“Check the corneas.”
Hassan’s low voice broke into our earpieces.
“Are you finished? You have now worked for many hours. I think you have what you need.”
“What we need is more help.”
Eddie came close and nudged me. I looked through his face shield at his sweating countenance, and I knew he was telling me to open the tent flap. Something was wrong.
When I glanced outside, I sensed the change. The ring of vehicles had drawn in closer. The clan men still stood by trucks, but their attitude had stiffened, even from a distance. The gunners had lowered the muzzles of their .50 calibers while we worked, but now they were aimed again.
“Hassan, what’s going on out there?”
“I think that you are finished, Doctor. Do you know for sure what has happened here?”
“How can I know that yet?”
“You took many photographs? Many samples?”
“Yes.”
“You will now leave the compound. You will bring your samples and photos. You will walk twenty feet toward us and then you will stop and strip.”
“Hassan, I—”
“Don’t interrupt! Just listen!”
I heard, through my earpiece, the agitated sounds of men arguing. I heard Hassan snapping back something in Somali. I had no idea what it was, but I did have a feeling that the argument concerned the fate of Eddie and me.
Hassan was back. “Do this now, Dr. Rush.”
Eddie mouthed, Uh-oh.
Hassan said soothingly, “You are in no danger yet. I promise this. But you will please do what I say.”
There was really no choice. Eddie mouthed, Yeah, our pal, as we left the tent, walked past Lionel Nash, in the rain, and toward the opening in the thorn tree barrier. We both carried steel sample cases. We left all our drugs there. These people would need them.
Lionel had helped out until the end, and his reserves of strength astounded me. Understanding what was about to happen, the former Marine half straightened and saluted.
“Semper fi, sir,” said Lionel.
“Semper fi, Lionel.”
The rain made scratchy noises on my biosuit. My visor fogged. The respirator gurgled. At fifty yards between us, Hassan stepped out of the ragged circle of militia fighters and ordered us to halt.
“Hoods off,” Hassan ordered. “I want to make sure it is you before I let you go. That you did not trade places with someone else.”
The fresh air smelled of alkaline earth and saltwater and camel dung, of sweat and fresh rain and wet palm trees.
“Strip. Everything. Now. But keep the microphones on.”
Hassan stood alone, before his fighters, hand on the butt of his gun. Then a militia man ran up to him and handed him something black, and I froze. But it was not a gun, I saw as he raised the object to his face. It was binoculars.
So! He wanted to see my face close up as we talked. Hassan would be too far away for me to see his features. In his binoculars, I’d be inches away. He could study my eyes.
Hassan said, “I do not think you have previous knowledge of this thing, Doctor.”
“Thank you.”
He was making a decision. He said, “You have your samples and your photos. To bring back.”
“Hassan,” I said, my heartbeat rising, “don’t hurt them.”
“I will not.”
“That’s your brother in there, you said. Your own brother. Your people, Hassan.”
“You think I don’t know that, Dr. Rush?”
I pleaded as the rain intensified, “All I’m asking for is a little time. Another plane lands. You keep your distance. You can’t be infected. The doctors wear protective suits and bring the right medicines. They keep the sick from you. They help your brother. For God’s sake—”
He cut me off. “‘For God’s sake’? This is an interesting notion. You think I do not believe in a God?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You think I am a barbarian. Life is cheap in Africa. Those Africans, those barbaric Somalis, have no respect for the lives of women and men. Is that it?”
“That’s not it.” But he was right partially, and I was ashamed.
“West Africa, Doctor. Ebola breaks out. A fatal disease. We can cure it, you doctors say. We take precautions. We know what we’re doing, you say. Ebola acts this way. It acts that way. It is a known quantity. And then suddenly a thousand are dead. And then four thousand. And then ten. And you doctors apologize because you did not really know at all, and you blame the unclean primitive Africans. Well, there are a thousand healthy people a few miles away from here. My people.”
I said nothing. I stood in the heat and rain and felt drops running down my scalp and forehead and into my eyes.
“Hassan the clan leader. Hassan and his cruel, harsh men. Hassan who thinks life means nothing. By the way, not everyone here agrees with my decision. They do not want to even let you go. You see?”
“At least let me get the healthy ones out of here.”
No answer.
“You can’t do this.”
“Go,” he said gently. “Go back to the plane. Fly away and tell them we didn’t start it. That’s all you have to do. I’ll do what is necessary. I’ll do the rest. Haven’t you figured out yet why I made you strip? I want to make sure you don’t carry out contagion on your clothes.”
The guns seemed to lower, as if the metal itself knew there would be no carnage yet. The stillness was profound. We stripped and, naked, sluiced by rain, trudged back to the shot-up Land Rover. We needed to figure out what had happened, to understand this thing. Nakedness suited our condition. We were devoid of power in this particular hell.
Eddie said, “I don’t want to leave, One.”
Hassan’s voice replied, “I cannot control them for long. But it is up to you. That is the power of God. To offer men choices. Drive away while you are safe.”
Eddie mouthed, Hell.
Hassan watched our lips in his binoculars.
“Just go,” he said.
And thirty minutes later I watched our gape-mouthed pilot stare at our nakedness as we climbed into the plane and donned the clothes we’d discarded when we arrived. “Take off and circle back,” I told the pilot. “Stay high.”
Risky, but I have to see what he’s going to do.
We rolled down the dirt runway, to the ululations of the Somali women, who had turned away from our nakedness. They were showing grief, I knew now, timeless, human grief for the dead. The plane took to the air as I saw the first wispy spirals coming from the south. Then the smoke became a black column. We banked toward the research camp until I saw exactly what was happening.
“Flame throwers,” breathed Eddie, horrified.
Maybe they’d used the guns first. I hoped so. It would have been quicker and merciful. We’d been too far away to hear shots. But either way they were finishing it with flaming gasoline. Skinny militia fighters with canisters on their backs had circled the compound. Burning gasoline-covered tents and corpses, bonfiring the thorn tree barrier, creating heat so profound it convoluted the air and made our plane bounce. Orange flame spiraled toward heaven.
“Go back to the base,” I told the pilot.
“This is the worst thing I ever saw,” said Eddie.
We did not speak for a while. We couldn’t. We kept seeing that fire in our heads. But at least we had samples. We had saved nail clippings and skin and blood from those who were now ashes. I forwarded the photos to D.C. I could only hope that, back at the base, our samples would give answers. And that the thing we’d just encountered was local, not contagious. A chemical. A gas. A freak accident.
We never reached the base, though.