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In the deadly power struggles of 1963 Africa,
a CDC doctor must grow from pawn to hero.
A half dozen small grass huts appeared in the distance as the car approached. The double row of gold and brown huts accentuated the pale blue sky. Quintessential Africa. Beautiful enough for a magazine. The man stopped the car just outside the village and flicked his hand, shooing Liam from the car. This had to be the site of the illness. There wasn’t any obvious sign of life—no children ran around, no chickens pecked the dirt, no dogs lounged in shaded doorways.
Liam opened the car door. Even as a resident, he’d never felt this ill-prepared before seeing a patient. He didn’t even have a stethoscope. He hoped Dr. Okimba had supplies. Liam’s feet barely hit the baked earth before the driver pulled the door closed and the Packard’s tires shot pebbles into the air.
As the broken muffler’s roar diminished, another sound took its place.
Screams.
Liam opened the car door. Even as a resident, he’d never felt this ill-prepared before seeing a patient. He didn’t even have a stethoscope. He hoped Dr. Okimba had supplies. Liam’s feet barely hit the baked earth before the driver pulled the door closed and the Packard’s tires shot pebbles into the air.
As the broken muffler’s roar diminished, another sound took its place.
Screams.
