“We’d like your advice. How would you handle the situation here? Please.”
Peyton and Jonas asked a few more questions, then talked privately, their voices raised to be heard over the helicopter’s rotors. Finally, they settled on a set of recommendations. They suggested that the Kenyans separate the camp into four separate sections: a quarantine area for suspected cases, an isolation zone for confirmed cases, and two support camps. The first support camp would house personnel who had come into contact with potentially infected individuals. The second support camp would be for workers with no contact with the pathogen. Workers from the safe camp would unload transports and conduct any interactions with people from outside the camps.
In their years fighting outbreaks, neither Peyton nor Jonas had dealt with a situation quite like the outbreak in Dadaab; they were largely making it up as they went. They advised the Kenyans to quarantine Garissa, the nearest town, and to close the A3 and Habaswein-Dadaab Road, the two major routes in and out of the camps.
After some discussion of the details, the helicopter turned and began flying back to the village where Jonas and Peyton were camped.
Jonas pulled his headset off and leaned close to Peyton. “This is bad. This could be the worst refugee crisis since Rwanda.”
“I agree.” Peyton looked out the window. “It doesn’t make sense. Dadaab is too far from Mandera and too far from the village. The American kids were never here—not according to their website or what they told Dr. Kibet.”
“What’re you thinking?”
“Something isn’t right here.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I need some rest. Time to think.”
An idea was just out of reach, but in the vibrating helicopter, Peyton’s sleep-deprived mind couldn’t reach it. For some reason, she thought about her brother for the second time that night. He had died along the eastern border of Uganda, a few hundred miles from here, on another night in November, in 1991.
The sun was rising over the village when the Kenyan air force helicopters dropped Peyton and Jonas off. The white tent complex seemed to shimmer in the sun as the two walked toward it, their hair blowing in the wind the helicopters kicked up.
Peyton was exhausted, but she had to call Elliott—and the CDC’s EOC. The situation had changed. The outbreak had spread much farther than she had imagined.
Day 4
1,200,000 Infected
500 Dead
Chapter 30
When he awoke again, Desmond lay on his side, on hard-packed dirt, in a tiny open-air room. It had wooden walls on three sides and metal bars on the other. At first he thought he was in a shabby prison cell. Closer inspection revealed the truth: this was a stall in a barn.
His hands and feet were still tightly bound. His body was sore all over—even more than on that morning in Berlin. They had not been gentle when they moved him.
With some effort, he sat up and scooted forward. Through the bars, he could peer down the barn’s central aisle. It was dark outside. How long had he been unconscious?
Whoever had converted the barn stall to a holding cell had been thorough. Though the floor was dirt, the wooden walls had been reinforced with vertical rebar that ran all the way into the ground. Given enough time, he might dig out, but he was quite sure he didn’t have that kind of time.
The agony in his body and the feeling of being in a cell brought to life a memory. It replayed in his mind as if he were reliving it.
Desmond was five years old the morning it happened. He had awoken early, thrown on some dirty clothes, and bolted out of the homestead. His mother appeared on the porch as he reached the first gate.
“Be back for lunch, Des, or I’ll tan your hide!”
He jumped the gate, pretending he hadn’t heard her.
He ran through the brown field, his dog at his side. The kelpie’s nose was often red from tearing into the game he chased down; for that reason, Desmond had named him Rudolph.
Desmond was certain that Rudolph was the fastest dog in Australia and the best herder in the world. Though he had not made a thorough survey of the country’s other dogs, there was no doubt in his mind. Rudolph was also his father’s star station hand, but his father had left the dog at home for Desmond today. Des was glad of it. His father could manage, and Rudolph loved their adventures more.
At the top of a hill, Desmond paused to look back at the homestead, the barn, and the painted fences running around both.
Atop a ridge, he saw his father, mounted on his horse. The flock of sheep before him looked like a dirty cloud. He took off his hat and waved it in the air, motioning for Desmond to come.
Pretending not to hear his mother was one thing; ignoring his father’s summons was altogether different. Desmond’s mother was quite a bit more forgiving.
Desmond set out at once, and when he was standing before his father’s horse, his father said, “Don’t go too far, Des. Come back and help your mother with lunch.”
“Okay, Dad,” Desmond muttered, as if merely hearing the words had attached shackles to his feet.
“And bring back whatever Rudolph kills.” He pulled a sack from his saddlebag and tossed it down. “Well, go on. Have fun.”
Desmond took off, sack in hand, Rudolph at his heels. He looked back once, and his father and the flock were nearly out of sight. The state of South Australia was experiencing its worst drought in years. His father had to drive the sheep farther and farther each week to find grazing land and water. The blistering sun and clear skies were killing their property.