Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller: Book 2 (27 page)

Paul woke up on the floor of the dining room. He’d been sitting on the floor since finding her, leaning against a credenza, waiting on police who never came.

On his eleventh attempt at calling 9-1-1 the night before, he’d gotten through and had told the operator to send an ambulance, even though in the next breath, he told her his wife was dead. She’d asked a meager few questions. The words
blood
and
dead
were sufficient cause for her to tell him to go to a web address for instructions on handling the body.
Click.

Paul was enraged, and dialed back more than a dozen times to get back through. He asked for the police to come because his wife had been murdered.
Dead?
Yes.
Blood?
Yes. Website address.
Click
.

He’d persisted into the evening, finally convincing one of the operators—a middle-aged woman with a bureaucratic, nasally voice—to lie to him about sending the police to investigate the obvious murder of his wife.

The police never came. Nobody did.

Seeing Heidi’s body under the blanket he’d covered it with, Paul restarted his dialing campaign. Though he tried through the morning, he only got through to an operator twice, each time with the same result as he’d gotten the night before: the web address, a token “Sorry for your loss,”
click
.

Nobody in all of Denver—not the police, not the sheriff’s department, and not the highway patrol—gave a shit that Heidi had been murdered in her dining room. He’d pleaded with one operator, telling her that the government shouldn’t target him just because of what he’d done. She responded by asking who he was. He told her, Paul Cooper. She asked, “
Who?
”

That’s when Paul gave up and cried. The cultural infrastructure was buckling and society’s veil of sanity was slipping away, exposing its uncharitable Id.

They’d been following a troop of black-furred monkeys for nearly an hour, never seeing more than a few at a time. The monkeys moved through the tree branches high overhead, far enough away that neither The General, nor the three men with him, dared a shot. To shoot and miss would be to frighten the troop away. His men, with their old, worn, inaccurate AK-47s needed to be pretty close to hit a small monkey up in the trees.

Unfortunately for the monkeys, their troop had made enough chatter that it was easily heard in the camp earlier that afternoon. The General had decided on a specific craving for dinner: monkey meat.

The General and the other hunters stalked through the trees, talking in whispers and spreading out. Austin stayed near The General. It was his place, as The General’s houseboy.

“Monkeys are like men,” said The General in a soft voice.

Used to the conversations now, Austin asked, “How’s that?”

“Monkeys fear us.”

“You have guns,” said Austin.

“Yes, but you oversimplify,” said The General.

“How so?”

“Monkeys did not always fear men. Not the way they do now. Men would hunt in the forest and the monkeys would not flee. They might sit safe in their trees. The belligerent males might throw shit or sticks. They’d try to drive men from their territory.”

“And the men shot them,” Austin concluded. “Now the smart ones run away.”

“That is one way to look at it,” said The General.

“What’s the other way?”

“More and more men came into the forest, with better and better weapons, and killed what you would call all of the dumb monkeys. I would say they killed all the brave monkeys, all the defiant monkeys, all the strong monkeys. Now, most of the monkeys are gone, and only the weak, fearful ones remain.”

Austin looked up for the flashes of shaggy white fringe on the black monkeys up ahead. He heard them. He just didn’t see any, and hoped it would stay that way until it got dark or The General got bored.

The General stopped and turned to face Austin. Clearly, he had an important point to make. “That is why monkeys and men are the same.”

Without looking away from the treetops, Austin said, “I’m still not seeing your point.”

“Genocide,” said The General.

Austin walked past The General, trying to keep roughly abreast of the hunters a dozen paces to the left and right. Wherever The General’s crazy bullshit was going, Austin wasn’t in the mood to hear it. “I think we’re losing the monkeys.”

“All the monkeys that carry the valor gene are dead,” said The General. “That is genocide.”

“I’m not sure that’s right, but I don’t know the exact definition of genocide,” said Austin.

The General moved ahead of Austin again. “Man has won the war with the monkey.”

Austin didn’t say that he didn’t agree with the concept of war with the monkeys, either.

“War with men is the same. It never ends until you kill all of your brave enemies, leaving only the weak and fearful. War cannot be won without genocide.”

Austin followed in the wake of The General’s dramatic silence. Long silences often followed when The General said something he thought was profound. This particular thought sounded like total craziness, so Austin figured he’d let it slide without comment.

The General wanted to discuss it further. “Tell me what you think.”

Crap
. Austin thought through something tactful. “What about...what about...?”

“What about Hitler?” The General interrupted. “That’s what you’re going to ask, isn’t it? American’s favorite metaphor for anything they don’t like, especially given the topic of genocide.”

“I was going to say, peace,” said Austin. “The two sides negotiate a peace and the war ends.”

“Wars are only postponed by negotiated peace.”

Shaking his head, Austin said. “I don’t agree.”

“You don’t have to.” The General smiled back over his shoulder. “The facts exist, whether you agree or not.”

When The General looked forward again, Austin rolled his eyes.

“History is full of examples of slaughter and victory. Did you know that King David slaughtered every person in Jericho when he took the city?”

“No.” Austin didn’t remember much from his Sunday school classes.

“It’s true. Caesar did it to the Germanic tribes. Europeans did it to the Indians—smallpox helped a lot. Stalin did it to everybody who disagreed with him and a lot more. It is the only way to win.”

Austin shrugged. He really didn’t care. “Okay.”

“It is why your America will lose its war with Islam. America is too weak to do that which is necessary.”

“Kill all the Muslims?” Austin asked trying to keep the scorn out of his voice.

“Yes,” said The General. “The Muslims want to kill Christians.”

“Just the extremists,” Austin argued, as he recalled his experience in Kapchorwa, trying to figure out how he’d been backed into a conversation in which he was defending Muslims. He reminded himself that the men in Kapchorwa—the men he was truly angry with—were terrorists who just happened to be Muslims.

“That’s why God put me here,” said The General. “I understand what must be done.” The General pounded his chest with one fist. “I am strong enough to do it.”

One of the other hunters signaled and pointed. Half a dozen of the Colobus monkeys were up ahead, sitting on the branches of a tree without enough leaves to conceal them. The hunters raised the AK-47s. One shot; more followed in rapid succession. Monkeys tumbled through the branches.

The General turned back to Austin. “Fetch.”

Sander and Austin were the only two hostages left. Two of the Chinese were dead. The third, Wei, was sent as a consolation to the company that paid the ransom for Tian. That put Austin on double duty for cooking and cleanup, as well as being The General’s houseboy. Austin didn’t mind. Being The General’s houseboy was mostly a boring job of doing nothing. Cooking for the rebels and cleaning up after them was tiring work, but it kept him busy. It also held a secret benefit that Sander shared as the reason he’d stayed healthy during his eight-month internment. Cooking gave him the opportunity to pilfer extra food. Austin followed Sanders’ example, grabbing nibbles when there were no watchful eyes around.

With the increased rations, Austin’s health fully returned, and his spirit grew strong. He spent a good deal of time thinking about his ransom. No word had ever come back from Kampala. Austin worried what would happen when The General concluded that kidnapping Austin had been a waste of time, because Austin had no monetary value. Despite Sander’s insistence that The General was a businessman, it didn’t bother The General to beat his hostages, and he appeared to suffer no qualms about killing them.

Escape was at the center of Austin’s thoughts as he watched six monkey carcasses lying across a grate of rusty metal, with the cooking fire’s coals beneath. His job was to turn the monkey carcasses from time to time and to keep the fire hot enough to cook.

The process disgusted Austin, not for the fact that he was cooking skinned monkeys to be dined on by rebels; Austin had seen too much brutality for much to affect him anymore. It was when the monkey carcasses lay on the fire too long on one side, the flesh blackened on the edges and produced a pungent smell that reminded him of Kapchorwa with all of its burned human bodies. It made him nauseous.

“How are those monkeys coming?” Sander asked from under the pavilion, where he was preparing yams.

“About done,” Austin answered standing from his perch on the same log where Min had lost his head and Tian his foot. With a sharp stick, he poked the wiry flesh on one of the monkey’s arms and peered inside. The meat was ready. Austin lifted it off the grill with a stick and leaned the roasted carcass against the log he’d been sitting on. He checked another monkey. Its meat was still bloody and red. None of the other four monkeys was finished cooking. Austin turned the monkeys over and sat down on the log beside the one that was cooling off.

He thought about his dilemma, the beatings to come, and the brutality of The General and his men. Austin couldn’t help but think he was a depreciating asset. He started to believe he was going to die and never see anything but jungle and unwashed men for the rest of his life. He grated at his captivity. His mouth sometimes said things that his brain wished it hadn’t. He was sure a day would come when The General would put an end to it.

Austin stared at the fire and tried to come up with a solution that didn’t involve his running through the forest, without a direction or a plan, in hopes of escaping sixty men with rifles, all of whom knew the trails and hiding places on this side of the mountain better than he ever would. They were all in fine, lean shape, looking like marathon runners with weapons. Austin had no idea how long he could elude them in the forest. It was an uncertainty that kept Austin from trying.

On the far side of the camp, two rebels came running out of the forest, yelling, alarmed, and a little frightened. Suddenly, the whole camp was scampering, weapons in hand. The General strode through the chaos. All of the rebels formed in a huddle around the two who’d just come into camp.

Austin was on his feet, looking at the huddle, and glancing back toward Sander, who’d also stopped working to watch.  “What’s going on?”

“Not sure.”

Austin was hoping a regiment of government troops was on its way to save him, although he had no realistic expectation that it would happen.

The rebels hushed. The General spoke. Then, as suddenly as they’d all gathered, they burst into a run, disappearing into the forest. Only three rebels remained, disappointment clear in the way they frowned and sulked. Two of them started talking. The third crossed the camp toward Sander and Austin.

“Did you understand anything that was said?” Austin asked.

“I think they spotted somebody.” Sander replied. “Maybe a rival faction? The army? I don’t know.”

“They’re going out to fight them?” Austin smiled. A firefight should kill some of the rebels. It might wipe them all out. Not likely, but possible.

That
was
something to hope for.

The two guards on the far side of the camp seemed content to stay where they were. The guard who’d come toward Austin walked up to the fire and looked at the monkeys. He spotted the one leaning on the log and tore a piece of meat away. He turned and headed off to make himself comfortable at the base of a tree a short distance away. He absently watched Sander and Austin as he gnawed on his piece of monkey thigh.

Austin checked his remaining monkeys. They were ready. He removed them from the grill one at a time, and leaned each against the log, he remembered something Dr. Littlefield had said to him before he left Kapchorwa. He smiled as an evil and disgusting—but workable—inspiration came to him.

Austin was as alone as he’d been since arriving in the rebel camp. If he was going to do anything, ever, then now was his chance.

Austin glanced at the guard who was bored and staring. He looked at Sander who’d gone back to his work. He started walking toward the latrine pit that lay in the trees a short distance behind the hostage hut.

When Austin had walked just a few paces, the guard said some words that Austin didn’t know but he understood. He stopped, turned to the guard, put on a pained face and put a hand to his belly. He groaned to sell the act.

The guard said a few harsh, undecipherable sentences and then laughed.

Austin looked to Sander for an interpretation.

Sander said, “Don’t run away. It’s too obvious if you go now. He’s expecting it. Indeed, he says he hopes you run. He says you’re the ugliest mzungu he’s ever seen and he’d like to take a machete to you before The General returns.”

Austin looked at the guard, repeated the act and said, “Thanks.” To Sander, he called, “I’m not going to run.” He headed for the latrine.

Once there, Austin dropped his pants and leaned on a tree. The smell was a problem but he did his best to ignore it. He looked over his shoulder. The guard hadn’t followed him. The last thing he thought before he went to work conjuring up a pornographic fantasy was what Dr. Littlefield had told him about how contagious he was after he’d recovered from his fight with Ebola. The bottom line was that Austin wasn’t contagious, except for one possibility: the Ebola virus might live in his semen for another few months.

Austin had a secret weapon.