Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller: Book 2 (11 page)

He’d gotten on the road later than he’d hoped. Some mornings, when the weight of his sadness was on him, it was hard to get out of bed. How does a man deal with the loss of a son? The world had turned into a flavorless, bleak place, where music no longer made him reminisce about the good old days, and even the foods at his favorite restaurants lost their spice.

Paul knew he was numb, not dealing with Austin’s death in a healthy way. As if there was a healthy way to mourn a child. He also knew the melancholy mood would eventually break, and he would smile again. One day. Until then, he could only go through the motions of living, making the best choices he could along the way.

He’d been on the road for an hour, rolling down Interstate 25, coming into Colorado Springs from the north, seeing Pike’s Peak, standing above the Front Range at fourteen thousand feet, its early snows painted pink by the rising sun. Rush hour traffic in The Springs, as the locals called the town, was just starting to pick up. Paul looked at his watch. He was still too early for the stop-and-go worst of it. He’d be out of the other side of town in ten minutes.

On radio’s AM dial, where it seemed the earliest news was always breaking, two men were talking about Ebola cases in Beijing and Mumbai. They didn’t have numbers, but implied that counts would dwarf anything seen so far in the West. Paul always took AM news with a grain of salt, but lately, the rumors so often passed for fact in that medium, were getting picked up and confirmed by the mainstream media.

He thought about Ebola for the millionth time: the few hundred cases in Western cities, the quarantine in Uganda, the scary news out of Nairobi, and Olivia’s warning to start working from home based on the discovery of a new, more virulent strain. Then there was the outbreak in Dallas—the reason for Paul’s trip. It wasn’t an outbreak, not yet, not really. A half-dozen cases so far, all tied through direct contact to that nameless guy who collapsed in the airport.

Paul passed out of the south side of Colorado Springs, thinking about Heidi. When he’d told her he’d made up his mind on what he had to do, she stopped talking to him. That had been days ago. She told him he was emotional, depressed, and that he needed to go see a doctor. When she was really riled she told him he was irrational, crazy. Paul was tired of hearing it. He argued that his choice was based on data and reasoned conclusions, and that she was the one being irrational. She couldn’t accept that an unstoppable Ebola epidemic was coming.

Heidi clung to a baseless hope that a last minute vaccine or serum would arrive to save everyone. She couldn’t accept the very real possibility of death. Dying only happened to other people—poor people in faraway lands, people without modern medical care.

But Austin was dead
. He was one of those people.

Rumors were all over the Internet about the mutated Ebola strain being airborne. No government agency or reputable medical organization would confirm those rumors. Still, the officials’ non-denial denials—as Paul had heard them described in a movie he’d seen a long time ago—came so frequently that Paul took them as affirmations.

Heidi said airborne Ebola was a suspicion he’d had all along, and that he was seeing the evidence through the filter of his fears. That had sparked a fight, one of many. The more they argued, the more they each dug in their heels. They each took every bit of news as proof they were right, even when it was exactly the same news.

How the hell does that even happen?

They were two intelligent, rational adults. They saw the same news on the television. They shared articles and videos they found on the Internet, usually with the statement, “See, I told you so.” Nothing was ever proof enough.

Now the discussion was over. Paul was on his way to Dallas to infect himself before the epidemic got out of hand. It was the only sure way to get medical help while it was still available. Afterwards, he’d drive back from Dallas, careful to protect himself and not infect others. That was the reason he had eight full five-gallon gas cans in the back of his truck. He’d need those for the trip. His plan was to stop his truck on remote sections of the road, refill his gas tank, and drive on. He had no intention of making contact with any person on the way back. He didn’t want to be the source of an outbreak in Amarillo, Raton, or some such place.

When he arrived back in Denver, he’d hole up in the house until he turned symptomatic. He’d infect Heidi—at least that was Paul’s plan—and then he’d call the hospital, concoct some story of how he’d gotten infected, and being the first patient in Denver, he’d get the best treatment they had to offer. Heidi, the second patient in Denver, would get the same. Their chances of surviving were excellent.

Excellent in a relative sense.

Heidi had told Paul the minute he indulged his insanely stupid plan he’d better plan on coming home to an empty house, because she was going to get into her car five minutes later, drive to Denver International Airport, and hop a plane back to San Antonio. She’d rent a car and drive it up to her parents’ house in New Braunfels, Texas. That’s where she’d wait for Paul’s folly to play itself out. She didn’t mind adding that she’d take the life insurance when he died and spend it on margaritas and amorous cabana boys in Cozumel.

It didn’t matter what she said by then. He was mad, she was mad. Both were past the point where words were anything but painful little hand grenades tossed across the chasm of their disagreement.

A sign displaying the distance to Pueblo stood by the road. Paul passed it and pushed his speed over eighty to flow with the southbound traffic.

Paul drove through the last of the mountains he’d see on his trip as he left Colorado and entered New Mexico. He turned east at Raton and cut across the northeast corner of the state toward Clayton and Texline, passing little towns along the road that had the look of an apocalypse that left them dead fifty years prior. Whatever reason people had for living, working, and building their little hovel towns so far from any kind of city, the economics of it had stopped making sense a long time ago. Most of the houses, gas stations, motels, and stores were rotting away under sagging roofs. Old cars rusted on flat tires. Trees grew through windows and weeds conquered driveways.

It was a preview of America to come; an America Paul was executing a bold plan to prepare for. Most of it passed, ignored. Paul’s plan and his troubles took over his thoughts and left him only enough mental bandwidth to keep his car aimed at the asphalt ahead and his foot on the gas pedal.

He stopped on a stretch of road so deserted he saw volcanic hills pushed up out of the flatness, ten, twenty, maybe thirty miles away. Antelope grazed far out on the horizon-to-horizon carpet of tan grasses. No car was coming or going for miles in either direction. Paul filled his tank from the gasoline cans riding in the bed of the truck and relieved himself without the slightest worry anyone would see.

He crossed the border into Texas and the plain flattened out so much that grain silos ten miles up the highway were visible. To his right and left, irrigated circles of corn a half-mile across bordered the road—dried brown and ready for harvest. Dalhart and Dumas passed his windows. Miles of rolling red dirt hills dotted with smelly oil pumps fell behind.

Oblivious to everything around him and settling into the boredom of the drive, trouble found him.

Paul sat in his pickup, idling on the shoulder. Ahead of him, the hot air shimmered over the blacktop. Behind him, a Texas State Trooper sat in his car, shifting his focus between Paul and the computer that provided him with all the information that he was likely to need about Paul’s truck.

“Turn off your vehicle,” the officer’s voice ordered over his PA.

Paul cut the engine. With the air conditioner off, he rolled his windows down, and hot air blew in. He’d planned to make the entire trip anonymously. If a record of his travel existed, it might turn into a problem later on.

The patrolman walked up to Paul’s window, peering into the car through his trite aviator sunglasses. “Driver’s license and insurance.”

Paul produced the documents with a pleasant smile. “Was I speeding?”

“Do you have any outstanding warrants?” the officer asked. “Anything I need to know about before I run your license?”

“No.” Paul was a little offended. Maybe back in his teens and early twenties—his hoodlum years—he’d had a warrant or two.

“Do you have any weapons in the vehicle?”

“No,” Paul told him.

“Do you have any drugs?”

Paul looked emphatically around the cab of his truck. “Where would I put them?”

“People find a way to hide them,” said the officer, humorlessly. “Is this your vehicle?”

“Yes.”

“Do you live in Colorado?”

Paul wanted to snap back, “I have Colorado plates!” but bit his tongue. “I live in Denver.”

“What brings you to Texas?”

Paul’s patience was wearing thin, but he didn’t want a ticket. He pointed up the road. “I’m just going to visit a friend in Dallas.”

The officer nodded and said, “Stay here. I’ll be back.” He walked back past the bed of Paul’s truck, while looking very curiously at the gas cans.

Shit.

Minutes passed. Paul worried. Going back to Denver after all he’d fought through with Heidi would be demoralizing. If he did go back, what then? Paul had no answer. His window of opportunity was narrow.

After a short while, the officer strode back up beside Paul’s car, took a long look again at the gas cans, and stopped by the window. “You were going seventy-eight in a seventy.” He handed Paul his license and insurance. “I’m not giving you a ticket today. Keep an eye on the speed.”

Paul thanked him, smiled, and got back on the road.

“You were in Kenya, Pakistan, Italy, Germany, England, and here. Which cities specifically?”

Salim looked at the man in the plastic suit standing by his bed, mask over his face, and what looked like ski goggles over his eyes. At the man’s side, a silent companion in similar attire scowled. “Frankfurt.”

“And?”

Salim closed his eyes as pain throbbed through his head. “Lahore.”

“You were in Pakistan for a long time.”

“Relatives,” Salim said. “Are you a doctor?”

“Why were you in Nairobi?”

Salim didn’t need to think about that answer. He’d practiced the lie so many times it almost seemed true to him. “Safari.”

“Safari?” The questioner turned to his companion. Doing his best to sound impressed. “Wow. I’m lucky to afford my deer lease. Must be nice.”

Salim shook his head and felt gravel roll painfully back and forth inside his skull. “I took pictures. It’s not—” He lost his train of thought. “Pictures.”

“Is that where you contracted Ebola?” the questioner asked.

“Ebola?”
No.

“Yes, in Nairobi, did you contract Ebola there?”

“Ebola is in Liberia. I didn’t go to Liberia.” Salim was confused. He was frightened. Is that what killed everyone in Kapchorwa? “I have Ebola?”

The questions came in a flurry after that, so fast that Salim didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He was having trouble just paying attention; what focus he could muster was pinned to thoughts of his death sentence. That’s what Ebola was, a painful prelude to inexorable death.

A nurse dressed from head to toe in the standard half-ass space suit, with a big clear plastic shield in front of her face, came into the room. She wore a surgical mask underneath. She did something with a monitor beside Salim’s bed and checked the fluid in his IV bag.

“Is my lawyer here?” Salim asked, not sure himself where that question came from.

“You have a lawyer?” The questioner nearly shouted it.

Salim answered, “I don’t know.”

“Why would you need an attorney?”

“I don’t know.” Salim asked, “Am I going to die?” Things got fuzzy after that.

It was one of those bars in the rejuvenated warehouse district—every city had one these days. The building was old and narrow. A hundred years of improvements had been scraped off rough wooden floors and weathered brick walls. Black lacquer tables, gas lamps on the walls, and long shiny bars juxtaposed the new décor with the old, and people piled in after work to drink to the sound of piped-in blues that were played live on the weekends.

Through the light crowd Olivia spotted Mathew Wheeler, already at a table halfway back, by the wall. He stood up in an old-fashioned, gentlemanly way when she arrived. She was a bit impressed. The most she’d gotten in the way of manners from the guys she’d dated through college and since was a “Hey, babe,” and a peck on the cheek while leaning over the table.

Wheeler pulled out a chair and said, “You look like hell.” He smiled widely.

The nascent bubble of romance burst and Olivia laughed as she collapsed into the chair. “I’m sorry. I’m...”

Wheeler sat and then waved at the waitress. “You need something strong, I think.”

Olivia smiled and nodded.

“Work?” Wheeler asked.

She nodded again, adding a shake of her head. “Everything. It’s everything, Mathew.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Wheeler gave the waitress their order, then turned his attention back to Olivia and looked down at his watch. “Here are the rules. You’ve got five minutes to vent about whatever you want. I’ll listen. I’ll nod. I’ll say, “Yup.” I’ll say, “You go, girl.” I’ll even hug you if you need it. When your time’s up, we’ll talk about other things. Got it?”

“Why did you get divorced again?” Olivia asked with a wry smile.

Looking down at his watch, Wheeler replied, “You just wasted five seconds. If you want to spend your whole five minutes talking about my troubles...well, that’s your prerogative, I guess.”

“So, that’s how it works?” Olivia asked. “I get five minutes. You get five minutes. And then we talk about the Braves or the Falcons or something?

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Fine. My brother is lost in Africa. I called my dad the other day and told him I was worried and he needed to maybe work from home for a while. You know.” Olivia looked out through the glass wall at the front of the bar.

“Yeah, I know,” said Wheeler. “But that’s for my five. Don’t steal my material.”

Olivia smiled again. “My dad—” she caught herself, not sure what to say, knowing she couldn’t tell him all Heidi had said when she called last night, crying. “He’s not handling Austin well. I don’t know what to do.”

“Should you take some time and go home?” Wheeler asked.

“Drive for two days, just to have him insist that everything is fine?”

“Hardheaded?” Wheeler asked.

“You know it.”

He looked at her in a way that implied more than he said. “I’m guessing it’s a family trait.”

“And work.” Olivia shook her head. “I can’t talk about work, but it’s...it’s...”

“Fucked?” Wheeler asked.

Olivia laughed. “Exactly what my dad would say.”

Wheeler looked at his watch.

“I don’t need my full five minutes. You go ahead.” Olivia replied.

Wheeler smiled, but looked serious at the same time. He took his watch off and laid it on the table in front of Olivia. “You’re the timer lady. Give me the go.”

“Okay.” Olivia waited for the second hand to hit the twelve. “Go.”

“People are protesting outside the CDC campus every day, and the crowds are growing. This morning somebody threw a rock at my car, and it’ll probably cost me two dollars less than my deductible to get the dent fixed. Congressmen are screaming at the director, who screams at my boss, who screams at me—”

“Literally?” Olivia asked.

“Figuratively. Well, not the congressmen part. You know how they are.” Wheeler sipped his drink. “We’ve got eleven labs doing something with the new strain, and that’s just here in the States. Everybody in the world is on this one, because it scares the hell out of all of us. We’ve infected our monkeys, and we’re still figuring things out.”

“Is it airborne?” Olivia asked.

Wheeler shrugged. “Can’t say yet, but one thing we can almost certainly say: the antigens shifted. Any of the experimental treatments for Ebola Zaire...” Wheeler shook his head slowly and looked down at his ice cubes. “They don’t seem to have
any
effect at all. We may be starting from scratch on this one.”

“That sounds bad.”

Wheeler smiled again with the same strangely serious look as before. “Worst-case scenario.” He leaned back in his chair and half chuckled. “Back in college we used to dream about finding a new bug. The more dangerous the better. Of course the dream always ended with a miraculous cure, a Nobel Prize, and very few deaths.”

“Kind of a cross between ‘
Luke Skywalker’
and ‘
Grey’s Anatomy’
?” Olivia asked.

“’
Grey’s Anatomy’
?” Wheeler grimaced. “Maybe, if you want to put it that way. We don’t know what this bug will do. We’re still trying to figure out what’s happening in Africa. Nobody with the new strain has died yet, but everybody is holding their breath on that one. Maybe it’ll turn out to be Ebola Light. People get sick, but very few die.” Wheeler shrugged.

“But you don’t believe that, do you?”

Wheeler shook his head. “I’m not the believing type. How am I doing on time?”

“I stopped checking.”

“You’re not very good at this.” Wheeler picked up his watch and wrapped it back around his wrist.

“Either the five-minute game doesn’t work, or you’ve still got something else to vent about,” she replied.

Wheeler pulled in a deep breath. “Between us?”

Olivia nodded.

“You may already know this...”

Shaking her head, she added, “Long story, but I’m kinda out of the loop on a lot of things right now.”

“Do you need another five?”

Olivia shook her head. “What else do you have?”

“Those damned tight-lipped Germans.”

“What about them?” Olivia asked.

“How many cases do you know about?”

“The last number I got was thirty-eight,” she replied.

Wheeler paused, then said, “The number is higher. A
lot
higher. I talked with a colleague at the European Center for Disease Control and Prevention, and people over there are losing their shit. The Frankfurt number topped three hundred.”