“Yes, I’m an American,” Millen said again. “Here to help.”
Millen finally got the three villagers settled down, and after a few minutes, he convinced them to resume their meal. The teenage girl, Halima, was the only one who spoke English. As they ate, she recounted the raid on the village. Hearing it firsthand was hard for Millen.
When the shooting began, the three villagers had hidden under their cots in the isolation tent. They fled after Peyton told them to. From the bushes at the village’s outskirts, they watched the raid unfold.
“They ran, the dark-haired woman with smooth white skin, a man, and the girl with red hair. They shot her—”
“Who?”
“The red-haired woman.”
Millen leaned back in the chair, unable to speak.
“I’m sorry,” Halima said quietly.
Millen stared at the white canvas swaying in the morning breeze. “What happened after that?” His voice was hollow.
“The dark-haired woman picked her up. They ran to a truck and drove away. There was an explosion. The truck crashed. More shooting. I couldn’t see what happened. I’m sorry.”
Millen nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”
When they were done eating, he asked them where they would go. The teenager simply shrugged.
“I’m going to Mandera,” Millen said. “You three are welcome to come with me.”
She hesitated.
“I’m sure the Kenyan government will be setting up survivor camps soon. There will be food, water. Probably work to do. Be a lot better than staying here.”
The teenager conversed with her two companions. Finally, she turned to Millen. “Yes, we’ll come with you.”
During a deployment, standard operating procedure was to notify ops when changing a fixed position. But since the ops group had evacuated Nairobi, Millen called the EOC in Atlanta.
“You didn’t evacuate?” the operator asked.
“No. I’m still here—”
“Hold the line.”
Millen could hear shouting in the background. It sounded like a hundred voices talking at once, like the floor of the New York Stock Exchange had been transplanted to the CDC. He caught snippets:
“Fifty thousand cases in Kansas.”
“Navy has confirmed cases on three aircraft carriers.”
The operator came back on the line. “Stay where you are, Dr. Thomas. We’ve got a situation here. Someone will contact you.”
“I can’t stay here,” Millen said, but the line was dead.
The call left Millen wondering what was going on in Atlanta—and the rest of America. Fifty thousand cases in Kansas? Had the virus they’d found in Kenya reached the US?
He desperately wanted to know what was happening—and to let someone know where he was going.
There was really only one more number he could call.
Chapter 46
Elliott didn’t remember falling asleep in the chair, but he awoke in the middle of the night with a blanket drawn over him, the remote in his lap, the TV on.
He coughed several times, brought his hand to his neck, and felt his lymph nodes. They were swollen. Sweat covered his forehead. The fever was low-grade, but there was no mistake: he was infected.
On the TV, a reporter on a financial news network was speaking against a chart with a red trendline dropping sharply as it moved right.
“Asian stock markets shed more than forty percent of their value today following news that Singapore would close its borders and declare martial law, and claims that China would soon begin closing its ports to prevent further spread of the X1 virus. The WHO has stopped releasing infection estimates, sparking fears that infection rates may be far higher than has been reported. That fear seems to be spilling over into the markets. In America, the New York Stock Exchange and Nasdaq will close at one p.m. in observance of Black Friday, and losses are expected to be steep. Futures are trading off twenty percent…”
Elliott’s phone rang, and he stared at the number, still groggy. He didn’t recognize it.
“Shapiro.”
“Sir, it’s Millen Thomas. I called you day before yesterday. I was working with Dr. Shaw’s team.”
Elliott sat up. “I remember, Millen. What can I do for you?”
“The EOC in Atlanta is apparently overwhelmed. I’m here at our camp at the village where the raid occurred.”
Elliott was shocked. All the CDC personnel in Kenya had been evacuated after the raid. “You’re still in Kenya?”
“Yes, sir. I… decided to stay. I thought maybe I could help somehow.”
Elliott nodded. “Okay. What’s happening there?”
“The Kenyan military escort left yesterday; I’m thinking of going to Mandera, but I can’t get any guidance on whether that’s the right move.”
“It’s a better spot than the village, but it’s hard for me to advise you. I don’t know who’s in Mandera or the status of any operations in Kenya. I’m sorry, Millen, I’m out of the loop here.”
“Understood, sir. Well, I feel better knowing at least someone knows my location. I’ve got three survivors here—we found them in the village when we first arrived. I’m going to take them and head up to Mandera.”
Survivors? Elliott felt a glimmer of hope. If they had survived the disease, then analyzing their antibodies—which had defeated the virus—could be the key to finding a treatment.
“Listen to me, Millen. We’ve got to get those survivors back to the CDC for analysis.”
“How?”
“I’ll arrange transport. Just get to Mandera and stay safe. I’ll call you back. Keep your phone charged.”
It took Elliott three calls before he reached someone who could transport Millen and the survivors back to Atlanta. It would be more than three days before they arrived in America—but better late than never.