Bobby Adair - Ebola K

Mitch paused. “Kapchorwa? You’re kidding me.”

Suddenly concerned, Jerry asked, “What do you know about Kapchorwa?”

“Nothing, really,” said Mitch. “I just got off the phone with some mother whose son is in Kapchorwa, and she’s freaked out about not hearing from him, with all of these Ebola rumors.”

“What’s the situation with the rumors there? Have there been any confirmed cases in Uganda yet? Or more specifically in the Kapchorwa district?”

Mitch continued. “Nothing official yet, but the rumors have been going around all week about cases in Mbale, which is a couple hours south of Kapchorwa. Some WHO teams have been sent to the area, but there’s a bit of an uproar because no one’s heard from them. At least one of the doctors is an American, so the Ambassador has been involved in meetings on and off about it all day.”

“What’s your gut tell you on this one? Is there an Ebola outbreak in eastern Uganda?”

Mitch thought about that for a moment before answering. “With Sudan to the north, and Congo both south and east of us, we’re in the general vicinity of historical Ebola outbreaks. So that part isn’t out of the question at all. But there’s a lot of fear, and of course a ton of disinformation about it. You know there are religious groups here convincing people that faith in God will protect them from Ebola or that Ebola is a hoax?”

“You’re kidding me,” mumbled Jerry.

“No, real deal. Then there’s the social stigma. Nobody wants his peers to shun him because he’s tainted with Ebola. There’s a lot of reason here to hide it. So taking all of those factors together, it could be here, or it couldn’t. The only way to know for sure is to get confirmation from a doctor who has seen it himself. So far, we don’t have that.”

“Mitch—” That was unusual, they never used one another’s names on these calls. “Information has come to us through the ambassador’s office that another WHO team is assembling to go to that part of the country. Get yourself included. See if you can convince them to get on the road tonight, if you’re able. Fly, if possible. Bring some security if you can. Be discreet, but do it. If this Najid character is up in Kapchorwa, and he thinks there’s an Ebola outbreak underway, he’s only there for one reason.”

“You think he wants to collect samples so he can weaponize it?” Mitch hoped the answer was no. Was it possible that could be done?

“That’s the fear.”

Mitch asked, “Do these guys have the resources for that kind of work?”

“I doubt it, but you never know, right? We need to find out,” Jerry reckoned.

Mitch rubbed his face without even thinking about it, and thought about the right way to say what he was going to say next. “If I find Najid in Kapchorwa, what do you want me to do?”

“Learn what you can. If he’s there, you may find out whether he’s a shadowy knucklehead who keeps bad company and makes bad choices, or whether he’s an aspiring player. If he’s a player, he’s a well-funded, potentially dangerous enemy.”

“I understand.”

“Call in the cavalry if you need to. I’m trying to get approval to send a team your way.”

“Already?” That surprised Mitch. “You’re that serious about this?”

“Don’t get too excited. I may not be able to get it approved. I’ll send you their information if I get it arranged. Listen, this is a top priority—urgent.”

“I understand.”

“Keep me in the loop,” said Jerry.

“I will.” Mitch hung up the phone.

The Land Rovers and two more vehicles taken from the dead doctors up the road were headed east, loaded with young jihadists. Salim, wondering what had happened to Jalal, was with several dozen others using empty waste buckets and any other container they could find to douse every structure in Kapchorwa with diesel. On that point, the rooster man was explicit. Every structure would burn—the houses, the storage sheds, the pile of bodies behind the hospital, and the buildings housing the sick townsfolk.

It was with a sick stomach that Salim thought about all those dying people. It was with tremendous guilt that he thought about Austin. What was Austin doing in the middle of Africa? Austin, the same guy who’d been so patient in helping him with his Algebra homework when they’d been freshmen at Thunder Ridge High School, even when the rest of their friends teased him for being the only Indian in the world who had difficulty with mathematics. As if every brown-skinned person in the world was from India. They just couldn’t accept that his family was from Pakistan.

Simple-minded bigots, with racism wrapped in jokes and topped with smiles. That’s what Salim thought of most of those kids.

Nevertheless, through high school Austin and Salim hung around in the same group. They’d gone to movies together with their friends and had dinner at each other’s houses. Salim knew Austin’s parent’s names, his dogs’ names, the familiar smell of their house, and Heidi’s cooking—especially her homemade ravioli. It was bad enough that his friend was dying of a vicious tropical disease, but Salim was being asked to burn him alive.

Vehicles of every sort started to arrive in the village from the east and were parked at the eastern edge of Kapchorwa.

After the tank of diesel fuel was emptied and spread over the houses, many men, presumably all Westerners like Salim, got into the trucks and headed toward Kenya. Salim was one of a dozen left at the west end of the village. They went to work binding dry grass into bundles, and Salim immediately guessed their purpose—torches.

Salim’s commander put him at the southwestern corner of the village, where circular grass-roofed huts fringed the town. They would burn easily. The commander lit one of Salim’s bundles and directed him to move along the edge of the town, lighting each house as he went. Still in sight of the other torchbearers, Salim struggled to light the first hut, then walked quickly to the next one in the row. Before lighting the building, he peered inside and thanked Allah it was empty.

He hurried to the next. Also empty.

At the fifth hut, the story changed. A man lay on a blanket where a decrepit woman tended to him. The smell of the disease was overpowering. The man would die. Looking at the woman, Salim guessed she would quickly follow the man down that dark road.

What kind of disease kills everybody?

Salim stood in the door with his torch burning, contemplating that thought. Maybe that’s why they were leaving all of a sudden. Maybe the disease was something other than typhoid? Maybe it was something that killed everybody . If that was the case, then it was a good thing they were getting out of town before they became infected.

Infected?

Salim laid his palm on his forehead to check for a fever. There was none. He had no symptoms of any kind. The momentary fear passed.

With all doubt gone about what was going to happen to the two wretches on the floor, Salim couldn’t burn the hut with them inside. He couldn’t bypass the hut, either. To do that would risk the wrath of his commander—a wrath that would likely be his own death.

He closed his eyes, not believing that he was doing it. In clear view of the woman sitting on the floor, Salim raised his torch and lit the edge of the thatched roof. Her eyes went wide, then dropped. She looked down at her man on the floor. Her evolution through surprise, anger, hate, and despair disturbed Salim in a way he couldn’t quite believe. How could people give up so easily?

He let his torch fall to the dirt, ran inside, dropped to a knee beside the man and lifted him, surprised by how light he was. Hoping the woman would follow, he ran through the door, past caring if anyone saw what he was doing. If he was seen, he’d just keep running. He’d figure out how to make his own way back to Denver at some point down the road.