In the large open room where Hannah had taken the samples, he found rows of dead bodies. Some held wooden crosses at their chests, their eyes closed. Others stared upward, glassy-eyed, at ceilings fans that sat idle. At the back of the room, body bags were stacked against the wall, a black plastic staircase of human death that led nowhere. Flies swarmed.

There were no unopened or unused medical supplies. No uneaten MREs. The room told the story of a medical mission slowly losing its battle against disease. They had bagged and burned the bodies for as long as they could, then had focused on the ones they hoped would survive. And then they had pulled out.

Millen was certain he would find no survivors here. Or food.

He wandered the halls after that, peering into the patient rooms, being thorough, looking for any clues or observations he could take back to Atlanta. He found only dead bodies, all with the same hemorrhaging, jaundiced eyes, and signs of severe dehydration.

Suddenly, he heard a rustling. Just down the hall from him, boxes fell to the floor. He raced toward the noise, moving as fast as he could in the bulky suit. At an open doorway, he peered in.

Empty.

Something darted from beneath a rolling cart. It dashed toward him, between his legs, and out into the hall.

Millen stepped back and turned quickly. A bat-eared fox. The sight of the animal filled him with excitement. He’d read about them before the deployment, but had never seen one. He would have loved to have seen it up close. The small fox fed mostly on termites and other insects—spiders, ants, and millipedes in particular—but also occasionally ate fungi or small animals. They hunted not by sight or smell, but sound, their large ears helping them locate even the smallest insects on the sprawling savannas of Africa. They were mostly monogamous, and the male, not the female, took the lead with caring for their young.

Another bat-eared fox emerged from the room, followed by another. That made sense; they were highly social animals that typically hunted in packs.

Behind him, Millen heard a door creak open. To his shock, an African man stood there, leaning against the door frame. He was weak, barely alive. But for the first time since Millen had entered the hospital, a living set of human eyes stared back at him.

The survivor tried to take a step, but his legs were unsteady. Millen was at his side in seconds, offering his hand to steady the man.

“I’m Millen Thomas. With the CDC.”

The middle-aged African surveyed Millen’s face through the suit’s helmet. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Elim Kibet.”

Millen knew the name. “You’re the physician in charge here.”

Elim smiled weakly. “Was the physician in charge here. I’m just a patient now.”

“I think you might be the last one.”

“I was afraid of that.”