“But this is different.”
She nodded. “And… there’s something else.”
“Such as?”
He wondered if she was talking about him. About them.
“Charlotte,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows.
“She’s connected to you. And me. Don’t you think that’s strange? And I can’t think of a reason why someone was sending her supplies. It’s just… Too many coincidences. We’re missing something. A very big piece.”
Desmond sat silently for a moment. This wasn’t the conversation he wanted to have. But it was intriguing. She was right, as usual.
“I don’t know what it means, but I’ve figured something else out. It’s taken me a very long time.”
Peyton sat silently, searching his face.
“Fifteen years ago, when I left you in Palo Alto, I thought I was doing the right thing. For both of us. I thought you would have a better life without me. Kids. Happiness. A normal husband.”
She began to speak, but Desmond stopped her. “Just give me a minute. What I’m trying to say is that I thought time would heal me. It didn’t. I wasn’t better off alone. I wanted you to know because you were right. I wish I had never left.”
“It’s in the past, Des.”
“I wanted to say it just in case…”
“In case we don’t come back.”
“Yeah.”
“I tell you what. Let’s make a deal. If we do make it back, we won’t talk about the past. Only the future. And the present.”
“Deal.”
Day 14
6,100,000,000 Infected
18,000,000 Dead
Chapter 110
Elim was sewing up a cut on a young girl’s arm when the speaker in the exam room called out, “Dr. Kibet, dial the operator, you have an urgent call from the MOH.”
The MOH was the Ministry of Health, or what was left of it.
The nurse assisting him glanced at him, but he continued sewing up the girl’s arm.
“You’re being very brave,” he whispered to the young girl.
That made her smile. He didn’t ask how she had gotten the cut, but he had instructed the nurse to ensure she had a safe place to stay before discharging her.
The voice over the speaker was calling him again as he walked to his office.
The operator connected him to the Ministry of Health. Dhamiria’s voice on the line was music to his ears; they had both been working around the clock, and he desperately wanted to see her.
“Elim, the general’s staff just called.”
He sat up. The military was now the closest thing Kenya had to a functioning government.
“The UN has contacted them. They’ve made a deal with Greece and France to get a small number of doses of the cure to every nation. We’re going to get seven doses within two hours—a Greek jet is flying them here.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“The general wants all the doses, but we told him we needed at least one for research, in hopes of making more of the cure.”
Elim smiled. “That was very smart.”
The truth was, they didn’t have the facilities to effectively research and manufacture a cure. But he did have use for a dose of the life-saving medicine. It would help him fulfill a promise he had made. And repay a debt.
When the doses of the X1-Mandera cure arrived, Elim personally went to the military headquarters at the Ministry of State for Defence complex in Nairobi’s Hurlingham area. One dose had already been used for the general currently leading Kenya’s Defence Forces, and the general was using the other five doses to test the loyalty of those under his command and root out anyone who might challenge him. It was proving effective. Two other generals and three colonels had been assassinated that morning—all had been discontent with the current leadership. People were falling in line, and Elim could sense the change at the military complex.
As soon as he got the dose, he rushed back to Kenyatta National Hospital and raced through the corridors. He brought five of the survivors from Dadaab to protect him—and the cure. They were an intimidating presence in the hospital, but they were necessary.
Inside the patient room, he quickly administered the dose. He hoped he wasn’t too late.
He tried not to think about the patient as he conducted his rounds. Hours went by without word. He wondered if the cure wasn’t 100% effective.
He was diagnosing a middle-aged man with Hepatitis E when he got word that the patient was awake. That was a good sign.
He pushed open the door to the room. Hannah was sitting up in bed. Her eyes were sleepy; black bags hung under them. Moving her limbs seemed to take immense effort. Elim remembered vividly the wasting away the deadly virus had brought with it. He had been forced to almost start over: to learn to walk again and to use his muscles. He knew she would have to travel the same road. But he saw strength in her eyes.
“They tell me I have you to thank for my recovery.”
Elim shook his head. “I was just a delivery man.”
“But you made the decision.”
“I did. It’s the hardest decision any person will ever make: whose life to save. It’s especially difficult for physicians.”
“And you chose me.”
Elim answered the question she was really asking—why. He knew what she would go through next: survivor’s guilt. Hannah was a physician and an epidemiologist; she had dedicated her life to saving others. Now Elim had put her before them, at the front of the line.
“A couple of weeks ago, a group of very brave strangers came to help my people. We were dying. They put their lives at risk to help us. They brought what they believed was a life-saving cure for the virus. ZMapp. They brought it for their own people, but they agreed to give a single dose to my government, who gave it to me. That dose saved my life.
“I felt guilty about it at first, wondering if they had made the right decision. I asked why. They told me that mine was a life worth saving.”
“And you think mine is?”
“I know it.”