The Chimera Sequence (11 page)

“Stop!” she shouted. “You want to get us both killed?”

No response. He spun the wheel as they flew back into the intersection, the truck knocking a corner out from the closest tent as it pulled sharply back onto the original rutted track. Claire was shocked to see the fearful dark eyes of a child staring out at her as the tent collapsed, and then they were moving forward again, engine roaring. She caught a glimpse of the black truck speeding toward them, and heard another burst of gunfire at the same moment that one of the rear windows shattered in an explosion of broken glass.

“Keep your head down.”

The doctor’s voice had not changed, which only made her angrier. As if he went running for his life from armed militias on a regular basis. They were picking up speed now, bouncing dangerously between the unbroken rows of tents on either side.

“We don’t lose anything by trying to evade them now,” he said. “If they had wanted to kill us, they could have done that right from the start.”

“Fine,” she yelled from the floor. “But you really don’t think we should just see what they’re after?”

“Want an honest opinion?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ve seen enough LRA victims to know we’d be better off dead.”

Claire wanted to cry. Why had she come along on this little adventure, anyway? To get the inside scoop on the gorillas. Ah, yes. Those men in the truck looked a little bit like gorillas—did that count? She regretted the decision to come to Africa in the first place. Why couldn’t she have been content with her sheltered London existence, without a care or responsibility in the world? What was she trying to prove?

She felt the deep thumping bass from the truck behind them before she could hear it. Steadily growing louder, vying for dominance over the growling of the Land Cruiser’s overworked engine. The rebels were getting closer.

“They found the chase scene soundtrack, at least.” With her face to her knees and hands locked over her head, Claire could barely hear Lars’ voice over the uproar. “A nice touch, really.”

A sharp pop interrupted the rhythm, and the back right corner of the vehicle dropped. One tire down.

“That might be it for us,” Lars said quietly, as the SUV continued tearing down the track.

Another burst of gunfire, a loud hiss, and the rear end evened out.

“Yep, that’s the game.”

Claire heard the doctor inhale deeply and felt the damaged vehicle drag on its back rims to a rapid stop. She turned her head just in time to see him turn the key in the ignition, and the engine went silent. Now the full blast of the pursuing truck’s music hit them, a profanity-laced ode to the American gangster life. It continued for what seemed like several minutes before cutting out mid-sentence.

Silence.

Lars leaned forward and reached a hand under his seat. A single shot rang out as the glass of his side-view mirror shattered. He slowly raised both hands back up to his head, a stethoscope clenched in one fist.

“Time to try out that doctor card?” Claire whispered.

“Exactly. Be smart here, and follow my example.”

Claire released what was left in her bladder. Might as well make herself as unappealing as possible. She sat up slowly and watched in her own mirror as four black men jumped out of the bed of the truck. They wore smart-looking jeans with fitted t-shirts, not the ragged old military uniforms she had seen on other rebel fighters around Goma.

One of them jogged up to the Land Cruiser and rapped against the hood with the butt of his rifle. The whites of his eyes seemed far too big as he stood there grinning at her.

“Out!” He shouted suddenly. “You must get out now.”

Bill Shackleton poured a generous helping of milk over his cereal and sat down in front of the laptop. The morning routine. He’d been eating Wheaties for thirty years, ever since General Mills first signed on as his only sponsor for that ill-fated rookie season. The company hadn’t stayed loyal to him, after the torn ACL and botched repair, but he was a man of simple needs and saw no reason to mix things up. He unconsciously glanced up at the framed box cover hanging above him. A much younger and leaner looking version of Willy Shackleton, first-round NBA draft pick, smiled down at him. It had been a fleeting taste of the high life, and he didn’t miss it.

The injury forced him to move on, and he finally found what he was looking for. Work that actually meant something in the grand scheme of life.

Chief, Viral Special Pathogens Branch.

The title had a certain ring to it, something that made people react with a slight shiver when he told them what he did. It also meant he was responsible for tracking and stopping the scariest diseases the world had ever known. Ebola, hantavirus, Kyasanur forest disease, Crimean-Congo hemorrhagic fever. And of course, smallpox. Bill Shackleton held the key to one of the world’s two known remaining stockpiles of the otherwise extinct virus. It was a weighty calling, and he was proud to bear it.

Shackleton knew he didn’t have to check his work e-mail at home, but he felt a sense of duty that had grown over his years at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. If he wasn’t available around the clock, who would be? He had worked hard to get where he was, and he wasn’t going to drop the ball on the American people.

The dining room windows lit up with a bright white flash, and he paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth.
One, one-thousand, two, one-thousand.

Crack! His hand shook, spilling milk on his khakis.
Damn, and I was expecting that one.
So the storm had arrived. Good thing, since that’s all anyone could talk about on the news last night. Keep those guys in business one more day. Lightning in a hurricane, though? That was a little out of the ordinary.

He scanned through the inbox, almost hoping for something that actually needed his attention. There were always reports from the regional offices and teams working out in the field. But it had been a quiet couple of months. Yes, that was good for the public health. Good for all the people who weren’t dying scary deaths from mysterious diseases. But it wasn’t ideal for ensuring that his office got appropriate federal funding for the next fiscal year. He needed to prove that his unit was doing something worthwhile in order to maintain the allocation of money they would need in the case of a real emergency. Just another inefficiency that came along with working for the government.

And quite simply, he was bored. Bored with a slight trace of nervousness. As an infectious disease epidemiologist and veterinarian used to chasing the worst of the worst from one global hotspot to the next, Shackleton didn’t like to sit around twiddling his thumbs.

He clicked on the filtered folder titled, “ProMED,” and smiled as the messages loaded up. Five years as moderator of the zoonotic and vector-borne disease list had given the online disease reporting system a special place in Shackleton’s heart. It wasn’t just an e-mail list—the community it represented was a treasure-trove. Where else could you find such a diverse collection of educated and well-intentioned professionals, all likeminded in their desire to protect the public health?

He scanned the subject lines for any mention of his own special pathogens. One line almost jumped off the screen:

ProMED > Monkeypox, gorilla - Virunga, DRC; Unconfirmed Report

That was one of his, alright. Not the most thrilling, but it always had potential. Monkeypox had stayed on the CDC’s radar ever since the big U.S. outbreak in 2003. Stupid pet stores importing exotic African rodents ended up causing a bunch of unsuspecting prairie dog owners to get pretty sick for a few days. Anyone in the market for a friendly Gambian giant forest rat? You couldn’t make this stuff up.

But unconfirmed report? He always liked that. It proved that ProMED still had a unique role to play in the public health arena—the means by which the very first reports got sent around. Too bad if an unconfirmed report turned out to be unfounded. It was better to be safe and prepared than to regret missing a few hours or even days because someone wanted to wait for the gold standard testing to come back.

It was a simple e-mail message, apparently submitted to ProMED sometime overnight and forwarded immediately by the moderator.

Dear Colleagues,

I am writing to report on an emerging outbreak of suspected monkeypox disease in the mountain gorilla population of Virunga National Park, Democratic Republic of the Congo. During a brief foray into the park on June 28 to check on the health status of these endangered great apes, I observed at least ten recently dead animals from one family group. Rebel violence on the ground prevented further investigation.

All carcasses showed signs of fulminant pox-like disease, and biopsies were taken from one specimen. I conducted two real-time PCR assays targeting monkeypox genes in the laboratory here at the Gorilla Doctors Regional Headquarters. Each assay was repeated twice, and all have shown strong positive reactions.

A live infant gorilla was also removed from his mother’s carcass and taken back to our isolation facility for monitoring. The patient has a fever and is beginning to develop cutaneous lesions similar to the ones observed on the other dead gorillas.

Please contact me with any collaborating information or for further details.

Respectfully,
Cole McBride, DVM, MPH
USAID PREDICT Research Fellow
Musanze, Rwanda

Cole McBride. Why did he know that name? The veterinary world was a small one, but Shackleton couldn’t immediately place it. A quick Google image search brought up a man’s smiling face from the website of a recent infectious disease conference. And then it came to him. He had mentored this guy years ago as a veterinary student summer intern. Didn’t he join the Army, though? Shackleton tried to keep track of promising young veterinarians like him, maybe convince them to apply for the Epidemic Intelligence Service one day. It was a route that had worked for him, and he did his best to make sure there would always be a few vets to balance out all the other health professionals at the CDC.

Another flash of lightning was followed immediately by a deafening thunderclap. There was a scraping sound against the roof, and then a large branch fell past the windows. He’d been meaning to get that old oak trimmed for years. As he stood up to assess the damage, the kitchen light went out and his laptop screen dimmed. The power was out. Perfect timing.

Shackleton looked at the wireless signal on his screen just as it turned from black to gray. So the internet was out, too. He closed up the machine and stuffed it in an old leather briefcase.

Upstairs in the spacious master bedroom, he leaned over his wife’s sleeping form.

“Sweetie, you awake?”

She opened one eye. “You think I could sleep through that?”

He smiled and let his fingers run across her forehead and down one cheek. “The power and internet are out. I’m heading into work now—just got word that something big might be starting up in the Congo.”

“Let me guess, Ebola again?” Michelle Shackleton was a family practice physician and her husband’s biggest fan.

“Nope, they think it’s monkeypox, but just in gorillas so far. Sounds like an especially bad strain, though.”

He felt her hand reach up to squeeze his own.

“We’ll be fine,” she said. “Now get out of here before this storm picks up even more.”

Shackleton turned back at the door.

“Love you. I’ll let you know when I get in.”

He wanted to look in at the kids but decided against it. No reason to wake them up now, with school already called off for the day.

The rain was coming down in sheets as Shackleton turned slowly out onto the deserted cul-de-sac. He was confident in the Suburban’s capabilities, but no reason to take any chances. He reached for the radio and hit preset number one for the local public radio station. A woman’s excited voice cut through the chaos of wind and water.

“—special update on hurricane Diana, who has officially made landfall here on our Georgia coast.”

He shook his head in disgust. The faux gravity in her voice wasn’t fooling anyone. This was clearly the most exciting moment yet in the local weather forecaster’s brief career.

“Winds at the center of the storm are currently topping 130 miles per hour and don’t show any signs of calming down. Fortunately for us, Diana appears to be heading back out to sea, so the severe loss of life and property damage we’ve already witnessed in Florida are unlikely to be as much of a worry here.”

The disappointment in her voice was obvious. But what happened in Florida?

A monstrous tree limb appeared in the road ahead of him, and Shackleton slammed a foot on the brakes just in time.

“That doesn’t mean we’re totally out of danger yet, though.”

Phew.

“Torrential showers and high winds are raging across the state now, and hundreds of thousands have just lost power here in the Atlanta metro area.”

The veterinarian felt his phone start to buzz in his chest pocket. He turned off the radio and pulled over to the side of the highway. Who would be trying him this early?

The caller ID simply said “CDC.” Every call made from a landline at work showed up with the same generic four-digit extension, so it was impossible to tell who was on the other end without actually taking the call.

“Yeah, this is Bill.” He half-expected to hear the grating voice of the automatic messaging system, telling him to stay home for a weather delay.

“Bill, it’s Jen. Are you at home?”

His eyebrows lifted. Dr. Jen Vincent was his direct supervisor and head of the Division of High-Consequence Pathogens and Pathology.

“Good morning to you, too. Nope, on my way in already, but it’s taking forever in this storm.”

“Great, so you must have seen ProMED, then?” Her voice exuded the smooth confidence that had paved her rapid ascent through the CDC’s management hierarchy.

“Yeah, thought I’d try to get a call over to Rwanda from the office. I didn’t think a few dead gorillas would merit an early morning call from the big boss, though.”

She paused. “Unfortunately it’s not just the gorillas anymore.”