by Darrell Bain
“Oh,” June said, almost a whisper. “Is that what you think?”
“I wouldn’t put it past some of the nut cases we have running around the country. The run of the mill white supremacists would have needed some help, though. I doubt many of them have an IQ over room temperature.”
“Small consolation. Another drink?”
Doug drained his glass. “A single this time.”
June got up to make them.
Eventually they had seen all they wanted to of the local news and switched over to national. It was a continuing litany of how the disease was spreading, interspersed with interviews of pundits and politicians, all taking positions that they didn’t necessarily believe but thought would enhance their status or reelection prospects.
“Doug, I think I’m ready for bed,” June said a while later. “Come on and I’ll show you the other bedroom, though you’re welcome to stay up later if you like.”
“No, I want to get up early in the morning.”
June walked into the bedroom with him, showed him where towels and a spare toothbrush were kept, then before leaving, put her arms around his neck.
The kiss went on a long time, much longer than June had intended. When their lips finally separated, she whispered shakily, “Good night, Doug. Thank you again.”
“Good night, June.”
* * *
Doug didn’t hear the door open but the movement of the mattress when June slipped in under the covers woke him. He felt her arm slide around his waist and her body snuggle up against his back. He started to turn over but she gripped his forearm, then found his hand. Her voice stopped any further movement.
“Shh. Go back to sleep. I just couldn’t stand to be alone tonight.”
In a little while he heard her breathing slow as she drifted into sleep. It wasn’t that easy for him, with the softness of her breasts pressing against his back and her small hand clasped in his.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mustafa Jones had once been a preacher. He still preached, but over the years his sermons had gradually evolved away from their roots in the Baptist ministry. Several years ago he had completely broken from the Baptists and founded his own sect. It had grown slowly at first, but once he began espousing the mantra of blacks as underdogs it had gone much better. Now he was being asked to merge his following with the much larger Church of Blacks, headed by Qualluf Taylor, his own personal hero. Taylor crusaded for black political power, laws that demanded equal sentencing for equal crimes, more representation in the legislatures from local to national level, low cost housing and every other hot button initiative even remotely pertaining to blacks. Now there was more politics than religion in the Church of Blacks; Qualluf Taylor paid only token respect to it in order to continue its tax-free status while he sought more and more money and power. Mustofa had already agreed to accept the invitation to merge his sect with the bigger organization.
The Harcourt Virus was almost made to order for Mustafa and other black religious and political leaders—had it not been so universally fatal. As soon as it appeared, and the fact that only blacks caught the disease, When Mustafa began railing for total war against whites everywhere on earth, but particularly in the United States, he was following the lead of Qualluf Taylor and the Church of Blacks.
Mustafa Jones was a big man, not running to fat yet, even though he was in his fifties. He was very dark, with hair and short beard beginning to gray. He stood behind the lectern on a raised platform which had been erected only that morning in the old Pines Park area of Shreveport, Louisiana. His permit to demonstrate had been granted, then revoked, then quickly approved again by the mayor and city council after a crowd began gathering downtown around the courthouse.
Mustafa was sermonizing now in his best fashion; waving his arms, shouting to the skies for justice and denigrating everything in the world with a hint of white to it, with the possible exception of vanilla ice cream. “…and I tell you, brothers and sisters, the White Man is the cause of this latest outrage against our people. He has loosed this foul disease among us. Why else should it only attack black men and women?” His voice rose to a near scream. “I ask you, why? Why?”
“The White Man created this abomination and I tell you this, brothers and sisters, the White Man is still spreading their so-called Harcourt Virus.” He emphasized White Man with a furious shake of his fist every time he spoke the words
“Harcourt virus!” He spat. “It’s not a Harcourt virus, it’s a black virus, dreamed up by the white power structure and designed to kill us all! They’re spreading it all over the world. The whites are attempting to wipe out the black race completely and finally, like they’ve been trying to do for the last five hundred years!”
Mustofa strode back and forth behind the lectern, wireless microphone to his lips. He paused to wipe sweat from his forehead and to shuck his jacket. “We have to stop this foul and odorous affliction the White Man is spreading, killing our husbands, our wives and children. We have to stop them, and there’s only one way to do it, brothers and sisters! We have to take the war to the whites. Yes! Yes! It’s war, plain and simple. White men started this war against blacks! We can’t let them win! Can we? Can we let them win?”
A huge rolling chorus of “No! No!” erupted from the crowd. Mustofa led the chant while he wiped his face and loosened his collar. He rolled up one of the sleeves of his shirt. He went back to his haranguing of the white race, but his voice began to falter. Sweat poured off his body, dripping from his chin and soaking his shirt. He began rolling up his other sleeve, then stumbled against the lectern. The microphone bumped it with a loud knocking noise that was amplified almost to the level of thunder.
“Kill the whites! Kill them all,” he managed weakly, then had to grip the lectern with both hands to keep his balance. His face shone wetly under the lights. His lips trembled as he attempted to continue speaking.
“I… kill…” The microphone fell and bounced on the flooring, making a curious drumming noise. His grip on the lectern slipped and he slumped to the plank floor of the dais. The lectern tipped and fell as he rolled onto his back. Aides scampered to help him while the crowd noises changed from organized chanting to a cacophony of muttering. That changed too, after someone shouted over the low rumble of voices.
“He got it! Mustofa got the Black Virus!”
Shouts and cries rose into the air. Someone pulled a pistol and fired into the air with the shout of “Kill!
Kill the Whities!”
The carnage in Shreveport began with that first pistol shot. Frightened black women gathered their children while their men either pulled out concealed weapons or hurried back home to arm themselves, with guns if they had them, knives if they didn’t. Shots began to ring out at the edge of the enraged crowd. A white policeman fell with a bullet to the head. An enraged brother officer, seeing his partner lying dead with a bullet in his brain, pulled his pistol and fired wildly into the crowd. The bullets hit several women and children, but none of the armed men.
Of the police detail which had been assigned to monitor the demonstration and keep order, only a handful survived and they were all black. The ones who tried to stand with the white officers were lynched right along with them and that quickly put a stop to aid from that direction. Within fifteen minutes it was all over.
After the police in the area were disposed of, there was nothing to stop the violence. Before the night was over the city was split in half between armed and warring groups of blacks and whites. Neither of them showed any mercy.
The governor of Louisiana called up the National Guard, but by the time the fighting was quelled, the casualties were well over a thousand, with several times that number wounded and whole neighborhoods burnt to the ground. Even the venerable charity hospital that treated mostly black residents had been overrun and almost all of the white doctors, nurses and workers on duty slaughtered. One other hospital suffered the same fate. The police department itself was fractured and no longer
effectual because of fighting between black and white officers. In the ensuing chaos, no one paid any attention to the fact that Mustofa Jones had died from a heart attack, not the Harcourt Virus.
* * *
June was gone from his bed by the time Doug woke up. He used the bathroom and brushed his teeth with the borrowed toothbrush, all the while thinking of the previous night and wondering where it would lead, if anywhere. He ran his comb through his hair and ventured out toward the enticing smell of frying bacon.
“Good morning,” June said. “I was just about to knock on the door.” She smiled prettily, though a faint blush appeared on her face.
“Good morning. I hope you’re cooking for two.”
“I am. Sit down and I’ll pour you some coffee. How do you take it?”
“I can get it.”
“’Sit down’, I said. I haven’t cooked for a man in a long time. Let me enjoy it.”
“Just black, then.” Doug pulled out a stool at the bar and watched as June poured the coffee and continued preparing breakfast. Before long he was seated next to her at the little dining table, digging into toast with eggs over easy, bacon and hash browns.
As they were finishing, June said “I’m sorry I woke you up last night. I had a bad dream and couldn’t go back to sleep. I kept seeing that boy trying to pull me out of the car.”
“It wasn’t a bother at all,” Doug responded.
June lowered her gaze, then raised it again. “That was the first time I’ve been in bed with a man since Charlie was killed. Even if it was just sleeping.”
“I know how it is. It was well over a year before I went out with a woman and almost another year before I thought I was ready for a relationship. I was wrong even then. Doris was… well, you’re probably not interested. Suffice to say I had a good marriage. That kiss last night was more enjoyable than anything else I’ve done with a woman since she died.”
June favored him with an assertive nod. She began gathering the breakfast dishes while trying to push away the faint feeling of guilt over her attraction toward another man. She couldn’t decide whether she was being disloyal to Charlie’s memory or not. Shouldn’t a good marriage in the past mean something positive about how her emotions were being stirred now by the presence of a man who had also had a good relationship? She watched him covertly as Doug rose to bring his plate to the sink then stayed and rinsed while she placed them in the dishwasher. She stood indecisively afterwards.
“Do you need to stop by your place before going to work?” she finally asked.
“Yes, but if you want a lift, I can wait until you’re ready.”
“I do. It won’t take me long. I reported my car stolen, by the way.”
“Probably a good idea. Need any help packing?’
“No, I’ll get what I need for now. Thanks.”
A few minutes later he carried her suitcase out to his car and stowed it in the trunk. Before leaving, he said “All I need to do is get a quick shave and pick up a couple of my spare pieces at my place. It won’t take but a few minutes, but I’d rather you stay inside here or come with me to my place until I’m ready to leave.”
“I’ll come with you.” June locked her door and they began walking around the corner of the unit to Doug’s apartment. “What did you mean spare piece?”
“My other guns. And June—I don’t know what you think about weapons, but I’d sure feel better if you carried one with you from now on.”
“I don’t have a license. And I wouldn’t know how to shoot anyway, even supposing I owned a gun.”
“I doubt anyone is going to be checking licenses for a long time to come. And I can not only teach you to shoot but I’ll give you something easy to handle. There’s an indoor range that we use right near work.
That’s where most of us practice.”
“Well… I guess so. I hope I never have to use it, though.
“I sincerely hope so, too.”
Once back in the car, with his face freshly shaved, Doug had just inserted the key into the ignition when June placed her hand on his arm. He turned, brows raised.
“Doug, before we leave… I want to be kissed again.” She leaned toward him.
Several long moments later, while their tongues were still playing warm games with each other his hand moved over her breast and cupped it gently. June tensed for a second then relaxed and enjoyed his touch. She had to almost force herself to finally break the embrace. She rubbed her cheek against his and laughed softly.
“Look at us, making out in a car like teenagers. And I still feel a bit guilty about it.”
Doug took a deep breath and looked directly at her. “I hope that doesn’t last. And I’ll confess I feel somewhat like a teenager right now, so I have an excuse. How about you?”
“I think we’d better get going if we’re going to go at all. One more like that… never mind. It was nice enough to repeat in detail another time, but not now.”
If he wasn’t floating on air on the way to the CDC, Doug couldn’t have proved it, because he certainly felt like he was. He wondered what it was about the woman beside him that had finally stirred something in his soul besides simple sexual desire.
* * *
With the elimination of overseas missions, and with the private security guards and federal marshals now under his command, Gene Bradley combined the small squads into four contingents of just over a hundred men each, now referred to as platoons. Each platoon would be responsible for an eight hour shift of guard duty each day, with the platoons rotating on a three weeks on, one week off schedule. It was similar to how the military might have handled it, which didn’t surprise Doug at all. He had been placed in charge of one of the four platoons and was with the other three platoon leaders in Bradley’s office getting the latest briefing.
As usual, the former Colonel got to the point quickly. “In case any of you haven’t been listening to the news, several cities now are in a state of virtual war between blacks and whites. There’s a pitched battle going on right now in northern Louisiana and the governor has called out the National Guard. The upset here in Atlanta has been put down, but the city is still a powder keg. Any little incident could set it off. I want you to emphasize to your men to think before they start shooting. Not every black face is an enemy, nor even most of them. On the other hand, this may very well be the most important medical facility in America right now. It must be protected at all costs. I’ve recommended that an army battalion be assigned to help us, but so far it hasn’t been approved.
“I hope it is soon, because the information has just been made public—leaked, I should say—that the Harcourt Virus was first released two years ago and has probably infected a good percentage of the world’s population—and that it definitely had a human origin. I don’t have to tell you what that’s going to mean. The infection curve is still rising and the morbidity is still one hundred percent for blacks—or dark skins, I should say.” He lowered his gaze for a moment. “Call it prejudicial if you like, but I want you to avoid putting anyone with dark skin in positions of authority.” He caught the disquiet at that remark and clarified his statement. “It’s not that I don’t trust our people but if this thing continues, I want continuity in the chain of command and that’s the only way to have it.
“Folks, this is going to get much worse before it gets better. It’s showing up in India and the Phillipines, and also in China, though I doubt it will reach catastrophic levels there as it will in Africa. That whole continent is rapidly slipping into complete anarchy, with whites being hunted down like animals. That, by the way, is why we may not get any army people here for a while. They’re busy as hell evacuating as many of our people as they can from overseas, Africa primarily, but also from the Middle East.”
“Until we see just how far this goes, you’re going to have to stick close and keep your men here. We’ve got a limited number of transient apartments available. You can announce that to your troops and have them apply over in the adminis
trative building if they want to bring in their families. If they run out of room in the transient apartments, you’re authorized to bring families to your own quarters. Just keep them busy with something and out of our hair.
“Now I’ve given you your assignments. Three weeks on, one week off. The eight hour shifts will be rotated. Other than that, you can assign your men as you see fit.
“One more thing. I want each of you to send me five men, preferably ex-military who are familiar with heavy weapons. Machine guns and RPGs. I’m going to organize a heavy weapons detail. The National Guard here loaned us some surplus, so we’re well equipped. Doug, I’ve picked one of your men to head that up, Buddy Hawkins. I know he’s black, but he’s the best qualified and he’ll have assistants who can take over if he gets sick.”
Doug winced inside but his face showed nothing. Buddy was one of the few of his squad who had returned from Nigeria. He had planned on making him his assistant.
“All right, that covers it from my side. Questions?”
There weren’t many, and the few they had dealt with supplies of all kind for their men, now that no one was allowed to leave. Doug didn’t feel Gene’s answers were entirely satisfactory, but he knew the ex-colonel was doing the best he possibly could. There hadn’t been any contingency plans for this situation, not anywhere. There were several shops within the complex but few that sold what they would eventually need most; clothing, phone batteries, toiletry items and other essentials they were used to getting somewhere else. The briefing was finished within the next ten minutes.
Doug’s section had the second week off. At first he was annoyed because he wanted to try spending some more time with June and see what developed, but then after thinking about it, decided that allowing their relationship to simmer for a week probably wouldn’t hurt. But when he called June to tell her his schedule she sounded disappointed.
“Are you on duty the whole time? That sounds horrendous!”