Free Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller: Book 3 by Bobby Adair Page B

kids, you were making a difference.  When you were helping in the hospital after the outbreak, it probably seemed like everything we did was futile, but you were helping.  Now, Africa is stabilizing.  People are still dying.  Who knows what will happen politically.  In Africa that always means militias and murder.  But we have help here at the hospital.  You met some of the volunteers when we were down in the wards earlier.  All the volunteers are survivors like you.  They’re just like you would be, a pair of hands.  There’s nothing you can do here that these people can’t do for themselves.  If you really want to make a difference, go home.  Go to med school or something.  Take what you’ve learned here and make the world a better place.”
    Austin didn’t know what to say.
    Mitch leaned forward and tilted his head at Dr. Littlefield.  “I think the doctor drank a little too much.  Listen, as long as everyone is going to give you advice, I will too.  Go home.  Hug your sister.  She’s all the family you have left.  Help out if you want, but when this is all done, finish school.  Get a good job.  Find a pretty girl.  Have some kids and live a happy life.  Don’t come back to Africa.  I think things will be screwed up here for a generation or more.  Forget all the shitty stuff that happened to you here.  Remember the good things you did, and remember the things you tried to do.  Remember the good things about your friends—the ones who lived and the ones who didn’t.  That’s your recipe for happiness.  Go home.”

Chapter 15
    Larry looked at the screen on his contraband cellphone to see who was calling before he answered it.  It was the only person who ever called.  “Hey Jimmy.”
    “Larry Dean, my brotha’.  What’re you doing?” The signal was clear and Jimmy’s voice came across without static, very uncommon in the airwaves of late, as parts of the system had failed and hadn’t been repaired.  “Larry? You there?”
    Larry didn’t feel like anybody’s brother.  Since his conversation with Millie, he’d been brooding on his junior partner share.  No, not even that.  Larry was getting paid like the hired help.  “I’m here.”
    “You okay? You don’t sound good.”
    Larry looked around his hooch—camp slang for the dumpster-sized metal box that served as his private, modular dorm.  He didn’t like it.  It had no windows.  No fridge.  No bathroom.  It was big enough for his metal-frame bed and tiny table.  A television was mounted on the wall at one end of his bed, but it only received three snowy broadcast signals, no cable.  He hated being in the camp.  “Doin’ my part.”
    “You sound pissed.”
    Looking at the phone, Larry nodded emphatically and stretched his face into the same expression he mocked the special ed kids with back in his elementary school days. 
    “You feeling okay?” Jimmy asked.
    The bag of serum slowly draining into his arm caught his attention, and Larry said, “I’m taking a bag of N.”
    “Type N?” Jimmy scoffed.  “You don’t need type N.  You infused a bag of K when you took that job.”
    “You’re not in camp.” Larry hardened his tone.  “Sick people everywhere.  I’m not gonna let Ebola kill me, Jimmy.  I see what it does.  We burn a pile of bodies, prisoners and dead patients, out by the east fence every night.”
    “You had a bag of K.” Jimmy’s voice was calm and slow.  Condescending.  Just like the counselors back in high school.
    “Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid.”
    “I’m not saying you’re stupid, Larry.  All I’m saying is you’re wasting good product.  You had a bag of serum from a type K infection.  You’ll get immunity to all the strains.  At least all of them so far.”
    “I’m not taking any chances.”
    Jimmy sighed.
    “You do what you want.  I’ll do what I want.”
    “Okay.” Jimmy paused.  “Did you have any problems with Millie after I fired