CHAPTER NINE
Through the deceit of death I grow wise in the illusions of time. I change, I grow beyond myself, leaving the papery sheath that once was what I was. I live alone and make my changes in secret. I know the smell of fear, of death, of innocence. I rest in shadows. I lick the wisdom of air and dust. I wrap myself around the legs of life. I lie down in darkness and learn the art of subtlety. I rear and strike in surprise. I leave but a meandering trail in the dust. I demand neither fear nor pity. I know what you can not see. It is not pride that keeps me solitary. In your hands the honey of my mouth turns to poison. It is mere survival—yours and mine.
--Excerpt from "Becoming the Snake", Egyptian Book of the Dead, as translated by Normandi Ellis
Eric coughed--a dry, wheezing hack that burned his lungs and made his ribs ache. He felt terrible, like he could happily sleep for a week, but he was determined to finish sketching and photographing the gorgeous murals that decorated the walls of the temple area in the pyramid. He'd been working on that task now for the past several days, since his hand was still sore from the cuts he'd received from the statue, and Bernstein wasn't permitting him to do any heavier work. He'd been injured just over a week ago, his hand was still very sore, and it didn't appear to be getting any better. It was actually starting to worry him some. He didn't think it was infected, but it burned and throbbed like crazy. Just his luck if he'd gotten it infected with some of the ever-present grunge he lived with out here. He rubbed his palm against the almost-clean leg of his jeans, trusting that the bandage would keep the dirt and germs out, and wanting the pressure on his hand to alleviate the throbbing.
But the hand wasn't what bothered him the most. Three days ago, he'd come down with a miserable cold—chills, fever, muscle aches, sore throat and a slight cough. Getting up that morning, he'd cursed his bad luck. Apparently, the injury to his hand wasn't enough—now, he'd have to suffer through a cold out here in the miserable heat as well. He'd always been a healthy person, and he expected the virus to soon pass. It lingered, though, making his days wretched and his nights hell.
Last night had been the worst. He'd been wracked by fits of coughing so loud that Doug had come over in the middle of the night to see if he was all right. Eric had asked him for some water, and Doug had gotten some, then sat up with him a bit to make sure he didn't need anything else. But all Eric wanted was sleep, and that was the one thing the constant coughing was depriving him of. Doug had been a good sport, sitting in the tent for quite a while, patting Eric on the back during the coughing fits, and in general being a concerned friend, but there was little he could do, and eventually he went back to try to get some sleep himself. Eric hoped that he hadn't coughed so much that he'd give Doug the cold, too, because it was a nasty one.
Even now, his head was aching, and his eyes felt gritty and tired. He stopped for a moment to feel the swollen lymph nodes on the sides of his neck, and grimaced. God, this was a nasty bug, and it just wasn't letting go. Feeling another coughing fit coming on, he set down the sketchbook and pencil, and took his handkerchief from his back pocket. After the spasm passed, he went to fold the handkerchief, but stopped, looking at the spots of red that stained the white linen. Giving the cloth a worried frown, he crumbled it into a ball and stuffed it into his back pocket. Now, he thought, I'm getting worried.
"Eric, are you all right?" Bernstein's voice came from just behind him, and Eric jumped up, startled. He must have walked up behind him while Eric was having the coughing fit.
"Yeah, John, I'm okay—just this cold. Why?" Eric tried to project a tone of casual nonchalance, but it sounded hollow, even to him.
"You just coughed up blood, if I'm not mistaken," Bernstein explained, pointing to Eric's back pocket, where the offending cloth protruded. "I think you should take a rest for the afternoon. Lie down for a while, and see if you can get some sleep. If you're not better by tomorrow, we're going to bring a doctor back from the city when Akil goes in for supplies."
"John, don't make a big fuss about this. I'm fine. Really," Eric protested. "I'm just gonna take it easy this afternoon, and finish these sketches, and then turn in early…"
"No, Eric, I'm afraid you're not." Bernstein corrected him. "You are going to stop now, and get some rest. That is an order. I can't afford to have you get so sick that you can't complete the dig. Better to take a little time now than to lose a lot later."
"John…"
"No arguing, Eric. I mean it. In fact, I'm going to walk back to the camp with you, just to make sure you really go. It's almost time for lunch, anyway."
Bernstein waited while Eric packed up his equipment. The young man's anger was obvious in the tight, quick movements he made, and the stubborn, resentful pout on his lips. But Eric had worked with Bernstein for many years, and he knew that there was no arguing with him. Not looking at his mentor, Eric walked past him and into the tunnel leading to the great hall. Bernstein followed, shaking his head in grim amusement at the sheer mulishness of his favorite protégé. He cared for Eric a great deal, almost like a son, and he'd be damned if he let the boy work himself into the ground.
They walked back to the camp together in silence, though not a particularly companionable one. Once they arrived, Eric turned to Bernstein, his frustration showing in his eyes.
"Look, I'll take a break, okay, but I want to go back later this afternoon, all right?"
"We'll see how you're feeling, Eric…" Bernstein started, but was interrupted by the violent fit of coughing that shook Eric. It lasted several minutes, and when Eric finally looked up, exhausted, tears streaming from his eyes, Bernstein stared at him in shock. The tears running freely down Eric's cheeks were not clear—they were pink-tinged, and a thin trickle of blood ran down from one nostril, as well. Confused at the expression he saw on Bernstein's face, Eric swiped at his face, and when he saw that his fingers had come away red, his own expression began to mirror that of the older man's.
"What the…" he began, but Bernstein abrubtly cut him off.
"Go to your tent now, Eric. I'll have Sabir bring you some broth and some water, and you get some rest."
"But…" Eric protested, now looking clearly frightened.
"I'm going to get on the radio and have the helicopter pilot come in now, and take Akil back with him tonight. They'll get the supplies, and a doctor, and be back by tomorrow morning. You are to stay in that tent and not get out until the doctor arrives. Do you understand?" Bernstein was frightened himself, and his tone was harsher than he would have liked. But it did the job, as Eric meekly nodded and left, heading for his tent. His footsteps were slow and shuffling, and he walked with the gait of an old man. Bernstein watched him go, until he was sure that Eric had made it safely inside.
"My god, what in the hell could be wrong with him?"
Shaking his head, he went to find Sabir and Akil, and let them know what was happening.
True to his word, Bernstein made the necessary arrangements, and by mid-morning the next day, the helicopter was landing back at the camp. The first one on the ground, as usual, was the pilot, who stepped down from his seat and began unloading the boxes and crates of supplies. Akil Hamid was next, hopping down from the passenger section, and then turning to offer a hand to the third person in the chopper.
Bernstein hoped that Hamid had managed to find a competent physician somewhere in Khartoum, because Eric had gotten worse and worse during the night. The coughing had kept up, the volume of blood in the spittle steadily increasing, and the nosebleed hadn't abated, either. And to cap it all off, Eric had begun vomiting, unable to hold down even the most bland of foods. The archaeologist was beginning to get genuinely worried about whatever virus Eric had picked up, and he couldn't stop wondering if, somehow, it had all begun with the discovery they'd made last week…No, that's ridiculous, he scoffed. Been up too late worrying. Can't go around reading so much into old legends and curses. Damn leaky statues or no. The doctor will be good, and he'll fix Eric right up, good as new.
"He" finally clambered down from the chopper, landing lightly on two boot-clad feet, and Bernstein was chagrined to discover that the doctor was actually a "she," and didn't look much older than Eliana. A bit younger, in fact, if the truth were known. Smiling politely at Hamid, the young woman looked toward the camp, straightened her shoulders, and began to walk towards Bernstein. She was a pretty little thing, he thought, with long, wavy black hair, big brown almond-shaped eyes, and a delicate, heart-shaped face. She walked gracefully and quickly, her steps light and sure as she covered the distance from the chopper to the camp. In her left hand, she carried a black duffel bag, presumably filled with the tools of her trade.
Reaching him, she extended a hand and offered him a polite, but serious, smile.
"I take it you are Professor Bernstein?"
Bernstein took the hand she offered, and was pleased to note that although small and feminine, her hand was strong and her handshake firm. He also noticed that although she looked Arabic, she spoke English with a decidedly British accent, which meant, hopefully, that she'd studied medicine abroad. Well, not that they could do much about that now, anyway. If Akil had brought her back with him, that meant she was a doctor, and right now, they couldn't be choosy. Eric needed medical attention, and he needed it now. He nodded, and introduced himself.
"Yes, I'm John Bernstein. Nice to meet you. And you are…?"
"My name is Khalidah al Faran, but everyone calls me Callie." Seeing his questioning look, she smiled and explained, "I picked up the nickname at university in Great Britain, and it stuck with me."
Smiling back at her, Bernstein put his hand on her back and led her through the common area of the camp towards Eric's tent. He hated to rush her, after the fairly long chopper ride, but his concern for Eric overrode his attention to politeness. Thankfully, she didn't seem to notice, or mind, his abruptness.
"I understand one of your team has taken ill," she said, looking towards him as they walked, and obviously hoping he would provide some additional details. "How long has he been sick?"
"He started feeling sick just a few days ago—fever, chills, a little cough—just the normal, run-of-the-mill cold symptoms. No one thought anything of it, except that it was miserable to have a cold out here. He kept working the whole time, and didn't seem to be bothered too much—just an inconvenience, you know. The coughing got worse, but that happens a lot with a cold, so…" he trailed off, feeling guilty for not getting Eric some medical attention before this. But who could have known? Taking a breath, he went on.
"Then, yesterday, he started coughing up blood, and—I know this sounds exceptionally strange, but it's the god's own truth, I swear—well, his tears started looking bloody. And he developed a bloody nose, and it hasn't stopped bleeding since. And last night he started vomiting. This is not like any cold I've ever seen, Doctor." They had reached the closed flap to Eric's tent, and he turned to face the doctor, all the concern he felt for the young man showing plainly in his face.
"Call me Callie, Professor Bernstein. The clinic I work for is small, and we're a pretty informal bunch. And thank you for filling me in on the patient's history. He is in here, then?" She pointed to the tent, and Bernstein nodded. "Why don't you wait out here until I go in and examine him. If he's got something contagious, the fewer people we expose, the better." As she spoke, she dug through the bag she carried, and pulled out a white face mask, which she quickly donned. She reached for the flap.
"I'll be just a few minutes, okay?"
Callie walked into the dim interior of the tent, and waited for a second or two until her eyes adjusted. It smelled in here, she thought, a cloying odor of illness and sweat. Nothing she hadn't smelled many times before, working with the poorest of the poor families in Khartoum, and before that, with more poor people in whatever country the Peace Corps happened to assign her to. Sickness, sweat, unwashed bodies, the putrid smell of gangrene, and of course, the most terrible smell of all—death—were old friends of hers. Young though she was, Callie had seen more than most people ever do. And she wouldn't have it any other way. She loved what she did, and she was good at it, and she felt truly blessed to be able to serve so many who would otherwise go without.
Eyes adjusted to the dimness now, she peered around and noticed the young man lying on several layers of sleeping bags towards the center of the tent. He was lying on his back, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling slowly, as though with great effort. Moving closer, she got a better glimpse of his face, and winced. His face looked like an old man's, with dark circles under his eyes, and an ashen gray tint to the tightly-pulled skin of his cheeks. His lips were pale and bloodless looking, and if not for the slow but steady breathing, she might have feared that he had already died. Indeed, the only color to him at all was from the steady trickle of blood that snaked down from one nostril, and the pinkish streaks that were traced down his temples from the corner of each eye. Her eyes swept over him, and she noticed the bandaged hand. Poor man, she thought. Not just sick, but injured, too.
Putting down her bag, she knelt beside him, and at the movement, his eyes cracked open a tiny bit. He tried to smile, but the movement seemed to hurt, and he settled for a small twitch of his dry, cracked lips.
"Hello, Eric," she greeted him, and her husky voice was low-pitched and soothing. "I'm a doctor, and I'm going examine you, okay?"
He nodded, and closed his eyes. Reaching into her bag, she withdrew a pair of latex exam gloves and several instruments, and quickly ran a check of his vitals—temperature, blood pressure, pulse—and with a small penlight flashlight, looked into his eyes. Temperature was elevated, blood pressure was down a bit, and the heart rate was up. Nothing too unusual for some type of infection, but it seemed to Callie that something more was going on here. This was obviously more than just a cold or the flu. Mentally, she ran through the possibilities, but the symptoms were too general. It could be any number of things, from the mundane to the bizarre. The cold symptoms didn't bother her overly much, but the blood in the tears and phlegm were disturbing, and she was beginning to get a funny feeling, a vague uneasiness that niggled in her brain…something that it could be jumped out from the memories of years in medical school, but she pushed it aside. No, that is just too strange, she thought to herself. How could he have gotten something like that?
Deciding to check on the hand, now, too, she carefully unwrapped the bandage, exposing the nasty series of gashes. They still oozed blood, and their edges were raw and red. This definitely looked like an infection. Well, she thought, at least a shot of penicillin ought to take care of that. He'd have had to be up-to-date with his shots, tetanus included, to be traveling abroad, so that shouldn't be an issue. Removing some fresh bandages from her bag, she gently applied an antiseptic cream to the wound and re-bandaged it.
As she finished, he tiredly opened his eyes again. He tried opening his mouth to speak, but his lips were so dry that they stuck together, and he was so weak that it took several times before he could force them apart. When he spoke, the words were a hoarse whisper.
"So, doc, what's wrong with me?"
"I'm not sure, Eric, but I mean to find out, and get you fixed up, okay?" The confidence she tried to project in her voice was totally fabricated, but he didn't need to know that, at this point.
"Sounds good to me," he agreed, again trying to smile. He succeeded this time, and Callie thought to herself that he must have been quite a good-looking man, before getting so ill.
"Do you feel up to answering a few questions for me, Eric?" Brushing the sweat-dampened hair from his brow, she waited for his nod of assent. "Okay, then—Professor Bernstein has filled me in on some of the details, but I'd just like to summarize them a bit, okay? Don't talk if you don't want to—just nodding is fine."
He nodded, and she smiled at him and went on.
"Okay—so you started feeling sick a few days ago, and at first you thought it was a cold, right? Cough, fever, chills, sore throat, the usual stuff, right?" He nodded. "Then you coughed up some blood, and blood started showing up in your tears, and you got the bloody nose, is that correct?" He nodded again. "And last night you were sick to your stomach. Anything else?"
"Yesterday morning, I noticed…" A cough shook him, and she put a comforting hand on his arm, waiting until he could talk again. "…I noticed that I had this strange rash on my chest and stomach. But a rash isn't that bad, is it?" His eyes begged her to tell him that it wasn't.
"Not necessarily, Eric. Any more?"
"Well, the stomach cramps and vomiting got worse all through the night, and then I started having, well, to use the bathroom a lot." Obviously embarrassed to tell a young, beautiful doctor about the inner workings of his body, Eric mumbled the last words.
"Diarrhea" she prodded, gentle but needing to get to the bottom of the symptoms. "I don't mean to embarrass you, Eric, but was there any blood in the vomit or stool?" He looked away. "I really need to know, Eric…"
"Well, yeah, a little," he answered, mumbling even more softly than before.
As he talked, the mental list she had made of the possibilities kept on shrinking, and now the tickle in her head was taking on the proportions of a throbbing headache. The mundane was looking less and less likely, and the bizarre more and more possible.
"One more question, Eric, and then I'm going to let you get some sleep, okay?" At his nod, she continued. "This is really important, so make sure you think about it before answering, all right?"
"Sure, doc, whatever you say."
"In the last week or so, have you been bitten by any animals, or been exposed to anyone else who's been sick, or come into contact with anyone else's blood in any way?"
At that, Doug opened his eyes a bit more, and the fear in them grew markedly.
"Those questions don't sound too good, doc," he murmured, eyes searching her face.
"Pretty standard questions, Eric, really," she tried to reassure him. "So, how about an answer?"
"Well, no one else out here has been sick, and none of the animals have bit me, so I guess I haven't been bitten at all, unless you count the statue…" He laughed weakly, trying to make it sound like a joke, but she wasn't laughing, and her eyes reflected her confusion.
"The statue…?"
He explained, filling her in briefly on what had happened when he and Doug had found the grotto in the pyramid. As he spoke, the dread in her mind grew and grew, and finally when he finished, she was truly frightened of what seemed to be staring her in the face.
"Eric? If you don't mind, I'd like to get a small blood sample from you. I'll have it flown back to Khartoum, and the lab at my clinic will analyze it. We should know in a day if there's anything to worry about it, and then we can start fixing you up, all right?" Her smile felt pasted on, at least to her, but Eric couldn't see it anyway, through the mask she wore. Instead, he seemed to grab onto the last part of her sentence and find some hope there.
"Sure thing, doc, but be gentle with me, okay?" He smiled again, and tried to wink, and her heart went out to him. Again she was reminded of what a handsome man he must have been before getting sick, and a charming one, too. Even sick, he was blessed with a gentle good humor and a sweet way about him. She once again reached into her bag, this time drawing out a rubber tourniquet, a plastic syringe, and a small vial.
"I am always gentle, young man," she teased, and wrapped the tourniquet around his forearm.
Silent after that, she obtained the sample, carefully disposed of the syringe and trash in a small, portable hazardous waste container that she also carried with her, and put a small adhesive bandage on his arm. Patting his hand, she stood to leave.
"You get some rest now, okay? I'll be back to check on you later."
He tiredly agreed, and she packed up her things and left the tent. Outside, she peeled off the gauze mask and took a deep breath of the desert air. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back and rolled it on her neck, trying to dispel the tension she felt there. God, how could something like this have happened? She stood there for several minutes, then squared her shoulders and marched off to find Bernstein, and do what had to be done.
"Quarantine? You're not serious!" he shouted, jumping up from the table he had been sitting at. "It's just a cold, right, or the flu? Why on earth do we need to quarantine the whole camp?"
"You need to quarantine the camp because Eric is a very sick man, and there's a good possibility that he's got a highly virulent disease. I need to have this blood sample flown back to Khartoum now, and have the lab rush the results back right away. And I need to use your radio, too, to get in touch with my clinic."
"Why do you need to contact them?" Bernstein asked. "To let them know the blood is coming in for tests? What kind of disease do you think he has, anyway? How the hell could he have gotten something like a 'highly virulent disease' out here in the desert, anyway? Do you really know what you're doing, or do we need to get someone else out here to look at him?" The questions flew at Callie, and by the time he got to the last, pointed attack, her eyes were blazing. Her voice, however, was calm as ever.
"Let's take it one by one, then," she replied softly, and the deadly calm in her voice served to silence Bernstein much better than any shouted reply would have. "I need to contact them, because they have to contact someone else for me. That 'someone else' is the World Health Organization, because if Eric has what I think he has, they're going to want to get out here as fast as they can. And if you think that I'm being unreasonable about quarantining Eric and the camp, just wait until you have to deal with them. They'll shut you down and lock things up here faster than you can blink. And as to what I think he has, I'd rather not say, at least not until we get the lab report back. I don't want to cause a panic. Not now, anyway," she added. "And yes, I do know what I'm doing. I know exactly what I'm doing, and you should be thankful you got a doctor out here as quickly as you did."
Bernstein was silent, as her volley of words hit him with military precision. For once, he was speechless, but she wasn't yet done.
"And as to how he got whatever it is he has, I need to ask you a couple of questions about a statue…"
Bernstein groaned, and the fight went out of him. He visibly slumped, running his hands through his hair and closing his eyes. He sagged into the chair.
"Have a seat, Doctor, and tell me what you need to know."
A half hour later, the pilot was on his way back to Khartoum with a foam container holding the vial of Eric's blood, and a sample of the fluid from the statue that Bernstein and Hamid had procured days before, and put aside for later analysis. The pilot was under strict instructions to take the samples directly to Callie's clinic and wait there until the doctors gave him further instructions. Grumbling about the 'damn bossy woman doctor,' but happy to get the generous tip from Bernstein, he climbed aboard the chopper and was soon on his way.
Bernstein, Hamid and Callie watched in silence as the helicopter flew away to the northeast, its loud rotors fading off into silence as it became no more than a black speck on the horizon. Callie sighed, and turned to the two older men.
"Care to show me where that radio is?"
Anderson was sitting at the desk in his sparsely furnished office in a nondescript Washington, DC, building when the phone call came in from the World Health Organization. Answering the phone, he listened as the caller spoke, his face growing paler and paler by the minute. Finally, when the caller had finished, he shook his head, uncertain if he should believe what he had just been told.
"You are sure about this? Really sure?" he knew what the answer would be, but he had to ask. They had just sent one of their best agents to the damn dig, and now this…
The answer from the other end was affirmative, and he rested his forehead against his hand, propping it up with an elbow on the desk. What next?
"But there hasn't been an outbreak in what—six years? How did this happen, anyway?" Like they'd know, he thought, and apparently the voice agreed. "Well, never mind. I have to contact our agent in the field there. Thank you for letting us know. I know that the Americans at the site will be happy that you've alerted their government, so we can protect their interests as best we can…
"No, no, of course we won't be sending anyone else in. I'm just going to let our field agent know what he's walked into. He will be under strict orders not to share this information with anyone else, so don't worry."
Hanging up the phone, Anderson let out an audible groan. God, Connelly had just called hours before, to check in with Anderson and let him know that he'd be out of touch for the next twenty-four hours, after which he'd be at the dig. There was no way to contact him now except through the messaging system, and that could take hours. Connelly might arrive at the site by then, and if he was there, he was stuck. Well, thought Anderson, with this new little development, he'd have had to go in, anyway, so maybe it's just as well. But still, he needed to know what he was walking into.
Sighing, he picked up the phone and began to dial Connelly's messaging number.
It was full night, and the camp was asleep, when the shadowy figure crept silently from the ring of tents and made for the open desert. Used to the ritual by now, he moved swiftly and efficiently to distance himself enough to not be heard. Unpacking the satellite phone, his nimble fingers made quick work of the set up, and soon he was connected to his contact in Tripoli.
"I have news," he said, the Arabic flowing smoothly from his tongue. "A new development, and a potentially valuable one."
"Speak of it to me," his contact ordered, and the man continued, pleased at the note of anticipation he heard in his superior's voice. If this was indeed as important as he thought, not only would he achieve the respect of his comrades, but possibly an increase in status among them, as well.
"There has been an outbreak of illness in the camp," he began, quickly adding, "it is isolated, and efforts are proceeding to keep it so. But I overheard the doctor talking to Bernstein today about contacting the World Health Organization, so naturally I made arrangements to listen to her when she did so. The conversation was quite interesting," he finished, waiting for a few moments, to make his words more dramatic.
"They sent two vials of fluid to be tested for a specific disease," he went on, giving each word an almost theatrical emphasis. "One was the blood of the stricken man, and the other…the other was a sample of the fluid they suspect may have caused the infection. This fluid was found pouring from a statue located in a subterranean grotto in the Pyramid of Ahm Shere." He nodded to himself as his superior interrupted, barking out a question.
"Yes, I did indeed say 'pouring from a statue,' and no, I do not have any idea what the fluid is," he answered slowly, trying to keep a tone of respectful deference in his voice. If he knew what it was, didn't his superior know by now that he would share that information? "The camp is now under strict quarantine. No one is to leave until the lab results are returned. But think, if this disease is what they suspect, and the source is fluid leaking from the statue, we could obtain it ourselves and use it against the infidels in our Holy War…"
The voice barked out another question, even more impatiently this time, and the man had the answer ready. Indeed, this was the question he'd been waiting for, and he answered with almost evil glee.
"The disease? Yes, the doctor mentioned the name of the disease to the World Health Organization, although she would not tell the archaeologists. She said she didn't want to cause a premature panic." He waited again, to obtain the maximum shock value. "The disease she is worried about is dire indeed; even if it is not that specific disease, it is at least a close enough cousin to the suspect virus to cause great concern.
"It is Ebola."