Outbreak

There was a silence between them, which Russell broke suddenly. 'Let go of my hand,' he hissed with surprising vigour.

Ben was confused.

'Let go of my hand,' Russell repeated firmly. 'And forget about the doctor for now.' His abdomen arched slightly as he tried to prevent another fit of coughing. 'Tell me more about what you've learned.'

'Not everyone gets it,' Ben told him. 'About two thirds of the mine-workers. And it's not' – Ben almost stopped himself, but an encouraging look from his father made him go on – 'it's not always fatal, Dad. Halima told me that only about three-quarters of the people who come down with the illness die.'

Russell gently closed his eyes, as though trying to come to terms with this information. Ben tried to think of something to say, but couldn't. It was his father who broke the silence. 'The bats,' he whispered.

Ben looked askance at him.

'A reservoir,' Russell insisted more strongly. 'They found a reservoir.' He dissolved once more into a fit of coughing.

'What do you mean, Dad?' he asked gently. 'Are you all right? Let me try and phone for a doctor.' He was worried that delirium might have set in.

'Listen to me, Ben.' Russell managed to sound impatient, despite his faltering voice. 'Have you ever heard of Ebola?'

'Sort of.'

'It's a virus – a nasty one. It's very rare, but the first outbreaks were found in this country, near the Ebola river. It causes death in most of its victims – horrible death.'

'What do you mean, Dad?'

'Fever, headache, nausea, then internal bleeding and haemorrhaging. Ebola sufferers start bleeding from every orifice and then, in most cases, they die within seven to fourteen days from multi-organ failure.'

Ben blinked as his brain struggled to decode his father's scientific language; but then Russell made himself plain.

'They bleed to death from inside and out. It's a terrible way to go.'

Ben felt his blood run cold. What his dad was saying vaguely rang bells with him: he had seen pictures in a Sunday newspaper supplement of people suffering from something similar. They'd had blood streaming from their nose and even seeping into their eyes; their skin had been covered with huge, weeping sores and welts. It was horror-movie stuff, but it was very, very real. 'Is that what you think this is?'

'No, Ben. No, I don't. Ebola only rarely transmits itself between humans. But it's not the only virus of its type out there, you can be sure of that. There's a similar strain of Ebola called Marburg that causes the same kind of symptoms; but the chances are that there are thousands of others, undocumented by humans, that have lain dormant for millennia.'

Russell paused to catch his breath. 'When I was in the mine yesterday, I kept seeing dead bats.'

'I don't understand, Dad. Why's that important?'

'Viruses lie dormant in what's called a reservoir.'

'Water, you mean?'

'No, Ben. Listen to me. Not that sort of reservoir. A virus reservoir is an organism that plays host to the virus. It could be a plant, it could be an animal or a bird. Nobody knows what the Ebola reservoir is, but there is some evidence that it might be fruit bats…'

'… and you think the dead bats you saw in the mine were the reservoir for this virus?'

'No. The reservoir remains unharmed by the virus. I think these bats have disturbed something down there that is hosting the virus, and that they're now passing it on to humans. It's not Ebola, but if what you're telling me is correct, it is a viral infection of some sort; and if it's as contagious as it seems to be, it could be a hundred times worse than Ebola. We have to do something about it.'

'What can we do?' Ben's voice faltered as he spoke.

'This village is done for, Ben. Most probably I'm done for too. But if the virus is allowed to spread beyond here, there's no knowing what devastation it could cause. Millions of people could die. It can't be allowed to leave the village.'

Ben looked at his father in awed shock. He simply couldn't believe what he was hearing, couldn't believe that they had found themselves in this desperate situation. Then, in a flash, another thought struck him. 'They know,' he whispered.

Russell breathed out with a desperate shudder. 'Who knows, Ben? What do you mean?'

'The mine-owners,' Ben told him. 'They've shut down the village. They won't even allow letters to leave – Halima tried to write to her sister to tell her that their parents were dead, but she didn't receive it.'

Russell said nothing.

'Don't you understand, Dad? If these people know about the virus, it means they're sending the villagers down there knowing full well what's going to happen to them. And if they don't want anyone to leave the village, that includes…'

Father and son looked at each other, waiting for Ben to finish his sentence.

'… that includes us.'

'Listen to me, Ben.' Russell's voice was getting fainter from the exertion of the conversation. 'Some people have an inbuilt immunity to certain viruses. That would explain why not everybody contracts the illness. Suliman and the other mine managers – my guess would be that they're immune. As for you…'

They looked at each other.

'… it's too early to say. You've been living in the same room as me for the last twelve hours. Even so, you should avoid contact with anyone else. And Ben.'

'Yes, Dad.'

'Promise me you won't try to leave the village. We need to get in touch with the authorities, warn them what is going on. If we don't, this could result in a natural disaster the like of which Africa has never seen. Do you understand?'

Ben nodded mutely, and his father collapsed once more in a paroxysm of coughing. When he had finished, he lay there in sheer exhaustion, his chest rattling, his breathing increasingly laboured.

He looked like a dying man.

Ben felt tears of frustration and despair welling up in his eyes, but he checked them almost immediately. There would be time for tears later; now he knew he had a job to do. Abele had told him that there was only one telephone in the village – a satellite phone in Suliman's office. He had to get there without being seen, and fast.

As if reading his son's thoughts, Russell spoke again. 'Take my business card from my wallet,' he panted. Ben turned and rummaged in his dad's bag until he found the wallet and removed it. On the business card was Russell's name and the number of the company in Macclesfield for which he worked. He hurried back to his father's bedside. 'There's a man there called Sam Garner. He's a friend of mine, an expert in infectious diseases. Speak to him. Tell him… tell him it's a Code Red. He'll understand. He'll know what to do.'

'All right, Dad,' Ben whispered. 'And then I'm going to find you a doctor.'

'No,' Russell said. 'Haven't you listened to what I've said? Nobody can come in or out of the village, not until the authorities get this thing under control.'

'But Dad, that could mean…' Ben couldn't bring himself to say it.

'I know, Ben.' Russell tried his best to smile encouragingly at his son. 'I'm just going to have to take my chances. We all are.'

Ben felt sick to his stomach. It pained him to admit it, but he would never have expected such bravery from his father. But then, what had happened to him in London and Adelaide had taught him that you never know quite what you're made of until you've got your back against the wall. He also realized implicitly that, even without the risk of contracting this dreadful virus, he was in a grave situation. If Suliman, Kruger and the rest of the mine-owners knew what was going on here, it meant they were willing to sacrifice scores of innocent lives to get their greedy hands on the Coltan down there. He had no doubt that their murderous ambitions meant they would not hesitate to silence Ben and his father permanently.