Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller

Ebola K

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Text copyright © 2014, Bobby L. Adair

Published by Bobby Adair at Smashwords

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains
material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws
and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is
prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system without express written permission from the
author/publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Any
resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely
coincidental.

Alex Saskalidis, a.k.a. 187designz

Kat Kramer

Cathy Moeschet

Linda Tooch

John Cummings

Kat Kramer

My son spent the summer of 2013 in Uganda and
was the inspiration for one of the book’s characters, Austin
Cooper. I was so moved by some of the stories he came back with
that I started to write them out as a record of the events. But as
things turn out in my mind, the true stories got sucked into a
series of what-if questions along with the concern I’ve had with
Ebola since I first heard of it after the 1976 outbreaks in Zaire.
And of course that was rolled into another of my favorite subjects,
post-apocalyptic fiction.

Hence, this story—as anyone reading in 2014
knows—occurs contemporaneously with the largest Ebola outbreak in
African history. I adjusted some of the details of the story in
order to pin it to recent news events.

Except for the Ebola virus mutating into an
airborne strain as it does in the story (which is purely
fictional), all of the information presented about Ebola and its
effects is accurate according to published medical documents and
historical news records. On that note, I am occasionally contacted
by readers who have expertise in different areas, and if you have
information that contributes to the accuracy of this story, I
encourage you to contact me through my website.

Keeping in mind the reality of the world we
live in, Ebola is a terrible disease that—even as I write this
story—is gruesomely killing people just like you and me, except for
the fact that they weren’t lucky enough to be born in an affluent
country. I read an article last night about a shortage of medical
supplies available to nurses, doctors, and volunteers treating
patients in Liberia. Because even the most basic protective
gear—such as gloves—isn’t available, people are putting their lives
at risk in order to help others.

While I harbor no illusions about fixing that
problem or curing the world’s ills through a donation, I’d
encourage anyone interested in helping to consider providing a
measure of assistance to people unfortunate enough to be afflicted
with this and other diseases. Hence, a portion of the proceeds from
these books will be donated to that cause. If any of you feel moved
to assist, I’ll post a set of links on my website that will direct
you to charitable organizations that engage in these sorts of
activities. Every little bit helps.

http://www.bobbyadair.com/Ebola

Getting back to business, this first book in
the trilogy is provided at no charge, with two more modestly priced
books to follow. This is a strategy I use to give readers a chance
to try out the first book in a series risk-free. Without the burden
of a large publisher and shareholders to please, indie authors have
the flexibility to market their work in creative ways. As we
experience a paradigm shift from traditional publishing, you might
notice a large number of high-quality works at lower prices or even
free. You’ll find many new authors who are excited to get their
work in your hands, so don’t let the price—or lack of one—affect
your perception of the quality of their work.

With that said, your feedback and reviews are
valued and appreciated, so if you enjoy the book, please take a
moment and write a short review and leave it on the website where
you obtained the book. Links are provided at the end. Also don’t
forget to “Like” my Facebook page…we have a lot of fun and really
enjoy interacting with readers.

And just as the readers in my Slow Burn
series have enjoyed the suspense left at the end of each
book—spoiler alert—there
is
a cliffhanger at the end of
Ebola K: Book 1.

Enjoy,

Bobby Adair

“Seems like ever since you got to Uganda, you
can’t stop talking. But today, you’re quiet. What’s up?”

Austin Cooper made a noncommittal sound into
his cell phone and thought about whether to tell his dad the
thoughts that were bothering him.

“Did you go bungee jumping into the Nile
again?”

Nothing like that.

“Camping with the coffee farmers up on Mt.
Elgon?”

“No.” Austin took a long, slow breath. It was
going to be hard.

With his elbows on the rough-hewn piece of
wood lashed between two poles that passed for a table in the little
shop, Austin looked out at people who were passing on the street.
He spotted Rashid talking to a boda driver. He ran a finger around
the remains of the ugali and cabbage on his plate. “I’ve been in
Mbale all week. When I first got here, I was walking down the
street. It was pretty crowded and all. I was going down to a market
to get some fruit and I saw this kid on a rooftop up ahead.”

Into the pause, Austin’s dad, Paul Cooper,
said, “Yeah?”

There was no good way to ease into it, so
Austin simply said it. “Somebody pushed him off.”

The phone was silent over the space of a few
breaths. “Someone pushed the kid off the roof? Did he get
hurt?”

“Yeah, pretty badly. But nobody stopped to
help. All the people ignored him and walked by.”

“What?” Paul was surprised.

“That’s how it is here,” said Austin. “He was
a street kid. They’re like some kind of a lower caste. They’re
orphans. They live on the edge of town in the dumps and eat scraps.
Most of them have AIDS. ”

“And those are the ones you teach?”

“Yes.”

“Was he one of your students?” Paul
asked.

“No. I teach in Kapchorwa.” Austin looked out
to the street again. Rashid was negotiating with a boda driver for
a ride back to Kapchorwa. Rashid always did the negotiating with
Austin out of sight. They’d learned early in their stay that
Austin’s blue eyes and blond hair always got them the mzungu price.
Rashid, being Arabic, got a better deal.

“I can’t keep the names of those places
straight. What happened to the kid?”

Austin choked up. Just thinking about the
story brought unexpected emotion. He faked a cough to cover it. “I
couldn’t…I had to do something.”

“What happened?” Paul asked.

“I picked him up and carried him to the
hospital.”

Paul was at a loss for words. After several
long moments, he said, “I’m proud of you.”

“The hospital wouldn’t take him because he
was a street kid.”

“You’re shitting me,” Paul’s voice was full
of disgust.

Austin was unfazed by the profanity. His dad
never had much respect for the concept of good and bad words. “No.
The only way they’d take him is if I paid. It took pretty much the
rest of my money. I’m nearly broke.” Austin hadn’t intended to add
that last line. The opportunity to teach for the summer in Uganda
had cost them both a bit more than they could afford.

Without hesitation, Paul said, “I’ll transfer
some money into your account, okay? I’m proud of you. I really am.
You’re turning into a pretty good person. I think this summer in
Uganda is good for you.”

“Thanks.” Austin wondered about whether to
tell his dad the next part. But Paul wasn’t a worrier, not like
Austin’s mom. “There’s more.”

“Yeah?”

“I stayed at the hospital with him for four
days. I didn’t think they’d let him stay if I left. But after the
fourth day, I kinda got comfortable with the staff and felt I could
trust them.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So I left the hospital for a while and went
out to get something to eat.” At that point, Austin had to fake
another cough. It was the first time he’d told the story and the
emotions—just days old—were still raw.

With growing concern, Paul asked, “What
happened?”

“They kicked him out of the hospital.”
Another slow, deep breath. “I went out looking for him. It was a
gang that pushed him off the roof.”

“Like Bloods and Crips?” Paul asked.

“No,” said Austin. “The country has a lot of
misguided groups who are doing some really crappy things in the
name of religion. The Lord’s Resistance Movement is the one you
hear about putting kids into sex slavery or forcing them into their
army. They think these street kids are sinners or unclean or
something. Dad, they caught him and castrated him. They left him in
the street.”

“Jesus.”

“He bled to death.”

It was Paul’s turn to fake a cough to cover
his
emotions. “Are you okay?”

“Not at first. I’m okay now, I think.”

“I’m really proud of you for helping the
kid,” Paul said again.

“Thanks.”

“Do you think you’re in any danger?” Paul
asked.

“How’s that?” Austin was wondering if he’d
been wrong about his dad being a worrier. Perhaps his stepmom had
converted him. Not good.

Paul said, “Maybe from the gang that killed
the kid. Do you think they’ll come after you for taking him to the
hospital?”

“No, they pretty much leave mzungus
alone.”

“Mzungus?”

“Sorry. It’s their word for white people.
They kind of have special rules for us. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Don’t tell your mother about this
until you get back. You know she wasn’t jazzed about you going to
Uganda in the first place, and now that she knows about this Ebola
thing in Sierra Leone, she’s kind of freaked out.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t trivialize it,” Paul said. “You know
how much she worries. She’d go nuts with you there for another
month, thinking you could get hurt.”

“I won’t say anything.”

“When was the last time you talked to
her?”

“A couple of weeks ago.”

“Call your mom when you get off the phone
with me, okay?”

Austin glanced out toward the street. Rashid
was shuffling and looking around, making a show of his
restlessness. The impatience of the Ugandan man beside him looked
real. “I can’t. I think my boda guy won’t wait.”

“A boda, that’s the motorcycle thing,
right?”

“It is a motorcycle, a motorcycle taxi. You
know, they have those long seats like you used to have in the
seventies so they can squeeze more than two people on them.”

Paul ignored the dig about his age. “You did
get that email from your stepmom, right?”

“Heidi sent me a bunch. Which one?”

“Probably one you didn’t read.”

Austin chuckled. “I didn’t read most of
them.”

Paul laughed. “Look, I know how she can be a
pain, but she did find a lot of good information about Uganda. You
really should read them.”

“CliffsNotes?”

“I’m not going to summarize her emails.”

Austin laughed. “Why not? She’s
your
wife.”

His dad laughed, too. “Just be careful on the
bodas. The State Department or wherever she got the information
said to stay off the bodas because people always get hurt on
them.”

“Everybody here has a boda scar.” Austin
laughed again.

“I feel
so
much better.”

“Don’t tell Mom about the boda then.”

“I’m not saying anything to your mother. The
less she knows, the happier she’ll be. Is the boda guy taking you
back to Kapchorwa?”

“Yes.”

“How far is it?”

“I don’t know. An hour and a half?”

“Super.” Paul said it with plenty of
sarcasm.

“Anyway, we need to get going. This is the
first boda driver we found that’ll make the trip. The others don’t
think they’ll get back here before dark.”

“I feel
so
much better knowing the
accident-prone motorcycle taxi driver will be in a hurry.” More
sarcasm.

Austin laughed—the laugh of someone who was
twenty years old and still believed that bad things only happened
to other people.

“Keep in touch okay? At least email me every
week so I know what’s going on.”

“Is Heidi bothering you about not hearing
from me often enough?” Austin smiled.

“I do tend to pick ‘em.”

Austin said, “I don’t have the Internet or
phone service in the village.”

“I know, you’ve told me. But you come into
town every week, right?” Paul asked.