Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

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.