A short time later, Hannah placed the plastic bag on the conference table. Peyton, Jonas, Millen Thomas, and several members from the Kenyan Ministry of Health leaned forward and examined it.
It was a handheld video camera, covered in blood.
Hannah took a seat at the table. “They were here. The two Americans.”
“Good work, Dr. Watson,” Peyton said.
The young redheaded physician beamed.
Peyton pointed to a worn, spiral-bound notebook on the table. “I’ve been reviewing Dr. Kibet’s notes. He took a detailed history from Steven Collins before he died. He also spoke at length with Lucas Turner before we sent him back to Atlanta. Both men reported having a cough, headache, fever, and fatigue a week before Steven fell ill.”
“My God,” Jonas said.
“We’re dealing with a completely new, unidentified pathogen here,” Peyton said. “In the early days, it looks like the flu. A week or two later, it kills you.”
“So where did it start?” Jonas asked.
“I see two possibilities,” Peyton said. “Either it originated here in Kenya, or it was brought here by the Americans.”
“The package from Desmond Hughes,” Jonas said, looking suspicious.
Peyton was hesitant. “Possibly.”
Around the table, the Kenyans, Hannah, and Millen glanced at each other, confused.
Peyton focused on the head of the Kenyan Ministry of Health team.
“You sent teams to the surrounding villages where the patients at Mandera Referral Hospital had come from, correct?”
“We did. It’s nothing like this. Some dead. Everyone is sick though.”
Peyton stood and put her hands on her waist. “Okay, let’s think about what we know. Our index case is likely either Steven Collins, whose body is in the air on its way back to the CDC, or one of those dead villagers we just saw.”
Millen, who was a veterinarian, spoke up for the first time. “If one of the villagers came into contact with a fruit bat or droppings, the reservoir hosts might be close by.”
At the end of the table, a member of the Kenyan Ministry of Health asked their local interpreter if there were caves in the area or other natural habitats for bats.
The man nodded. “A lot of caves.”
Millen rose quickly from the table. “I’ll get ready.”
Peyton held up a hand. “Hold on, cowboy.” She nodded toward the moon, which glowed yellow in the sky. “I want you to set out first thing in the morning—when your mind is fresh and the team supporting you is well rested. Besides, there’s a lot we need to do here. The temperature will drop even more soon, and we’ll be able to work a little longer in the suits. One thing the Ebola outbreak in West Africa reminded us of is that dead bodies carrying the pathogen can be just as dangerous as living hosts. Much of the Ebola transmission in West Africa happened at funerals, where African burial practices, such as kissing the dead, helped the virus explode beyond the villages.”
Peyton surveyed a map on the wall, then circled the villages adjacent to their location and B9, the main road that led south.
“Jonas, I think we should deploy teams to these villages and follow our SOPs: isolation and quarantine. I think there’s a good chance we’ve found ground zero here.”
“I agree,” Jonas said. “I’ll make the call to Mandera and assign personnel.”
“Colonel, I think it’s time for that checkpoint on B9,” Peyton said.
The Kenyan officer nodded.
“And I’d like your men to dig a fire pit.”
“How large?”
“Large enough to burn our suits from today and anything in this village that might be carrying the pathogen.”
“Bodies?” the colonel asked.
“Not yet. We’re going to put them in body bags in the next hour or two. We’ll make the call later. Right now we need to stop any transmission. If they’ve been dead for at least a few days, bats, birds, rats, and any other hosts feeding on the bodies may already be infected.”
“When would you want to burn the material?”
“Ideally at the end of each day.”
“I’d recommend against it,” Colonel Magoro said. “The al-Shabaab terrorists are likely already aware of your presence here in Kenya. A large fire would paint a target on us.”
“What do you suggest?”
“We could dig the pit now, fill it, and place a tarp over it, sealing it as best we can. When we leave, I’ll have two men stay behind and burn it after we’re a few hours away.”
Peyton glanced at Jonas, who nodded slightly. “That works for us.”
The three hours just after sunset were physically and mentally grueling. When they were done, the pit Colonel Magoro’s men had dug was filled with suits and all manner of items from the village, everything from toothbrushes and toys to clothes and stored food. A patchwork of olive green tarps stretched across the crater, duct tape connecting the pieces together like silver stitching on a plastic quilt.
A stack of black body bags lay under a white tent nearby. With each passing hour, the smell of death and decaying flesh had faded, until finally, the night’s winds that swept through the quiet village were fresh again.
In her tent, Peyton plopped down on her cot and began rubbing a topical analgesic over her legs and arms to soothe her sore muscles. She wore a white tank top and athletic shorts that stopped at her upper thigh; both were soaked with sweat.
Though her body ached, she felt more at home than she had in quite some time. Since her last deployment, she realized. That was the truth: this tent in the third world, not her condo in Atlanta, was home for her. She felt most at peace here—and filled with purpose. Despite the stress and long hours, she was somehow more at ease.