The B Gene

by Carlos Hardy

  Chapter Twelve:

  The Escape

  Professor Green hovers over a radio in the librarian’s lounge, accompanied by Caleb, Bree and Micky. Static floods through the speaker directly after the President’s speech. Caleb smashes the radio to the floor, deeply enraged by the speech.

  “They’d better have a good reason for this,” he shouts out, noticing Bree staying still as a statue.

  “Unfortunately, they don’t.” She says bleakly.

  “I’m sure he isn’t telling us everything. My dad has always told me to remain hopeful and have a willingness to understand decisions… he was wrong.” Caleb looks out the window, noticing the soldiers are still rounding up black students for their trucks. “This isn’t a lottery; it’s genocide.”

  “What are we going to do, Caleb? We’re outnumbered.”

  Professor Green rises to his feet, attempting to locate some words of wisdom, but coming up short. Even Micky is keeping quiet after the speech.

  “I would go if I could,” Micky offers.

  “Yes, thank you for that.” Bree says, but the genuine moment is short-lived. She’s seeking answers, letting her mind run away with possibilities. “But why are we targets? We want to live our best lives as well as everyone else.”

  Caleb stares out the window, desperately trying to find an escape route, wondering how long it is until they’re found out. Professor Green lays a hand on his shoulder, garnering his attention.

  “I have a friend at the S.T.U.S.G.” He says.

  “Science and Technology?” Bree asks.

  “Yes. His name is Fitz, an old college alumnus of mine. He’s been working in Science and Technology for decades. If anyone has information on why this is happening, it’s going to be him.”

  “This is some racist shit, I tell you.” Bree says out loud, taking a moment to let the wheels in her mind move. She struts over towards Caleb, lifting his shirt as he stares out the window towards the tanks and soldiers. Her fingers trace over his skin, desperately searching for an answer to unravel this story.

  She thinks back to Caleb’s explanation as he reluctantly told her what had happened. She’s fascinated at the markings on his body. “What could this mean?” She asks.

  Micky walks over, tilting her head as she stares at the markings as well. She’s contemplating something while Caleb’s heart thumps in his chest, watching the students being shoved on top of one another like cattle. He balls his fists, shaking uncontrollably from rage. He can’t seem to move an inch, as though he’s silently paralyzed where he stands.

  Micky’s eyes widen as she kneels beside Bree. “Look at that,” she points, watching Caleb’s skin regenerate, a light mocha color replacing the pale skin spots.

  “Badass. How is he doing that?” Bree asks. “Caleb! How are you doing that?”

  Her voice forces him to break free from his raging trance. “What?” He asks. “Why are you screaming at me?”

  The pigment regeneration stops dead in its tracks. Micky notices the halt. “Wait, do that again.”

  Caleb lets his hands hang by his side. “Do what?”

  “This has got to be it,” Bree says, pacing back and forth, her mind hard at work.

  “I’m not following.”

  Bree lifts to her feet and looks out the window again, while Professor Green watches, his imagination running wild with the possibilities.

  “It’s literally something to do with our blackness. The storms, the Melanin experiment. This wrecks of a government cover up. Bitches!” Bree offers. “Cal, as your emotions raged, your pigment regenerated effortlessly.”

  “I’ve had this for years though.”

  “Yeah, but the regeneration of skin pigment isn’t scientifically proven,” Micky chimes in. “I mean, nowhere in scientific textbooks or research has this happened before.”

  “Guys, you’re just creating a narrative to fit this scenario.” Caleb says, trying to make sense of the situation at hand. “Bree, I explained to you, a long time ago, exactly what happened.”

  Caleb immediately regrets bringing it up, knowing he’ll soon mentally relive what happened to him that night. Professor Green steps closer to the window, then turns to Caleb.

  “She’s right,” he says. “Melanin has been one of our nation’s hidden resources. The government has experimented with it for decades, but has never been able to measure its strength. For a century now, we’ve laid the foundation for this moment. There were no answers until now, it would seem.”

  Green paces back and forth as if he were giving a speech in the classroom.

  “I know there has to be a connection with what’s happening out there, but how?” Bree asks enthusiastically.

  The chips begin to fall away. “There’s more to this,” Professor Green says. “The Akache program was something that my colleague had supervised. He never let me know exactly what the subject matter was, but I gathered my own analysis over the years.”

  “Akache?” Caleb asks, his eyebrows raised. “Sounds like an app for a video game. You’re not making sense, professor.”

  “I wish I could make more sense, but I know very little.”

  “So, this Akache program,” Bree huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “What is it about?”

  “The Akache program is something top secret created by S.T.U.S.G., but based on what I’ve been able to uncover, the Akache are who they are. They’ve never been seen or heard by anyone.”

  “They?” Micky asks.

  Green’s thoughts seem to drift away, and he pauses before continuing. “Yes,” he begins, “they’ve been here several times, I believe. They will stop at nothing until it’s done.”

  Everyone remains silent, waiting for him to continue or provide some explanation.

  “Make no mistake, they’re asking for one-million African-Americans now, but that number will climb until there’s no one left. That symbol on your back, it’s proof that it is the Akache.”

  “How do you know all this?” Caleb asks skeptically. “For all we know, you really could be insane.”

  “It’s not that hard to believe,” Green says, pointing towards the window. “Just look out there.” The tanks and trucks begin to rev up, planning to carry away hundreds of black students.

  “Caleb, he’s right.” Bree says. “You’ve heard the President. They want one-million African-Americans in the lottery. The melanin in our skin is obviously a commodity of some sort, but why?” That’s the million-dollar question.”

  “That, I can’t answer.” Green says.

  “Professor,” Micky tries to insert herself into the narrative. “Do we have a chance?”

  “Young lady, this isn’t just a fight against African-Americans,” Green says as his hands fall by the wayside. “This is a fight against all Americans.”

  “Look, I know it seems that way,” Caleb says, disinterested in the hypothetical jargon. “But that’s not how the rest of the country sees it.” He points towards himself and Bree. “We have targets on our backs. Those students out there have no choice in the matter, and they’re dead unless we do something.”

  “Caleb’s right, Professor.” Micky clears her throat. “You and I are safe as can be, but a fight against one is a fight against all.” Caleb and Bree nod in solidarity as Micky stands from the table. She throws her hair into a tight bun, shaking off her nerves in one motion. “So, what’s the plan?”

  Screams emanate from outside. They rush to the window to see what’s going on, witnessing students being violently forced into the tanks and trucks. They begin to take off down the deserted streets, leaving nothing behind.

  “You have to get to Fitz at Science and Technology,” Green says.

  “And how are we supposed to do that?” Bree questions, one hand on her hip. “Are you not coming with us?”

  “I’ll be a burden if I come with you,” Professor Green sits back on the floor, releasing a long sigh. “If we can get to my car at the
Douglas building near the student hall, you may have a way out.”

  “Any suggestions on how we’re going to make that happen?”

  Professor Green asks Micky to look out the window for him. “It appears as though there’s one tank remaining. Get around it, and you can make it to the Douglas building.”

  “We aren’t superheroes, Professor.” Bree states, leaning against a wall to ponder a different way out.

  Sitting in her contemplation, she watches in awe as the lights in the library turn back on. The lounge illuminates, and the few television screens light up to the national news channel. A black female reporter stands on the streets of Detroit, Michigan, right outside of a burning building. She’s visibly stressed, trying to usher away protestors that try to get in her shot and proclaim their rhetoric. Though they can’t hear much over the chaos, they can see African-American citizens in the background marching down the streets, and text rolling across the bottom of the screen: African-American civilians in protest to Congress’ Melanin bill.

  “It isn’t only Detroit,” the reporter’s voice finally cuts through the chaos. “Cities all over the country are erupting in protest and violent displays.”

  Protestors in the street wave signs stating No Lottery: It Is Not Black Friday, and Not My Melanin, among others. The reporter catches up with a woman on the sidewalk, vocalizing the issues.

  “How are you feeling about the new Melanin Experiment bill?” She asks the woman.

  “It’s a hoax. This is the government’s way of trying to rid the world of black people.”

  “What do you think the government plans to do with these one-million African-Americans?”

  The woman’s eyes fill with tears, affecting her voice. “They want to take us all the way back to slavery.” Her hand covers her mouth. “This can’t happen. We have to fight. All of us.”

  Aggressive protesters become louder with every chant, every single word. Crowds begin throwing stones through local business windows, pulling signs from every single store they come across. Police cars shine in the distance, red-and-blues flashing everywhere as their sirens blare through the cold streets of Detroit.

  The cameraman is busy ushering the reporter back towards the van. They rush, the camera shaking violently as they enter the rear doors of the van, taking in the chaos all around them. Young teenage boys rush up to their van, throwing stones through the windows, shattering the glass.

  Police-enforced roadblocks are mobilized in just about every African-American community, as the National Guard demands that no black Americans are allowed to leave their cities or towns.

  * * *

  The President watches the chaos from the safety of the White House. He sits with his Chief of Staff, Molly Burgess. Normally, she’d begin all conversations with the President, but today it appears as though he has much of the talking to do. She tries to approach from a different angle, rifling off statistics from her computer.

  “Your approval rating dipped 4%, but we’re seeing a GDP growth of a staggering 10%. Unemployment is steady at 2.7%.”

  He isn’t paying attention to a word she says. Instead, he rises and proceeds to the nearby window of the Oval Office. Molly continues her parade of statistics as the President comes out of his trance.

  “I’m sorry Molly, what was the last percentage?”

  “With all due respect, Mr. President, you should be elated with these numbers. No other administration has ever been able to maintain a low 2.7% unemployment rating.”

  “Do you think we’re on the right path with this?” He asks, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Yes Mr. President. 2.7%.”

  “No, I am talking about the Melanin Experiment.”

  Molly chooses her next words carefully, placing her computer down on the coffee table. “I can assure you,” she begins. “You had no choice. If it were me, I would have done the same.”

  “That’s the problem, Molly. You look like me, so there’s no difference.”

  “I’m sorry sir, what does that mean?”

  The President wanders over to a portrait of Abraham Lincoln hanging on the wall. He traces the colors in the painting, looking at every brush stroke, every different shade.

  “You think he would have bargained with them?” He asks.

  “Mr. President, we’re doing what’s best for all Americans,” she states, feeling bothered by his question. “Even if that means hurting some of them.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I think…” she starts slowly, approaching the President. “I think President Lincoln would have helped secure our country. And if he had to sell… bargain, with these galactic terrorists in order to save lives, he would have.”

  “At least you’re honest,” he says, shrugging on his coat jacket. Molly retrieves her computer from the table, frantically searching for more statistics to distract them.

  “Mr. President, the military has this under control. Besides, black Americans are very forgiving. The disaster that was Katrina is only a little over a few decades old. Yes, there are injustices in our country but there’s nothing like a pep talk to soothe tensions, and make them believe in you again. Sometimes you have to go out there and poke at the bear in order to tame it. These are the rules Mr. President. I try not to change them, I just enforce them. It’s only one million, right?”

  “That’s a million too many,” he says, getting close to Molly’s face.

  “You’re up for reelection in eight months,” she states meekly. “On the top of every American’s priority list is safety. You are keeping them safe.”

  “At what cost? There has to be another way.”

  The door opens as the President’s assistant enters quietly, leaving a folder on the President’s desk before quickly exiting the room. Even upside-down, he can make out the title The Melanin Experiment Legislation. Molly’s voice softens.

  “They will keep you as the President if you sign this. If you don’t, it’s going to be an uphill battle, Adam.” Molly walks to the door and grips the knob, hesitating for a moment. She’s been his internal adviser for over three years, and in that time, she feels as though she’s earned the right to add her two cents. “The entire country is counting on you. Do the right thing.” She opens the door.

  “Molly,” he calls her. She turns back, wonder in her eyes. “Why African-Americans? Why not a group of Africans from another continent? Africa, South America, Europe? Every other country is somehow okay? Why do they want our citizens?”

  “Mr. President, we’ve asked the same question, and come up short. That’s a question for Doley.” She replies a bit too abruptly, as if having the answer on standby. “Our top generals don’t even know the answer to that. All we know is this: they are dangerous, and can wipe us out. Their need for our citizens is a riddle, but there’s one fact that remains: we are the liaisons between them, and the rest of the globe. The world is watching your move, Mr. President.”

  Molly quietly exits the Oval Office, and the President is left to lift the folder from his desk. His shoulders slouch as he picks up the pen, signing his name to the bill. It’s official: The Melanin Experiment lottery will begin immediately, and one-million African Americans will be detained and deported to an unknown entity against their will in the days ahead.

  Chapter Thirteen:

  Let’s Hitch

  Hours after everything had begun on the political stage, Professor Green, Caleb, Bree and Micky sat tightly in their spots on the deserted library floor. The girls began packing up the very last of the rations they’d retrieved from the pantry, noting a distracted Caleb standing by the window. He appears lost, trapped in his thoughts about his family on the outside.

  Caleb approaches the multiple desks, still sporting landline phones, and picks up each one off the receiver one by one: nothing but dead tones. Caleb lifts one phone unit up, throwing it across the floor.

  “How did we get to this point?” He
asks, but Green keeps his distance.

  Caleb’s frustration seems fiercer than before, though in his moments of intimidating behavior, he begins to get a spark in his eye. He’s plotting a way out, slowly crossing over to the restroom door in the corner of the room. The others quickly follow him, spotting Caleb standing with his bare back to the mirror. He quickly shuts the door.

  “There’s got to be something to this,” he says. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  Caleb’s eyes trace the odd pattern on his back, wondering what they could mean. A quick splash of cold water on his face doesn’t provide him the relief he’d hoped for, and his rage is soon rising again. Though he’s never had a violent bone in his body, Caleb begins throwing hollow punches into the air, as if fighting off whatever was floating above them. His hands fall to his side as his eyes meet the mirror once again, tracing the features of his skin.

  “What is it about you that they want?” He asks the room, poking himself in the face, trying desperately to come up with an answer.

  He intently stares at the pigment in his skin. He’s always held a rich, deep mocha color, but now he’s noticing it for what it is, for the first time: power. He smiles, causing Bree to tilt her head. Caleb leans back against the sink and lifts his head upward.

  “Okay,” he whispers. “I’ve never believed that you existed. I’m hoping I’m wrong. I don’t know how this will end, but I will trust you to get us through this.”

  “Caleb?” Green asks, knocking on the door. “Are you okay in there?”

  “Yes Professor, give me a moment.”

  “We don’t have a moment. The tanks are moving. We need to act now.”

  Caleb pulls the door open quickly. “Where are they going?” He asks. “Where are they taking them?”

  Professor Green grabs Caleb by the arm and drags him into the main room. “No time for twenty questions,” he says. “Here are my car keys. You have to make it to the Douglas parking structure. It’s two buildings west of the student union.”