The Melanin Apocalypse

by Darrell Bain

  “Edgar, why are we helping a nation that’s committing genocide? I know the Israeli government is denying they have anything to do with the Arab virus, but we know better, don’t we? So why?”

  President Marshall answered her, truthfully. “Marlene, we didn’t choose to have that situation thrust on us on top of the problems we already have at home, but since it was—well, we can’t let the nuclear plants contaminate the world, nor can we allow the oil fields to go untended. Despite all our efforts, we’re still dependent on Middle Eastern oil, and so are our allies.”

  The vice president nodded, face impassive, and Tomlin continued.

  “All right, now to South America. The Harcourt virus is loose on that continent too, of course, but it’s spreading a bit slower due to the remoteness of some areas and transportation difficulties. Our intelligence from there indicates that it would take a major effort on our part to secure the nuclear power plants because of so much antagonism against North Americans and so much of the population still alive.

  The virus isn’t killing as high a proportion of Hispanics as it is blacks, but it does get all the dark skinned ones—and there’s plenty of them in South America. Or were, but the ones left are so angry that we don’t dare show our faces. Our recommendation is to ask the United Nations to send troops.”

  “You’re living in a dream world, Edgar,” General Newman said abruptly. “Don’t you realize how many of the peacekeeping troops used by the U.N. have always come from countries with a high proportion of dark skinned people? Besides, even the countries that are still functional are having problems of their own, just like we are. You won’t get much help there.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  The general shrugged. “If any of the South American nuclear plants go, the fallout will stay below the equator, according to our meteorologists. They’ll either have to take care of the plants themselves or suffer the consequences.”

  Vice President Santes winced, a visible expression. She knew the general was right, but she failed to see how anyone could be so blasé about human life and the ecology of a whole continent. She started to say something, then realized the others were looking to her for a comment, simply because she was Hispanic.

  As if where her great grandparents were from gave her some special knowledge of a whole continent, she thought. A typical stereotyping so common to politicians. And to humanity in general. Skin color and national heritage were ever present in American affairs these days and there was no way to avoid it, distasteful as it was. “Isn’t Brazil a Portuguese culture? Doesn’t it have a high proportion of whites?”

  “Not enough to sway the rest of them far enough to allow our troops into the country. And I haven’t got them to spare anyway.”

  Santes eyed the general. He was the type of person who took the hard realities of military affairs and applied them to every single aspect of life, whether they were a good fit or not. He cared nothing about people, only how they affected the military. But it was useless to say anything. Perhaps when Marshall left office she would run for the presidency. In the meantime, she had little influence on the direction of government and it was senseless to pretend otherwise.

  President Marshall tapped his fingertips on the table. “Let’s move on, it’s getting late. What else do you have, Edgar?”

  “Just Russia. I think they’ll hold together, but I can’t say as much for some of her neighbors. I think we may have to ask them to keep some sort of order there, much as I hate the thought.”

  “All right. Do as you think best, but don’t let them get the idea they’re going to become a world power again. Do you agree, Cantrell?”

  The new Secretary of State nominee still felt out of place at the seat of power and was reluctant to voice his opinion, particularly since he thought both the president and General Newman were making decisions the vast majority of the electorate would disagree with, and the rest of the world would be aghast at.

  Some of what they said he considered little short of criminal. There was one point he agreed with, though. “Sir, I concur with the decision to let the Russian government handle any unrest or destructive situations on their immediate borders. But can’t the Europeans help?”

  “If they’ll spend the money and supply the troops, certainly. I doubt seriously they will, though. They’re as broke as us.”

  “And don’t have much in the way of armed forces anyway. Too much spending on welfare.” General Newman commented, thinking to himself they were getting what they deserved now.

  “Suppose I try and see what I can come up with?”

  “Fine, you do that. What else?”

  Cantrell Willingham had the impression that the president was catering to him, but he pressed on, furrowing his high patrician forehead with the kind of wrinkles women thought attractive on older men.

  “Sir, I’d like to at least try to improve relations with the South American states. I’ve already ordered our ambassadors to approach the appropriate governments to inquire about the attitudes and feelings of their citizens. If we can…” He was interrupted by the vibration of his personal phone, the one he carried so that he could be notified immediately of emergencies in real time. “Excuse me, sir. This must be another bad crisis.” He listened for a moment and hurriedly hung up when he saw the irritated look on the president’s face. Apparently he had violated protocol by taking a call in the Oval Office.

  “That was our embassy in Brazil. Their army just took it over.”

  “What! Damn it, that’s an act of war!” General Newman roared. “Edgar, damn you, why weren’t we warned?”

  Tomlin shrank from the General’s wrath. He didn’t have a clue. Almost all of his field agents were busy in the Middle East or Africa, trying to keep abreast of problems there. “I don’t know General, but I’ll find out.”

  President Marshall got to his feet. “Gentlemen, Marlene. It’s late. Let’s break this up and reconvene in the morning. General, keep me abreast of any decisions you make about our armed forces.”

  It was a dismissal.

  The vice president was thinking furiously as she hurried back to her own office. It sounded to her as if the president and his Chairman of the Joint Chiefs were in collusion, making decisions and taking actions that in calmer times would only have occurred with congressional consultation and approval. She reviewed the articles of martial law as she understood them. Most people might think it gave the president unlimited powers, and it did to a certain extent—but only within the country’s own borders. It had nothing to do with the rest of the world. When Santes arrived at her office, she began looking over her own intelligence reports to see if they were in agreement with the presidential briefing.

  * * *

  General Newman hadn’t mentioned what was going on in Atlanta during the briefing. He hoped to get the situation under control again now that the army brigade, less one battalion, had parachuted into the suburbs and the Marine battalion was rolling down the interstate in that direction as rapidly as possible.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  By nine o’clock in the morning Doug began receiving both casualties and stragglers from the company of soldiers guarding the approaches to the CDC complex. Seeing the exhausted white faces above the collars of their army fatigues, streaked with dirt and rivulets of sweat, along with the blood and agonized sounds of pain, revived flashes of memory from combat he had seen in the past. He shook off the images and tried to help as best he could.

  He sent the casualties into the ward where patients with the Harcourt virus were receiving experimental treatment. Those not too seriously hurt were bandaged and thrown back into the fight with his own men.

  He allowed no objections. Usually all it took was mention of the fate they would suffer should the complex be overrun—and that there was no place to retreat to.

  The able bodied soldiers were hustled to the barricades, thrown up as far from the complex as possible.

  He hoped they could stop the onslaught be
fore the mob invaded the CDC buildings, but he was beginning to suspect they weren’t dealing with a disorganized mob, as first thought. The soldiers reported the attacks on their positions bore a resemblance to standard infantry tactics rather than attempts to overcome them with sheer numbers and madness. He reported that observation to Gene, who was making rounds of all the posts, using his presence to encourage the troops to hold fast.

  All morning the gunfire had been growing in volume, becoming louder as it got closer. An hour ago, the single transport chopper attempting to bring in reinforcements to the company of soldiers went down in flames from a direct hit by a missile. He watched the whole thing, seeing his rising hope of relief vanish quickly as the streaking trail of the shoulder fired missile tracked directly into the chopper. From what he saw, there couldn’t possible have been any survivors.

  “Goddamn bastards!” Buddy Hawkins, the former Marine, exclaimed from where he was checking the light machine gun bunker. “So much for the army getting us some help.”

  “Maybe not,” Doug said. He left Buddy and went to check on the next barricade. But no other helicopters appeared overhead and the last he heard, the airport was still in the hands of the rampaging blacks. No communication was being received from there, boding ill for the airport staff. As he went about his rounds, he had a fleeting thought that it was too bad the CDC complex was so close to several of the largest black communities; had it been situated on the other side of the city he thought they might have gotten more help from the white citizens. He quickly dismissed the wishful thinking; it did no good at all.

  Back at his combat headquarters, set up just outside the front entrance of the science building, he put a finger over his ear to help him hear what Amelia was saying on his phone.

  “Doug, we’re taking fire in the administrative building! Can’t you do something?” Her voice was strained with fright and worry.

  “Which direction is it coming from?” Doug’s own voice, calm up until now, almost broke over his own worry. He hadn’t heard from June. So far as he knew she was still with Amelia.

  “We’re on the west side of the Administrative building. All the windows are shot out on this floor. Doug! I can see soldiers! They’re running back this way!”

  “Stay down and hang on! I’ll send some troops. Are the staff down on the first floor?”

  “Yes! I can hear them shooting from here!”

  “How about the spotter I put up there?”

  “He’s dead. I sent someone up to check on him and they said he took a bullet in the head while he was trying to see what was happening.”

  Doug gritted his teeth and asked the next question. “How long ago did that happen?”

  “A half hour ago. Doug! The soldiers aren’t stopping! They’re running right on past!”

  “You and June stay down, Amelia. I’ll try to get you some help.” Damn it all, Amelia should have reported it when the spotter was first killed. For the last half hour he had been assuming they were safe from attackers coming from that direction. There was no use blaming her, though. She wasn’t military.

  And where was Gene? He should have been back by now.

  “June isn’t here. She went down to join the others defending the entrances.”

  His heart bounded around inside his chest at that, but there was nothing he could do except wish he hadn’t been quite so precipitous about taking her to the firing range that one time. What he had been hearing was mostly rifle fire. What in hell did she think a popgun of a revolver could do against assault rifles? He knew he was raging at himself instead of her, but something had to be done quickly and the admin building was far removed from his position. He thumbed his phone, wanting to talk to Teresa and see if she had any troops left in reserve, and whether she had seen Gene. He got no answer and cursed, then tried the platoon leader who should be next nearest to the administrative building. He felt a sense of relief when someone answered this time, but only for a moment.

  “Branklin, Post three,”

  “Roy, Doug here. We’re in trouble at the admin building. Can you send some troops to help them?”

  “No. Goddamn Army bugged out. I’m trying to collect stragglers and put them on the line here to keep us from being overrun. I was just getting ready to call you for help.”

  Doug felt as if an arrow had impaled his heart. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think of something else to do. There was nothing. He had to steel himself to keep his voice steady. “You’ll have to hang on, Roy. Make sure everyone knows what’ll happen if they get taken, if they don’t already. If we can beat them back on the other side of the complex here, I’ll try to get some help for you.”

  He thumbed the phone off and continued calling. Bullets began striking the improvised bunker, smashing holes through the piled up furniture. He ducked lower, shielding his body in the shallow hole dug beside the sidewalk leading into the science building. He knew in his heart that their forces were too thin to prevent the complex from being overrun if the attacking force was willing to accept enough casualties.

  The only part he had a chance to save was the security and treatment buildings, and the science building where he had placed his combat headquarters and the heaviest defenses. It was the one area that absolutely had to be held. If necessary, he would put the scientists themselves into the fight. Better to lose a few of them than the whole bunch, and he had seen to it that they were armed.

  From the direction of the admin building he heard the explosion of a rocket propelled grenade. He shuddered, hoping the enemy didn’t have many of them. His own supply was limited and the men who knew how to use the RPGs were limited, too.

  A momentary lull in the fighting allowed him to leave his headquarters in Martha’s capable hands until Teresa returned. He was thankful Martha was back, even with one arm still in a cast. He ducked and ran with his rifle ready, heading for the next barricaded entrance where communication had ceased. Just as he dived for its shelter, a burst of automatic rifle fire kicked up concrete shrapnel as it walked along the sidewalk. A number of the concrete chips got him in both legs and the forehead, but it was a bullet in the calf that sent him tumbling. He hung onto his rifle with grim determination and slid into the narrow depression behind displaced earth and landscape timbers. Shovels to dig emplacements had been surprisingly hard to come by.

  “You’re hit, Doug!” One of the men said as he rolled over to reload his rifle.

  “I’ll manage. What’s happening here?” Then he saw the sprawled bodies behind him and how few were still defending this entrance. He had almost turned away, then jerked his gaze back to the bodies. One of them was Gene Bradley, his head almost severed from his body by what must have been shrapnel from an RPG. He looked away quickly, feeling his gorge rise. Always the good ones, he thought sadly.

  “The phone got hit and Gene bought the farm and we haven’t had time to call anyway. We were damn lucky to stop them this time, but we can’t do it again. Get us some help!”

  While intermittent gunfire raked their position, Doug wrapped a bandage around his leg to slow down the bleeding. The troops fired back whenever they had a target. His leg was beginning to throb but there was no time to worry about it. Think! He told himself. This was the transient apartment building where he doubted anyone was still left inside. Gene’s last order had been for all non-combatants to gather inside the science building. The administrative building was a bad position to try to defend, but if the transient quarters couldn’t hold, he could at least take the troops when they abandoned it and use them to try to rescue the occupants of the admin building. And June.

  “All right,” he said, coming to a decision now that he knew for certain he was in charge. “We’re going to abandon this building, try to hook up with the admin site. We’ll get everyone there, evacuate the wounded, then all of us fall back to the treatment and science buildings. Maybe we can hold those and our security center.”

  The man in charge of the post nodded, then let loose
several quick, three round bursts of rifle fire. “I’ll pass the word,” he said. “Just tell me when. And it better be damn soon!”

  “Give me a lot of covering fire for five minutes,” Doug answered, “then run like hell to the rear entrance here. I’ll gather everyone else along the way and we’ll try to get to the admin building. You try to hold here long enough to cover us when we retreat from there with the staff. Got it?”

  Another nod.

  “Give ‘em hell!” Doug shouted as he jumped up and broke into a run. Bullets chased him despite the covering fire, making all too familiar noises as they displaced air near his head and gouged holes in the brickwork adorning the ground floor of the building. Chips of brick joined the shards of shattered glass piling up from shot-out windows.

  By the time Doug flattened himself behind the bullet riddled bunker at the back of the building, his leg was bleeding copiously again. He tightened the bandage even as he counted heads, then had to duck as a fusillade of shots came from near the admin building itself. Two of his men were hit. The others crouched behind what cover they could find; the bunker was too small to contain them all. He took a chance and raised up far enough to see, using a whole clip on automatic fire to keep heads down over where the shots had come from. His heart sank as he saw a whole swarm of black men in civilian clothing break from concealment around the corner of the building and rush the entrance. The few defenders fell quickly, then the blacks took cover inside and behind the captured post and began shooting back at them, putting out a volume of fire he couldn’t hope to match. More blacks cascaded from around the other corner and he knew it was hopeless. The building was lost, along with everyone who might still be in it, including June and Amelia.