Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

“I’m going to have a bourbon and water as soon as I’ve changed,” June announced. “There’s wine in the fridge if you’d rather stick with that. Make yourself comfortable while I go change clothes.” She hurried into the master bedroom and closed the door.

The kitchen area was open. Doug found the bourbon and made them each a drink, his a double. Once the shooting was over he had noticed a tremor in his body from the adrenalin rush that still hadn’t gone completely away.

While waiting on June to return, he called Gene Bradley. “Should I report it?” he asked after telling his story.

“I’ll take care of it, Doug. I doubt there’ll be much fuss raised. Those two weren’t the only deaths. A lot of whites were pulled from their cars and lynched before the police could get on it. Whites started retaliating, then the police had to fire on gangs from both sides to break them up. Hell, they even had to shoot two of their own black policemen who were taking part in the riot, as the media is calling it.”

“Thanks, Gene. I’ll be in tomorrow morning, first thing, but call if you need me before then.”

“No problem. See me when you get here.” The phone clicked dead as he heard the bedroom door opening. June came back in, wearing jeans and a short white blouse ending at her waist.

“I went ahead and made your drink. I put it over ice. Hope that’s all right.”

June sat down beside him on the couch and picked up the glass. She sipped then smiled. “Perfect. Want to turn on the TV and see what they’re saying?”

“Yes, I would,” Doug said. Regardless of Gene’s assurance, he wanted to know if the cops were looking for him.

If they were, it wasn’t apparent. All the reporting was centered around the residential and small business area where most of the violence had occurred. It wasn’t yet known exactly what had set off the rampage, other than the increasing number of blacks becoming ill or dying—while whites remained completely immune. Most of the businesses in the area had been looted then set on fire. A few were still blazing and a pall of smoke hung over the whole area.

“Someone leaked that information!” June said when the anchor began telling how the Harcourt virus had spread around the world as much as two years ago, then remained dormant until the present.

“They must have. I haven’t heard that yet, even as a rumor.”

“We just learned it a few days ago, but for the life of me, I don’t know why we were required to keep it secret. I can’t see where that helps a damn bit!”

“I’d bet it was being suppressed to give our politicians time to come up with a good answer for why it wasn’t caught back then. And by now, I’d also bet they know its origin.”

“Why wouldn’t they release that information if they know? It seems to me like that would ease some of the unrest.”

Doug shook his head and grinned cynically. “Not if it’s our own people who started it, they wouldn’t.”

“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.

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!”