The first hut was empty. But at the second, Peyton found what she’d expected: dead bodies. Two adults, likely a man and his wife, lay on their backs. Caked blood covered their faces and chests. Flies swarmed them. Three children lay beside them—two sons and a daughter.
Peyton motioned to Hannah, who advanced into the home, set down her cooler, and began taking samples. Peyton knelt by the two adults, swatted away the flies, and searched for clues that might establish a rough time of death. From the looks of it, these bodies had been dead for several days at least. Not good.
They found more bodies in the other huts, and several outside. Some of the villagers had probably wanted to die with the sun on their faces or the stars above them. Peyton didn’t blame them.
Just as she was turning to head back to the tent complex, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She froze, waited. Yes—there was someone, or something, just beyond the village, crouched, watching them.
Over the comm, Peyton said, “Jonas, did you see that?”
The German epidemiologist was already walking back to the tents. He stopped. “See what?”
Peyton set down her sample case and got ready to run. It wouldn’t be easy in the suit, but taking it off wasn’t an option. She spoke quickly on the comm line. “Colonel Magoro, do you copy?”
“Yes, Dr. Shaw.”
“We need a team of your men at my location immediately. Do not transit the village—proceed around it, and use caution. Try to stay out of sight and stay quiet. Have your men take up a concealed position a hundred meters north of me.”
“Understood,” the Kenyan officer said.
“Hannah, take your team back to the tents and take off your suits. Get in the vehicles and prepare to leave.”
Jonas returned to Peyton’s side and glanced over at her, silently questioning what was going on. Peyton nodded subtly toward the bushes. Jonas took a step toward them, but she caught his arm, urging him to wait.
A moment later, Colonel Magoro said, “We’re in position.”
“Spread your men out and begin walking toward the village,” Peyton said.
The Kenyan troops rose, assault rifles held in front of them, and stalked forward quietly, like big game hunters approaching a kill. Peyton wanted to run, but she focused on the group of yellow-green shrubs. If she was wrong about what she had seen, the mistake might be deadly. Sweat poured down her forehead. She desperately wanted to rip the helmet off, wipe her face, and pour cold water in the suit.
Suddenly, the bushes between the Kenyan troops and Peyton shook as three figures sprang forward. A woman, likely in her forties, a young boy, and a teenage girl, all emaciated. Surviving villagers, Peyton assumed. Their eyes were wild as they barreled toward Peyton and Jonas, away from the soldiers. They stumbled, trying to get their feet under them as they ran. Colonel Magoro and his men were close behind them, yelling in Swahili.
“Don’t harm them!” Peyton said. “And keep your distance. They may be infected.”
Fifteen minutes later, Peyton’s team was back at the tent complex. Peyton had placed the three villagers in a field isolation tent just in case they were still infectious.
She sat on the other side of a sheet plastic wall, watching the three Kenyans devour the MREs she had given them from her duffel. Though the sun had set, she was still sweating excessively.
Colonel Magoro sat beside her, ready to translate.
The teenage girl breathed in heavily after finishing the meal in the plastic carton. She looked up at Peyton and, to the physician’s surprise, spoke in English. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Peyton said. “What’s your name?”
“Halima.”
“Halima, can you tell me what happened here?”
The teen glanced toward the village. “They got sick. Coughing, sneezing. Like a cold. Then it passed, but everyone got sicker. Started dying. It happened fast.”
“Who was coughing and sneezing? Just a few people?”
Halima shook her head. “Everybody. All of us. All the others.”
Peyton pondered her account. If it was true, it would rewrite the pathogenesis of the disease. Whatever the Mandera strain was, it began as a respiratory disease, then progressed into a hemorrhagic fever. It was the ultimate killer—a virus that was highly infectious in the days after contraction, then extremely deadly shortly thereafter.
In the distance, she saw a figure suited in PPE advancing toward the village. She rose to find out what was going on, but Jonas was there, leaning against a tent pole, his hand held up. “It’s Hannah. She thought she saw something in one of the huts. She’s going to check it out.”
Peyton turned to Magoro. “Send some men to follow her. Tell them to stay outside the perimeter of the village and to bring night vision goggles.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Magoro rose and spoke quickly into a handheld radio. Seconds later, ten men raced from the tent complex toward the village.
Peyton held a tablet up to the plastic divider. “Halima, have you seen any of these three men?”
On the screen were pictures of the two American college graduates and the British man.
The teenager shook her head.
“Can you ask the others?”
Halima spoke in a language Peyton couldn’t place. It wasn’t Swahili; perhaps it was a local dialect.
“No. They haven’t seen them.”
“Thank you. Can you remember when people began getting sick? When did they die?”
Halima consulted the other two villagers. “Three or four days ago, maybe.”
“And the coughing and sneezing. How long ago did that begin?”
Inside the isolation tent, the three spoke hurriedly, arguing. “We’re not sure. Maybe a week. Maybe more.”
Peyton nodded. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful, Halima. The information you’ve given us may save many lives.”
Ten minutes later, Hannah marched back into the tent complex, carrying a dark object Peyton couldn’t make out. Whatever it was, she was taking great care with it. She bagged it before she entered the field decontamination chamber.