Chris Ryan - Outbreak

'Stand up very slowly.' Suliman's voice was snakelike. Ben did as he was told. In the darkness, he became aware of someone else by his side – one of Suliman's accomplices. He could also tell that a few people around him were awake; they could sense that something was happening, but they weren't going to get involved. Suliman pushed Ben to the side of the tent, his grip round the boy's neck deathly tight, while his man ripped the bottom of the canvas up to create an exit.

Within seconds they were outside. Suliman spoke to his accomplice in Kikongo and the man slipped back into the tent to keep a lookout as Ben was marched swiftly and silently away.

They stopped. Ben was feeling light-headed and was unsure exactly where they were, but Suliman appeared to have been able to dodge the peacekeepers in the relative stillness of the night. He didn't speak. He just started to tighten his grip.

Ben tried to shout out, but the only noise that came was a choking sound from his throat. His arms flailed in the air as he tried to struggle away from his attacker, but Suliman kept his grip tight and hard, and gradually Ben's movements started to suffer for lack of oxygen. His efforts became weaker and weaker; everything started to spin; his limbs became powerless.

And then, as though in a dream, Ben saw someone approach from the darkness. His gait was stumbling, his expression more dead than alive. But even in his state of strangulated semi-consciousness, he recognized the figure that was drawing nearer.

It was Abele.

The expression on his face told of the effort of every move. Painfully, his breath rasping, he bent down and picked a jagged stone about the size of a grapefruit from the ground. He staggered towards the struggling pair and with what strength he had left in his arms brought the stone firmly down on the top of Suliman's head.

The mine manager roared with pain, but did not let Ben go; so Abele struck him a second time. This time his grip loosened, and Ben – drawing great gulps of air into his protesting lungs – managed to get away. Now Suliman was upon Abele, who stood no chance against a man with his full strength at his disposal. In an instant, Abele was on the ground; Suliman had taken his stone from him and was preparing to pummel it into his head.

'Stop!'

The UN guards had been alerted by Suliman's roar, and suddenly there were several of them – Ben couldn't count how many in all the confusion – guns at the ready. Suliman's arm stopped in mid-air as he caught sight of the peacekeepers, but his face was a picture of indecision and fury.

'Drop it!' one of the masked figures shouted.

It all happened in a split second. There was a wildness in Suliman's eyes that suggested his anger had taken hold of what good sense he had; with a hiss he started to bring the stone down towards Abele's head.

It only took one shot.

The bullet from the peacekeeper's rifle was aimed to kill and it entered Suliman's skull right in the middle of his forehead. The mine manager was thrown down to the floor with a thud, and in the bright moonlight Ben could see the blood dripping from his head into a sticky puddle. There were a few seconds of horrified silence, during which time Suliman's right foot twitched alarmingly; but it was clear to everyone watching that he was quite dead.

Ben's instinct was to run to Abele, to see if he was OK. But as he tried to do so, he felt himself being restrained from behind. 'Get a stretcher here,' an American voice called from somewhere. Within moments, Abele was being lifted onto a stretcher and carried towards the hospital tent.

'You're going to be OK, Abele,' Ben shouted, his voice wavering. But he didn't know if that was true. And of course, Abele didn't reply. Ben listened as his noisy breathing disappeared into the night, before he was led silently back to the quarantine area, his body shaking with the brutal horror of what had just happened.

The doctor had told Ben he would be in the quarantine tent for two days before he received the result of his test. In the event, it was three.

It was gruelling. Every couple of hours, someone would start displaying the signs of the virus; they would instantly be removed by the faceless medics and taken, often shouting and screaming, to the medical tents. Word had got round now that few who entered that place would return, and the constant acrid smell from the incinerators served as an ever-present reminder of what would happen to them. Ben felt like he was in some kind of concentration camp, waiting for the inevitable call, and he started to share the increasing panic that the occupants of the tent were experiencing. Arguments began to break out as the villagers demanded to know what was going on; occasionally the guys from the UN had to settle them by force, which did nothing to ease anyone's fears.

On the second day – when Ben was just thinking to himself that he never wanted to see another bowl of the mashed cassava root that was given to them from a huge cauldron three times a day – the guards were approached by two more masked UN men. They spoke briefly and Ben watched as one of the guards pointed in his direction. The masked men started walking towards him and he stood up to receive them.

'Hi, Ben,' one of them said. Clearly they had spoken before, but the fact that these people were all wearing masks meant that one American accent merged into another for him. He nodded. 'Ben,' the man continued. 'I'm afraid I have bad news for you.'

Ben closed his eyes as a sudden hotness ran through his veins.

'The man called Abele. He was a friend of yours, I understand.'

Ben nodded again. 'Kind of,' he said, his voice clipped so that it didn't reveal the emotion he was feeling.

'I'm sorry, Ben. He died about an hour ago. He was too far gone – there was nothing anyone could do.'

Ben took a deep breath. 'Thank you for telling me,' he whispered, doing his best to keep his wavering voice steady. 'Do you have any information about my father?'

There was an ominous pause. 'I'm sorry, Ben. No. It's too early to tell.'

Ben nodded, then turned and walked to the edge of the tent. He desperately wanted to be alone but, since that was not possible, he wanted to get away from anybody who could speak to him in his own language. From the corner of his eye he watched the UN men leave.

He could not get the image of poor Abele that first time they had met at Kinshasa Airport out of his head. Ben had been suspicious of him then – how wrong could he have been? And if Abele had been beaten by this terrible disease – strong, unbeatable Abele – what chance did anyone have? What chance did his dad have? What chance did Ben himself have? His emotions a cocktail of mourning and fear, he collapsed to the ground with his head in his hands. It was down to fate now. All he could do was wait. Now that he knew Abele was dead, the smell of the incinerators seemed ten times worse.

The results arrived the following day.

A masked man carrying a large clipboard entered the tent. He had an air of authority and everyone fell silent as he started reading names out, his American accent struggling with the unfamiliar African sounds. One by one, the villagers stood up and walked to him, terrified apprehension in their eyes. He said something to them that Ben couldn't hear and they were sent outside.

He found himself holding his breath as he waited for his name.

Finally it came. 'Ben Tracey,' the announcer called. Ben stood up and slowly walked towards him.

'Leave the tent and bear to the left.'

'What's my test result?' Ben asked directly.

'Leave the tent and bear to the left.' The faceless man simply repeated his instruction.

Ben nodded curtly, gritted his teeth and stepped outside, accompanied by another UN guard. 'This way,' his companion told him.