Read The Last Twilight for Free Online Page B

Someone who should not exist.
    “I know this,” Amiri whispered, looking beyond the still shot of his shifting body to the photograph’s background: dry grass, acacia trees, a blue horizon. Kenya. He remembered the day. These were the pictures that had ruined his life.
    “There’s a note,” Eddie said, hoarse. He held out a folded slip of paper. Amiri hesitated, and took it. Swallowed hard. Looked down.
    Welcome home, he read. Two words. No signature. More than enough.
    Max was right. Things were going to get very ugly, indeed.

Chapter Three
    Two days after the outbreak, and they were still fishing bodies out of the river.
    It was night. Stars in the sky, ribbons of them, with light enough to illumine wet bodies, skin that glistened as the shore of the river thickened and heaved and the waters filled with blood.
    Rikki waded, thigh deep. Biohazard suit on, surgical mask and goggles firmly in place, three layers of latex gloves secure over her hands. Hot as hell. Her head swam. Sweat poured from her hairline, down her back. She needed a drink. Soda, vodka, orange juice—anything wet that was not this river, not the fluids leaking from the eyes and ears and noses of the men, women, and children sprawled and floating on the shore and in this shallow inlet, which had offered some protection from the raging dragging current just beyond.
    The flashlights were not enough. Rikki said, “Oh, Jesus. Oh, Mack.”
    “Shut up,” muttered her colleague, hoisting a small body into his arms. “Shut up, please.”
    Rikki kept walking. Earlier, men had screamed at her to get out. Men had yanked on her arms and tried to carry her. Crocodiles had already killed twenty people in the aftermath of recent floods; the bodies here would be an easy lure, despite the crude nets anchored around the affected area.
    Bodies in the water. No way to stop the contamination.
    Her worst nightmare. If Ebola—assuming that was the killer—could be transmitted in semen up to twelve weeks after clinical recovery, then water would be little different. Everyone—everyone who depended on this river—was royally screwed.
    Teams had already gone downriver by pirogue to check the health of local fishermen and farmers, as well as look for any dead monkeys like the ones in the forest surrounding this place. A small military force had also been called in, as well as the Red Cross and any other international organization that could keep a secret. So far, no one had turned up a thing. No sign of another outbreak.
    Not yet, she thought. The virus could still be incubating. For many, the Congo River was a means of livelihood as well as the only water source for miles. No one would be able to stay away for long. Not without the wrong questions being asked.
    She turned and watched Mack hand the dead child to another aid worker. There were less than a hundred volunteers in camp, not nearly enough to handle the deceased, but all they could gather in a short time—and the only people they could trust not to get themselves killed. It took a certain kind of person to work with Ebola victims. Control freaks were the best.
    “You know,” Mack said, catching her eye. “I’ve been thinking about those notes the doctors left behind. The river makes sense.”
    “Yeah?” Rikki shone her light across the water, illuminating her colleague as he moved close. Doctor Mackenzie Hardson was a big man, and underneath his gear all gray—gray hair, gray eyes, gray T-shirt. Only his skin had color, but not much. He was pastier than rising bread dough, and almost as soft.
    His goggles were foggy with condensation. “Think about it, Rikki. The excessive fever, raging thirst— complaints from patients that they felt like they were on fire, that their blood was boiling. The medical clinic was overrun. People would have come here as a last resort to bring down their fevers. Problem is, they were too far gone to get out.”
    It did, indeed, make sense. Rikki briefly closed her eyes.