Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller (4 page)

Behind the town to the south, Mt. Elgon,
wrapped in misty forests and shades of green, rose to fourteen
thousand feet. Up there, locals farmed coffee or worked at one of
the resorts that catered to tourists anxious to hike the mountain
and stand under Sipi Falls. To the northeast, more mountains grew
up out of the fertile plains dotted with farms and forest. Far
below to the west, the flat land stretched until all the details
faded to a gray that was consumed by a sky blazing yellow and
orange in the setting sun.

Austin always stopped for at least a moment
to watch the sun set in the evenings. It was a wholly different
experience than what he was used to back home in Denver—being on
the plain, watching the sun sink behind the Rocky Mountains.

“Let’s go.”

Austin turned away from the yellow sky, took
a few quick steps to catch up with Rashid, and together they walked
up the center of the dirt road through the deserted town. An
occasional muffled cry carried on the wind. Austin cocked his head
to try to hear it again, but the sounds were elusive and soft, hard
to define.

Ahead on the hospital’s wide front porch, a
heavyset figure was reaching up to put a flame in the lantern that
hung above the door.

“Electricity is out again,” Rashid
deduced.

With the lantern’s glow growing, the woman
went back inside.

Austin said, “That was Nurse Mary-Margaret, I
think.”

“Yeah,” Rashid agreed.

They continued up the road, seeing no one
until they climbed the six steps up to the hospital’s porch and let
themselves in the front door. The smell of sickness rolled out of
the interior gloom, turning Austin’s stomach.

Lanterns hanging down the length of the ward
on the ceiling’s beams weren’t bright enough to lift the
rectangular room entirely out of darkness. The concrete floor
reflected little light, and the sea foam green paint on the lower
half of the cinderblock walls didn’t help. A dozen screened windows
were equally spaced across the white upper half of each of the
walls. Those on the west side of the building let in the last of
the sun’s rays.

At the other end of the ward, one door opened
to a simple operating room, another to an exam room, and a supply
closet. The two shabby desks that usually sat just inside and on
either side of the door were gone. Not moved to anywhere Austin
could see—they were just gone. Near the far end, Dr. Littlefield,
an American, was talking to his Ugandan counterpart, Dr. Ruhindi.
Nurse Mary-Margaret had just joined them. The two African nurses,
faces covered with surgical masks, full aprons, and rubber gloves,
were each busy doing something for one of the—

Austin’s mouth fell open as his eyes adjusted
to the dimness and he saw the number of patients.

With forty-eight generously spaced beds, the
hospital hadn’t been more than half full all summer. But extra cots
had been brought in, all of which were full. Even the space between
the beds was covered in rows of people lying on mats and blankets,
sleeping, coughing, and bleeding. The smell of urine, feces, and
vomit were thick in the air. Austin covered his mouth.

Some primal memory told him those people were
dying, while instinct urged him to run.

The door banged closed. Nurse Mary-Margaret
turned and hurried toward them. The look on her face made it clear
that it had been a mistake for them to come inside.

Austin couldn’t take his eyes off of the
hundred people lying on soiled sheets as they coughed and wheezed
and stared into space with all hope gone from their eyes. Nurse
Mary-Margaret bodily pushed him and Rashid out onto the front
porch, pulling the door closed behind her. “Why did you come
back?”

“Uh,” was all Austin could think to say,
feeling like he’d been punched in the gut.

In a voice that seemed to come from somewhere
down the street, Rashid asked, “Ebola?”

Nurse Mary-Margaret nodded and tears welled
up in her eyes, but they didn’t flow. She had gotten very good at
keeping them under control. “You should go to your sponsor’s house.
Stay there.”

“Nobody’s home,” Austin said, as though that
had any relevance. He was still reeling.

Mary-Margaret glanced over her shoulder at
the closed door behind her.

“What?” Austin implored. There was something
in that look.

Rashid asked, “Isaac…is he in there?”

For a second, Mary-Margaret didn’t answer.
“Yes.”

Austin started putting the pieces together.
“Benoit, Margaux. They’re not at the house.”

Mary-Margaret hesitated again. “Inside.”

“They have Ebola?”

Mary-Margaret shook her head but said,
“Yes.”

Rashid asked, “Will they die?”

Nurse Mary-Margaret didn’t nod, she didn’t
shake her head. She seemed stuck between the two gestures.

“That doesn’t answer the question.” Rashid
was afraid. Whether for himself or the others, Austin couldn’t
tell.

“There is no answer,” Mary-Margaret said.

The three looked at one another in silence,
each waiting for one of the others to lead. Austin didn’t know what
to do. Going back to the house, drinking—again—from the same water,
the same cups, using the same utensils that Isaac, Benoit, and
Margaux had used, would put him and Rashid at risk.

In many ways, it wasn’t a risk. If the Ebola
virus was in the house, Austin feared they already had it. “I’ve
heard that it’s transmitted by bodily fluids. What other ways can
we catch it?” Austin looked at Rashid. “We may already be
infected.”

“Why do you say that?” Mary-Margaret feigned
doubt, but it was a thin, pointless mask.

Austin explained that they drank water when
they got back to the house.

“There’s nothing certain about that.” Nurse
Mary-Margaret shook her head. “Direct contact with the bodily
fluids of something or someone who is infected is the only way we
know for sure to contract Ebola. You’re probably not infected. Dump
the water and boil everything when you get back to the house.”

“How did Isaac, Benoit, and Margaux get
infected?” Austin asked.

“They were helping with the other patients.
They’ve been here since it started.”

“When did it start?” Austin didn’t remember
anything unusual in Kapchorwa when they left nearly a week earlier.
Had the disease been present and he didn’t notice?

“The day after you left for Mbale.”

“How long does it take for the symptoms to
show up after you’ve been exposed?”

“A few days to several weeks,” answered
Mary-Margaret.

Austin gestured at Rashid. “So me and Rashid
could already have it. We could have caught it before we left.”

Mary-Margaret asked, “What are you saying,
Austin? You want to have this disease?”

“No. Definitely not. But if these people
started showing symptoms the day after we left for Mbale, they were
exposed well before that, while me and Rashid were still here. We
may have been infected then, and are just not symptomatic yet.
Right?”

Mary-Margaret nodded. “Just go home.”

Austin looked back down the street to see the
remains of the sunset colors in the western sky, realizing that he
was buying time while he searched for a decision.

Full of idealism, he’d wrangled his way into
a program that sent college kids to Africa to help. And the goal
was that general, to help. When he volunteered he said he was open
to anything. He wanted to do his small part to make the world a
better place. So, in a country where parents are charged tuition to
send their kids to any level of school, Austin was assigned to
teach street kids—kids who otherwise had zero chance at an
education—for free.

But now he was standing on the front porch of
a dramatically understaffed hospital full of diseased patients who
needed help if they were to have any chance at survival. Even his
students were either inside or they had already fled. With quite
possibly the same virus swimming in his veins, attacking and
bursting his cells, Austin needed to decide if he was going to
cower in his dying sponsor’s house, or put his life at real risk to
help.

He needed to decide if his convictions ran
deep or if he was just a tourist wearing a humanitarian disguise,
looking for the most unique pictures to post on his Facebook page.
In a shaky voice, Austin replied, “I’m volunteering to help in the
hospital.”

Rashid said, “You’re taking away my options
with your foolish bravery.”

Austin looked at Rashid. “You don’t have to.
Go home. Be safe.”

“No.” Rashid hesitated an awkwardly long
time, before he finally managed to say, “I want to help.”

“Rashid, you’re only here because your father
wants you to learn about life in the
real
world.”

Rashid put on a brave face. “I’ve learned
enough. I’ll help.”

Mary-Margaret shook her head. “You boys are
fools.”

Austin looked at Rashid then back at the
nurse. “What do you want us to do?”

“I want you to go home and sleep. Talk about
what you think you’re doing, and keep reminding each other that you
could be dead in two weeks if you do this. Come see me in the
morning if you still want to help.”

Austin woke when the nightmare of a pygmy
pounding on his skull with a hammer became too painful to be just a
dream. He sat up in his bed and every part of his body ached. The
room was hot. The barest sliver of early morning light came in
through the window.

He put his hands to his temples and groaned.
Nearly stumbling as he got up, he knelt down beside the bed and
pulled his bag out from underneath. He let his face fall on the
mattress under the weight of a wave of pain behind his eyes, a
throbbing strong enough to take his breath away.

“Jesus Christ, that
hurts
.”

He found a bottle, made out the aspirin
label, and struggled with the childproof cap. Another hammer of
pain interrupted the effort. He turned and sat on the cool floor,
turned his attention back to the contrary little cap, and managed
to remove it. He took out four aspirin and put them in his mouth,
knowing he had no water. He and Rashid hadn’t boiled anything the
night before and he couldn’t bring himself to drink anything still
in the house.

He chewed and grimaced at the bitterness,
telling himself over and over again that the taste wasn’t as bad as
tequila. He was unable to swallow. His mouth was too dry.

He chewed and chewed, grinding the bitter
pills to powder, then mud, as he slowly generated some saliva.

Up on his knees again, Austin propped himself
on the bed and rested before standing. Moisture was working its way
into his mouth. He chewed some more, managed to swallow the
aspirin’s crumbs and decided that standing at just that moment was
a bad idea. He eased himself down onto the hard floor, then laid
his belly, his chest, and face on the cold tile, and closed his
eyes.

After a while, his breathing stabilized, his
head pounded less, and he tried to think of what he’d drunk to give
himself such a monster hangover. The fragments of memory slowly
fell into place in his mind. He was in Mbale. He’d ridden on the
back of a boda for hours. The deserted town. The hospital.

“Crap.”

Austin reached up and put a hand on his
forehead. He felt hot.

“Crap.”

He sat up and leaned back against his bed.
Across the room, Rashid was sleeping on his narrow bed, on his
belly with an arm dangling over the side. His hand lay on the floor
by a puddle of his last meal, spilled from his stomach.

“Oh, no.”

Despite the headache, Austin sprang across
the room and shook Rashid’s shoulder with one hand as he put the
tips of his fingers on Rashid’s jugular, feeling for a pulse.
Rashid was alive. At least he hadn’t choked to death in his sleep.
But his skin was on fire. Austin rolled him onto his back. Reeking
vomit was all over Rashid’s face, down his chest, and on the thin
mattress.

“Oh, shit. Oh, shit.” He shook Rashid again.
“Wake up. Wake up.”

Rashid didn’t respond.

Austin shook again. “Rashid!”

Nothing.

Austin heaved a few deep breaths. He had to
get Rashid to the hospital. The specter of Ebola and bodily fluids
screamed at him to step away, but in that moment it didn’t matter.
Anyone too sick to wake up was too sick to be at home. He needed a
doctor. Austin pushed his arms under Rashid and with all the effort
he could muster, he hauled Rashid up.

Kapchorwa. In the local language, it meant
“friendly people.” And they were. Big-hearted, smiling people.

Were.

Thinking about that and starting to feel
hopeless, Dr. Littlefield sat on the porch of the hospital and
leaned against the wall, feeling stomped on by an extreme lack of
sleep. During the night, Dr. Ruhindi fell out of the ranks of
caregivers and into the ranks of the patients. The virus hit him
hard and fast. Dr. Littlefield suspected that he’d been sick for at
least a few days and was hiding the symptoms, just as he knew one
of the African nurses was. Just like anyone else, Dr. Ruhindi could
only push a sick body so far on willpower. He collapsed late in the
night, and by the time the sun was rising, he was barely able to
hold himself up on his hands and knees to puke into the bucket by
his bed.

Dr. Littlefield looked up the road, hoping to
see a medical convoy. It was a hope that was dashed each time he
left the ward to take some time to breathe fresh air and rest his
bones on the porch.

He wondered what happened to the blood
samples he’d sent through Mbale and on to Kampala. The man charged
with the task never returned. At the time Littlefield had sent the
samples, he didn’t know if the nightmare that crawled up out of the
jungle slime and attacked the poor, ignorant farmers of Kapchorwa
was Ebola. He suspected it, but told himself for at least a few
reasons that it couldn’t be that particular virus.