Yesterday's evening report from the States had not been any cheerier than the lunchtime update. Another twelve cases had been reported in the U.S., and another three deaths-two children and an elderly matron from Palm Beach. Meanwhile, across the Amazon basin, disease and death were spreading like fire through dry tinder. People were barricading themselves indoors or leaving cities. Bodies were being burned in the streets of Manaus.
Kelly's mother had reported that so far no cases had yet arisen among the research team at Instar. But it was too soon to say they were out of the woods. The newest data, gathered mostly from cases in the Amazon, where the disease had a longer track record, suggested that the incubation period could be as short as three days or as long as seven. It all depended on the initial health of the victim. Children with poorer nutrition or parasitic conditions became sick faster.
As to the cause of the disease, a bacterial pathogen had been firmly ruled out by the CDC, but various viral assays were still continuing. So far, the culprit had not yet been identified.
Still, even as grim as the report was, there was worse news. Her mother had looked pale as she had spoken over the satellite link. "We now know that the transmission of the disease can be strictly airborne. It does not require physical contact:" Kelly knew what this meant. With such ease of transmission, a pathogen like this was one of the hardest to quarantine. And with the mortality rates so high . . .
"There's only one hope," her mother had said at the end. "We need a cure:'
Kelly reached to her canteen beside her hammock and took a long slow drink. She sat for a moment and knew sleep would not come. Moving quietly, she climbed from her hammock.
The guard by the fire noticed her movement and turned toward her. Still in the clothes she had worn yesterday-a gray T-shirt and brown trousers-she simply slipped on her boots. She pointed toward the entrance, wanting to stretch her legs but not wishing to disturb the others sleeping.
The Ranger nodded.
Kelly walked quietly to the shabano's entrance. Ducking through, she found Private Camera standing guard.
"Just needed some fresh air," Kelly whispered.
The female Ranger nodded and pointed her weapon toward the river. "You're not the only one:"
Kelly saw a figure standing a few yards down the path by the river. From his silhouette, Kelly knew it was Nathan Rand. He was alone, except for two Rangers positioned a short distance upriver, easily spotted by their flashlights.
"Keep a safe distance from the water," Private Camera warned. "We didn't have enough motion sensors to secure the perimeter and the river:"
"I will:" Kelly remembered too well what had happened to Corporal DeMartini.
Walking down the path from the roundhouse, Kelly listened to the jungle hum of locust song, accompanied by the soft croaking of countless frogs. It was a peaceful sound. In the distance, fireflies danced in the branches and zipped in graceful arcs over the river.
The lone spectator heard Kelly's approach. Nathan turned. He had a cigarette hanging from his lips, its tip a red spark in the night.
"I didn't know you smoked," Kelly said, stepping next to him and staring at the river from atop the bank.
"I don't," he said with a grin, puffing out a long stream of smoke. "At least not much. I bummed it from Corporal Conger:" He thumbed in the direction of the pair on patrol. "Haven't touched one in four or five months, but . . . I don't know . . . I guess I needed an excuse to come out here. To be moving:"
"I know what you mean. I came out here for the proverbial fresh air." She held out her hand.
He passed his cigarette.
She took a deep drag and sighed out the smoke, releasing her tension. "Nothing like fresh air." She passed the cigarette back to him.
He took one last puff, then dropped it and stamped it out. "Those things'll kill you:"
They stood in silence as the river quietly flowed by. A pair of bats glided over the water, hunting fish, while somewhere in the distance, a bird cried out a long mournful note.
"She'll be okay," Nate finally said, almost a whisper.
Kelly glanced to him. "What?"
"Jessie, your daughter . . . she'll be okay."
Stunned for a moment, Kelly had no breath to reply.
"I'm sorry," Nate mumbled. "I'm intruding:"
She touched his elbow. "No, I'm grateful . . . really.
I just didn't think my worry was so plain:"
"You may be a great physician, but you're a mother first:"
Kelly remained quiet for a bit, then spoke softly. "It's more than that. Jess is my only child. The only child I'll ever have:"
"What do you mean?"
Kelly couldn't say exactly why she was discussing this with Nate, only that it helped to voice her fears aloud. "When I gave birth to Jessie, there were complications . . . and an emergency surgery." She glanced to Nate, then away. "Afterward, I couldn't bear any more children:"
"I'm sorry."
She smiled tiredly. "It was a long time ago. I've come to terms with it. But now with Jessie threatened . . ."