was very little left to bury.

  Peyton was thirteen then, and when the service was over, a woman with wavy blond hair walked over and introduced herself, speaking in an Australian accent. She had been a friend and colleague of Andrew, and Peyton sensed that perhaps they had been more. The woman reached into her pocket and brought out an item Peyton knew well: the silver pin Andrew had received a few years before at his medical school graduation—a gift from their father. The woman handed it to Peyton and said, “I believe your brother would have wanted you to have this.”

  Peyton had turned it over in her hand, examining the serpent that wrapped around the staff. She was surprised that it wasn’t charred.

  “I thought it burned.”

  “I had it cleaned and refinished. I wanted you to have it in the same condition it was in when your brother carried it. All things can be repaired, Peyton. Some simply require more time than others.”

  On that shadowy day in August, holding Andrew’s pin as the wind blew through her brown hair, Peyton knew for sure that she wanted to be a physician—and that she wanted to work in the field, helping people. Maybe it was because she wanted to continue Andrew’s work—he had been both her hero and her father figure—or maybe it was because she thought being an epidemiologist would somehow help her understand him or bring her closer to him. But she was certain being a doctor was what she wanted to do. And she had never regretted her career choice since. She knew the risks, and they were worth it to her.

  She rose and set about getting ready for bed. She brushed her teeth, turned the shower on, and stripped off her tan service khakis. She sat naked on the closed toilet while she waited for the water to warm up. Her mind focused on her upcoming decision: Lucas Turner, the twenty-two-year-old American. Peyton wondered if he would be alive when she reached him. If so, what sort of shape would he be in? Would ZMapp be effective against the unknown viral hemorrhagic fever? Could it possibly make him sicker? And with or without ZMapp, would Lucas survive the trip to America? That was, if she followed the original plan she’d discussed with Elliott—the plan the director of the CDC had approved. That plan had been based on certain assumptions, and in the past hour, those assumptions had changed. The pathogen wasn’t Ebola.

  Emory had the advanced medical assistance Lucas needed—but if they flew him to Atlanta, she would be bringing an unknown, deadly pathogen into the United States, putting three hundred million lives at risk. All to save one young man. But if she left Lucas in Africa, he was, for all intents and purposes, on his own, left to fight off the infection or die, and that didn’t sit right with Peyton.

  In the steam-filled bathroom, a plan began to take shape in her mind.

  Day 3

  32,000 infected

  41 dead

  Chapter 21

  Reuters News Alert

  Authorities in Hong Kong and Singapore have issued an entry ban on anyone arriving with symptoms of an unidentified respiratory disease. Members of each government, speaking on the condition of anonymity, said that the disease in question is not another outbreak of SARS, but instead a contagion believed to be more flu-like and persistent in nature. It is unknown how many people are infected in either city at this time.

  Chapter 22

  At five a.m., Peyton, Jonas, and their teams loaded onto the Air Force transport and departed Nairobi for Mandera. The air ambulance and a Kenyan air force transport followed along.

  The passenger compartment in the US Air Force transport was cramped. In total, seventy-eight members of the combined teams sat in chairs, on the floor, and against the walls. Some of the young men took turns standing and sitting while Peyton and Jonas carried out the briefing, giving the integrated teams their assignments.

  When they landed, the sun was rising over the rocky, barren hills surrounding the airport. A convoy of military trucks with canvas backs sat waiting for them. Dr. Phil Stevens led the team that would be interviewing the airport’s employees, building a timeline and contact tree for the British radar technician.

  After Colonel Magoro had joined them, Kenyan army troops offloaded their gear and drove Peyton, Jonas, and their team quickly through Mandera. The ride across the streets of hard-packed dirt was bumpy and dusty. Through the red clouds billowing at the back of the truck, Peyton got a hazy view of the rural town.

  She saw mostly single-story buildings arranged in a haphazard grid. They spread out from Mandera Road, the main thoroughfare that ran through the center of town. Livestock wandered the streets—cattle, camels, and goats driven by ranchers bringing them to market. Residents pushed single-wheeled carts loaded with produce. Kids stood on every block, gawking at them as they passed, many pausing socc
er games to watch.

  Their local guide shared some background on Mandera. It was the poorest of Kenya’s forty-seven counties. Education was ranked at the bottom; there were a hundred students for every teacher. Health care facilities were the worst in the country. Mandera’s residents were largely subsistence farmers and ranchers. The economic situation was dire.

  In 2013, the Kenyan government had begun a process of devolution, handing much of the governing power in Mandera down to the county government. With the help of non-governmental organizations like the Red Cross and the UN, as well as support from the Kenyan government, the county had started turning its situation around. They had embarked on several large public works projects, including upgrading the airport and building a new government complex, a stadium, and an international livestock market. The convoy passed several of these projects, which were still works in progress. The airport and the new governor’s mansion seemed to be the only completed facilities.

  The government had also updated and repaired Mandera Referral Hospital. The improvements had bolstered patient safety immensely, although the local terror attacks and recent payment problems had set their progress back. The county had also acquired its first ambulance and had contracted with the Red Cross for seven more. But on the whole, the hospital was still a far cry from what administrators wanted for their county and their people.

  Peyton listened intently to the story of a county that was making its best effort to improve the situation for its people. The outbreak had come at the worst time.

  The convoy stopped at Mandera Referral Hospital, which was centrally located. Two bus stops were nearby, as were the town hall and post office. The facility itself was a collection of run-down single-story buildings connected by breezeways. A wooden sign painted blue with white letters hung over the courtyard entrance.

  The Kenyan Ministry of Health had sent in a team shortly after the outbreak was reported, and they had brought with them a military escort to protect their team from al-Shabaab terrorists and to prevent local residents from entering the hot zone. From the looks of it, the Kenyans had done an excellent job: army troops in PPE patrolled the perimeter, assault rifles at their sides. To Peyton, the place looked more like a prison than a hospital, but she knew this was for the best, as it would keep the uninfected far away.

  The Kenyans had set up a tent complex just outside the hospital, and Peyton and Jonas made their way there. At a long folding table, the head of the Kenyan Ministry of Health’s mission, Nia Okeke, gave her report. She was a little older than Peyton, her black hair slightly graying at her temples. She spoke without emotion, describing the situation succinctly.

  Peyton was impressed with how much the Kenyans had done in such a short amount of time. On whiteboards that lined the walls of the tent, contact trees spread out in blue and red ink. Maps were marked. Numbers were tallied with times beside them.

  When Nia finished her briefing, Peyton asked to see Lucas Turner.

  “Of course. And there is someone else I believe you should also speak with,” Nia said.

  Peyton suited up, doused her PPE with chlorine, and headed toward the hospital. Jonas was close behind her, as was Hannah Watson, a physician and first-year EIS agent. Peyton had never worked with Hannah during a deployment, but in reviewing her file, she had learned that the young physician hoped to work as a field epidemiologist for the CDC after her EIS fellowship.

  Peyton didn’t envy what Hannah was about to go through. She could remember her first deployment similar to Mandera; she figured every field epidemiologist did. But it had to be done: Hannah had to learn, and reading and classroom instruction could only take her so far. She needed field experience, and Mandera was the perfect opportunity.

  Peyton allowed Jonas to enter the hospital ahead of them.

  “You clear on what you’re doing?” Peyton asked Hannah, who held a refrigerated box at her right side.

  The young physician nodded. Through the clear plastic goggles, Peyton could already see the drops of sweat forming on her strawberry-blond eyebrows.

  “If you get too hot or need a second, just walk outside and breathe. If you need to take a break, don’t hesitate. There’s nothing wrong with stepping back for a minute.”

  Hannah nodded again, and Peyton thought she saw some of the tension drain out of the young physician. She hoped so.

  Inside the suit, Hannah could feel her entire body starting to sweat. It felt twice as hot inside the hospital as it had outside.

  Nia led the three of them—Peyton, Jonas, and Hannah—to a large room where at least forty patients lay on mats, blankets, and pillows on the floor. Hannah felt her pulse accelerate. She had seen pictures of Ebola treatment units, but they hadn’t prepared her for this moment. Time seemed to stand still as every detail leapt out at her. Plastic buckets labeled for vomit, feces, and urine lined the narrow walkways between the makeshift beds. Empty bottles of ORS were strewn across the floor. The buzzing ceiling fans fought a futile battle with the heat that seeped through the closed windows and rose from the bodies on the floor. Jaundiced eyes turned to stare at the newcomers.

  With each step the thin rubber suit seemed to collapse in upon Hannah like a plastic bag whose air was being sucked out. The sensation of the PPE clinging to her sweaty forearms and thighs only reminded her that the thin layer was all that separated her from the pathogen that was killing these people. Any break, even the smallest tear, could let the pathogen in. She could be infected, relegated to fighting for her life in this place.

  She could hear her own breathing inside the suit. Outside, she heard the moans and crying of the patients. But amid the sounds of agony, a beautiful sound cut through: singing. Groups in clumps performed church hymns and folk songs. The contrast of pain and beauty and courage was inspiring—and unnerving.

  The box Hannah carried had seemed light at first. Now it felt like an anvil. She set it down next to a young woman lying in the corner.

  “I’m Dr. Hannah Watson. I’m with the CDC. I need to take a small sample of your blood for testing.”

  The woman slowly opened her yellow, bloodshot eyes but said nothing. A black fly landed on her face, causing her to turn her head, sending the insect back into the air.

  Hannah drew out the ReEBOV test kit, took a drop of blood from the woman’s finger, and placed a small bandage over the place she had pricked. She slipped the sample in the cooler and lifted the bottle of ORS by the woman’s side. It was half full.

  “How many bottles have you been drinking per day?” Hannah asked.

  The woman just shook her head.

  “You need to stay hydrated. Can I get you anything else?”

  After a labored breath, the woman said, “No, Doctor. Thank you.”

  Glancing around, Hannah noticed that on one wall someone had written the letters A through F to mark the rows, and along another wall, the numbers one through twelve marked the columns. She made a mental note that A1 was not taking enough fluids and that she had no other requests.

  She took out another test kit, lifted the cooler, and moved to A2.

  Twenty minutes later, Hannah exited the hospital. She was so hot she felt like clawing the PPE off. It clung to her sweaty skin, a hot plastic film that felt like it was melting onto her. But Dr. Shaw’s warning was fresh in her mind. She took her time doffing the suit, then hurried into the tent where an EIS agent was testing her samples from row A.

  The agent looked up. “All negative for Ebola.”

  Hannah nodded. Dr. Shaw had told her to expect that. But even though the Kenyans had already tested the patients and found them negative for Ebola, the prudent course of action had been to run their own tests with kits from another manufacturing batch, just to be sure.

  Hannah also knew that Dr. Shaw had likely planned this as part of her training. Hannah would be testing more patients in the field soon, in the villages around Mandera. She’d be on her own. And she was thankful for the opportunity to learn the procedure here, where she h
ad help close by.

  Nia led Jonas and Peyton to the back corner of the large treatment room, where a middle-aged man was propped against the yellowing plaster wall. His eyes were closed, and he wore a sweat-soaked tank top. A folded white coat lay by his side.

  “Doctors Shaw and Becker, this is Dr. Elim Kibet, Chief of Physicians here at Mandera.”

  Dr. Kibet opened his eyes, looked up at his visitors, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He smiled weakly. “In the interest of full disclosure, I was the only physician here at Mandera.” He focused on Peyton. “We did everything we could for the young Americans. I’m sorry. It was not much.”

  Peyton squatted down, bringing herself close to eye level with the doctor.

  “All of us appreciate your efforts, Dr. Kibet. The CDC, the American government, and especially those boys’ parents.”

  Dr. Kibet reached under the white coat and brought out a spiral-bound notebook. He handed it to Peyton.

  “Before the ministry arrived, I talked at length with Mr. Turner.”

  Peyton ensured her gloves were dry, then flipped through the notebook, scanning the ruled pages filled with neat handwriting. Dr. Kibet had been extremely thorough. Peyton hoped his notes might contain a clue that would lead them to the index case.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” she said. She looked up at Nia, who was studying her intently. Peyton got the impression there was something more going on here, but she wasn’t sure what.

  “Are you ready to see Mr. Turner?” the Kenyan woman asked.

  Inside the orange Tyvek suit, Peyton felt as though the temperature had suddenly increased five degrees. She was aware of her breath, and of the weight of the decision she would soon have to make. It was a call that could determine the fate of the young man—and possibly millions of others.