The Melanin Apocalypse

by Darrell Bain

  “June!” For long seconds he could think of nothing else but her. Tears leaked from his eyes. A rifle butt jabbed him in the shoulder, bringing him back to his senses.

  “Doug, we’ve gotta get out of here before they get us, too!”

  Doug knew the woman was right. He didn’t even remember her name but for the moment she was thinking clearer than him. There was nothing he could do but agree. And do it. Ducking and crouching, they retreated, picking up a few stragglers along the way. A few minutes later his force hooked up with the platoon still holding the treatment facility. And here he found most of the medical staff, come down to help defend their patients. He searched frantically, but could see neither June nor Amelia, nor anyone else he recognized from the admin building. They were either dead or captives.

  “Look!”

  It seemed as if the voice came to him from a far distance. It jerked him back to reality. Doug’s chest heaved as he tried to bring his attention back to the situation at hand. The remainder of the security force and what staff had escaped were depending on him for direction. His gaze followed the pointing finger of the man who had spoken. As he watched, parachutes began filling the sky.

  * * *

  “Goddamn motherfuckers. They coming in heavy, preacher. Here and the airport both,” Fridge Greene said, flipping his phone closed. He wiped at the trickle of blood coming from beneath the bandana wrapped around his head.

  Qualluf’s body was wet, too, but with sweat. The building they had captured had lost electrical power during the fight and a spring day in Atlanta can be the equal of high summer farther north. They were in trouble, but he wasn’t done yet, not while he had captives. “How many made it here before they cut us off from the main body?”

  “Not enough to hold this place, preacher. We have to let them know we got captives, then deal.” It was all Fridge knew to do now. Either that or kill the captives and go down fighting. He stared at the black skin of his forearm. They were dead men anyway; that gave them an advantage in negotiating.

  “All right, see if you can get in contact with whoever’s in charge of the rest of those miserable, death-dealing bastards. Make sure they know we got plenty of prisoners.” He grinned, showing his two front teeth with the diamond-embedded initials, CB, for Church of Blacks. “And make damn sure them whiteys know how many women we got. And what we got planned for them if we don’t get no cure.”

  Qualluf was well aware of the prevalent bias of white men when they thought of their women having sex with black men, and particularly prejudiced were southern men, which he figured many of the opposing force would be. This was Atlanta, after all, and the Army had always had a higher proportion of men from the Deep South than from other parts of the country. He showed his teeth again. Just let him hint at rape and see how fast they rolled over!

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Sir, we’ve regained contact with Colonel Christian, the brigade commander of the unit that parachuted into Atlanta.”

  President Marshall looked up at Lurline from his desk, irritated at having been interrupted during his perusal of world casualty figures from the Harcourt and Goldwater viruses. Then he remembered. The CDC. Perhaps he could get a later update. “Good. Have someone talk to the CDC director and get me the latest uh… morbidity report. He rolled the phrase around his tongue to get it out. Uttering the words gave him a feeling that he was on top of the situation and knew exactly what was going on, though only a few weeks ago he’d had no earthly clue what a “morbidity” report entailed, except perhaps something about death.

  “Uh, sir, I’m sorry, but it seems that part of the CDC is still in the hands of the rioters.”

  “Well, damn it, can’t Mary—I mean, um what’s her name, the woman that replaced her, spare a few minutes to tell us what’s going on in the rest of the world with these viruses? Isn’t that the agency that gathers them?”

  “Yes sir, but… Amelia Foster, along with most of the administrative staff, have been captured by the mob.”

  “Goddamn it, Lurline, what did General Newman send those troops to do—sit on their ass? Aren’t there enough troops to re-take the place?”

  “I assume so, sir, but the blacks are threatening to kill all the hostages if we don’t meet their demands.”

  The president felt color brightening his face. His yellow phone rang once and its bright yellow light began flashing. He reached for it, punched the hold button and turned back to his Chief of Staff. “Isn’t the CDC

  staff mostly clerical workers and such? Can’t they be replaced?”

  “I suppose so, sir, but… well, it wouldn’t be a good thing politically to have them slaughtered because we won’t negotiate?”

  Marshall looked at the flashing yellow light again. Whatever it was, it could wait a moment. The red phone was the only one that demanded immediate, unqualified action and he hoped it would never ring.

  In the meantime… “Look, Lurline, we can’t have a bunch of black apes holding our most important health facility hostage, and never mind the clerks. Tell the Brigade commander I want it back in our hands within forty eight hours or he’s gone.”

  “But I can’t…”

  Marshall sighed. Always problems. Suddenly he thought of a solution. “I’ve got it. Let the vice president handle the situation. Just tell her she has to have it settled within two days or the army does it for her. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll go tell her right away.”

  “Good, but stay close. God knows what that yellow light is about.” He plucked the phone from its cradle, while thinking how smart he had been to give the Atlanta problem to Marlene. If it turned out well, he would get credit for being a good administrator. If the shit hit the fan, it would be the vice president’s fault. Either way, the CDC would be up and running again in a couple of days or heads would roll, not even counting those of the hostages.

  General Newman was on the other end of the line. “Mr. President, I have confirmed reports that China is attempting an invasion of Taiwan. I’ve spoken to Willingham, for what that’s worth, and he suggests it’s an effort on China’s part to divert attention from the health and economic crisis on the mainland. I didn’t know it until just now, but the Chinese have had a banking collapse.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes, sir, according to Willingham. The State Department always gets financial reports first, even before Tomlin’s people. Can’t we do something about that?”

  “Maybe later. How serious is the situation?”

  “Pretty bad. China’s threatening to use nukes if Taiwan doesn’t spread her legs and be raped quietly, but it looks as if the Taiwanese are going to defend the island anyway.”

  “What do you want to do, Borland?”

  “I say let ‘em fight, sir. Taiwan won’t be a pushover, and if China goes nuclear, I think Russia will jump in. So much for China.”

  “How sure are you that we won’t have to get involved?”

  “Sure enough to give you that advice. If they start mixing it up, Russia won’t get off scot free. We could get lucky and wind up with both of them so battered that neither is a threat to us any longer, either economically or politically. Mr. President, I think if we just sit tight, we may wind up in charge of every part of the world that matters. At any rate, it’s worth taking the chance. We’ll hold on to the African nuclear facilities and cooperate with Israel on the oil fields. Once the virus runs its course, we can work with England and split up Africa between the three of us. And this time, by God, we won’t let the jungle bunnies have any say in how we run the place if there’s any of them left. They haven’t the intelligence.

  Look how they fucked up the whole continent once the colonial powers left. If we and every other bleeding heart nation on earth hadn’t kept pouring money down the drain there, they would have gone back to mud huts and grasshopper soup long ago.”

  President Marshall didn’t have to think long to give his approval. If he and the General Newman could keep the United Stat
es functioning, they could have the whole world in their hands within a few years. By God, those viruses are the best thing that’s happened to the country since kicking Mexico’s ass way back before the Civil war, he thought with a smile. He ran the various scenarios and how they might play out through his mind for a few moments, then turned his attention back to the morbidity reports, picking up from where he had been interrupted. He had learned to read them after a fashion, if not completely, and it was looking good.

  The infection curve for the Harcourt virus was beginning to show signs of peaking, but the numbers of infected blacks and Hispanics were very satisfactory. The CDC was projecting a sixty per cent mortality for blacks in the United States and that was only for the initial infection. Below that curve were figures for secondary infection rates, taken from antibody studies. It predicted that most of the rest of the blacks and darker skinned Hispanics would become infected, though it might be another year or two before they started dying if the disease followed the initial pattern. Never mind, there was time, and having to wait just meant he could keep Martial Law in effect that much longer.

  The Goldwater virus was even more promising. Marshall actually smiled when he interpreted those figures. The ragheads would be finding out very shortly that their God wasn’t so great after all.

  Goddamned pagans, sticking their asses up in the air to pray. What kind of religion was that? Serves them right, he thought.

  The president didn’t notice the expression on John Dawson’s face when he smiled over the morbidity reports. He was so used to having the Secret Service agent there five days a week that he rarely noticed him any more except for the special, private conferences when he made him step outside.

  Dawson knew what the papers the president was reading contained. He had been there when an aide dropped them off with the words “Latest morbidity reports, sir.”

  * * *

  Doug sent two couriers to try contacting the commander of the army troops, to apprise him of the situation in the CDC admin building. It was an agonizing, three hour wait, while he kept his troops on guard against further incursions toward the part of the CDC complex he still held. The wait was complicated by the ache in his leg. Painkillers were in short supply and he had given his morphine packet to the doctors for use on the more seriously wounded. He passed along explicit instructions to not fire unless fired upon and the shooting gradually slowed to a halt. When it did, he sent a courier over to the administrative building, waving a white flag. In the meantime, he tried to ignore the noises drifting across from the transient apartments, where the few unbroken windows had been opened to let in some air.

  Apparently the invaders were sacking the apartments, and by the sound of it, had found enough liquor to turn the looting into a party. The man bearing the white flag had disappeared into the admin building and not yet returned.

  The firing from back where the army paratroops had landed continued, but eventually one of the couriers made his way back, along with a captain in fatigues that still retained a bit of a crease. A staff officer, Doug knew immediately. Nevertheless, it was a contact and that was what he had been hoping for.

  He got painfully to his feet as the captain was led into Gene’s office, now his by default.

  The captain looked around as if searching for someone with an officer’s insignia sewn on a fatigue collar.

  Doug waited him out. Damned if he would give him the satisfaction. Finally the officer said “You’re the commander here?’

  “That’s right, Captain. Doug Craddock.” He had to force himself not to touch the seeping wound on his forehead where a concrete chip had struck him.

  “I’m Captain Saflin, Mr. Craddock. I thought there was a former colonel in charge. Where is he?” The question was posed as if couldn’t imagine why a commanding officer couldn’t be as clean and alert as he was. Certainly he wasn’t envisioning anyone with a dirty face streaked with a mixture of blood and sweat and a bloody bandage on one leg.

  “He was killed in action, so you’re going to have to be satisfied with a former major. Shall we get to business? The people holding the hostages are probably getting impatient.”

  “What is it you want, Mr. Craddock?”

  “I want to save some lives, if I can. The CDC director is a captive, as well as most of the administrative staff. I want the army to hold off while I negotiate with them.”

  “Mr. Craddock, our mission is to restore order to Atlanta and regain control of The Center for Disease Control. We are in the process of restoring order to the city. The CDC comes next. I’m sorry if hostages get hurt, but our orders leave little leeway for negotiation.”

  “At least hold off until I find out exactly what the situation is in the captured buildings”

  Captain Saflin cocked his head, listening. “It sounds as if a drunken party is going on in one of them.”

  “That’s the living quarters. I’m not worried about what happens there. It’s the staff we need to save.

  They’re needed to run this place.”

  “I’m sorry, but…”

  A knock on the door interrupted them. Doug’s envoy to the admin building entered without waiting to be told to come in. He began talking immediately. “Doug, they say they’ll negotiate, but they want the man in charge. I guess that’s you, now. They said you can bring one person with you and to come unarmed.”

  “How about the staff? Are they still alive?”

  “I saw some of them, Doug. They’re scared to death, but don’t look like they’ve been hurt yet, other than the ones that tried to fight. Some of them are dead. I saw…”

  “Never mind, Ben. Wait on me outside and you can go back with me.” Doug very carefully refrained from asking who had been killed. He dared not think of June while he had everyone else to consider.

  “You heard the man, Captain Saflin. Would you like to come with me?”

  The officer looked as if he had been asked to jump off the top of a tall building without a parachute. “Uh, no. I need to report back to Colonel Christian. I’ll tell him what you said, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “Wait a moment then. I want to send someone with you to report back to me.” Doug went to the door.

  “Ben, round up a volunteer to go with Captain Saflin here to the Army command post. Bring whoever agrees to go back here quickly.”

  “Got it, Doug.”

  Doug noticed the look of disapproval on the officer’s face. He forced a smile. “What’s wrong, Captain?

  Not used to first names from subordinates?” Immediately after he had spoken, he wished he could take the words back. There was no sense in antagonizing the man. “Never mind,” he amended. “We’re pretty informal here.”

  Before Ben returned, the desk phone rang. Power to the building was out, but the phone lines were still intact. He almost dropped the phone when he picked up the handset and heard who it was.

  “Office of the Vice President of the United States calling for Colonel Bradley.”

  Doug took a deep breath, suddenly feeling out of his depth. “This is Bradley’s assistant. Doug Craddock.

  Colonel Bradley was killed in action, so I’m in charge.”

  There was the barest hesitation. “One moment please.”

  While he was on hold, Doug said to the captain sotto voice “Sir, please wait here. I believe this call may interest you.”

  A moment later he heard a voice that sounded like the vice president he had heard on the air, yet subtly different. She’s not speaking to an audience, that’s the difference, he decided.

  “Mr. Craddock, I’m told you are in charge of the defense of the CDC now.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Fine. I could offer condolences for Colonel Bradley, but I imagine we have more important things to talk about. I understand some of the staff are being held prisoner?”

  “Yes ma’am. Amelia Foster, the director; her assistant, and an unknown but large portion of the administrative staff. I’ve sent a couri
er over with an offer to negotiate for their release.”

  Doug thought he detected a note of relief in her voice. “Good. I’m going to give you a phone number that connects directly to my personal phone. Take it down, please.”

  Doug wrote while she carefully read off the numbers.

  “I’ve got it, Ms. Vice President.”

  “It’s Mrs., please. I was married, you know. Now Doug—it is all right to call you Doug isn’t it?”

  “Certainly ma’am,” he answered, feeling a sense of warm regard for the vice president course through him.

  “Fine. Now then Doug, I’ve just been in contact with the brigade commander in Atlanta and ordered him to try his utmost to free the hostages without bloodshed, despite the havoc those people have caused. In a way, I can’t blame them.”

  “Neither can I, Mrs. Vice President,” Doug responded. And deep down, he couldn’t.

  “Good. Colonel Christian told me he had sent someone back to you with a courier you dispatched. Is he there yet?”

  “Yes ma’am. Captain Saflin is standing by right now.”

  “That’s wonderful, because I’ve temporarily lost contact with the colonel. Let me talk to the captain, please.”

  Doug handed over the phone. “It’s the Vice President, Captain Saflin.”

  He saw the officer stiffen as he listened, despite an expression that grew ever more disapproving the longer he held the phone. Finally he turned it back over to Doug.

  “Doug Craddock, Mrs. Vice President.”

  “Doug, I’ve given the captain orders to return and tell Colonel Christian to contact you as soon as possible and to follow your lead in the negotiations. Please try to get this settled without any more violence.”

  “I’ll do my best, ma’am.” He hesitated, but felt he had to ask. “Ma’am, is there any chance these rumors about government involvement are true?”

  “Doug, I can only say that from conversations I’ve had with the president and our national security director, the government was not involved. Now I’ve got to go. Do your best, and thank you for helping.