Fifteen minutes later, Peyton’s team was back at the tent complex. Peyton had placed the three villagers in a field isolation tent just in case they were still infectious.

She sat on the other side of a sheet plastic wall, watching the three Kenyans devour the MREs she had given them from her duffel. Though the sun had set, she was still sweating excessively.

Colonel Magoro sat beside her, ready to translate.

The teenage girl breathed in heavily after finishing the meal in the plastic carton. She looked up at Peyton and, to the physician’s surprise, spoke in English. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Peyton said. “What’s your name?”

“Halima.”

“Halima, can you tell me what happened here?”

The teen glanced toward the village. “They got sick. Coughing, sneezing. Like a cold. Then it passed, but everyone got sicker. Started dying. It happened fast.”

“Who was coughing and sneezing? Just a few people?”

Halima shook her head. “Everybody. All of us. All the others.”

Peyton pondered her account. If it was true, it would rewrite the pathogenesis of the disease. Whatever the Mandera strain was, it began as a respiratory disease, then progressed into a hemorrhagic fever. It was the ultimate killer—a virus that was highly infectious in the days after contraction, then extremely deadly shortly thereafter.

In the distance, she saw a figure suited in PPE advancing toward the village. She rose to find out what was going on, but Jonas was there, leaning against a tent pole, his hand held up. “It’s Hannah. She thought she saw something in one of the huts. She’s going to check it out.”

Peyton turned to Magoro. “Send some men to follow her. Tell them to stay outside the perimeter of the village and to bring night vision goggles.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Magoro rose and spoke quickly into a handheld radio. Seconds later, ten men raced from the tent complex toward the village.

Peyton held a tablet up to the plastic divider. “Halima, have you seen any of these three men?”

On the screen were pictures of the two American college graduates and the British man.

The teenager shook her head.

“Can you ask the others?”

Halima spoke in a language Peyton couldn’t place. It wasn’t Swahili; perhaps it was a local dialect.

“No. They haven’t seen them.”

“Thank you. Can you remember when people began getting sick? When did they die?”

Halima consulted the other two villagers. “Three or four days ago, maybe.”

“And the coughing and sneezing. How long ago did that begin?”

Inside the isolation tent, the three spoke hurriedly, arguing. “We’re not sure. Maybe a week. Maybe more.”

Peyton nodded. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful, Halima. The information you’ve given us may save many lives.”