Darrell Bain: The Melanin Apocalypse

There was no real spark there. They were fast friends, though she was nominally his superior.

“How many of us should I plan on supplies for?” Bob asked, holding his stylus ready. His PDA was on the table in front of him.

Amelia thought. “Four infectious disease specialists, two doctors, June’s gang and I think all of Doug’s squad.”

Doug sat up straighter. Amelia must be worried to want the whole squad. These teams usually took less than a half dozen security specialists. “You want my whole squad? Is there something I don’t know?”

“Doug, I’m not sure of anything at this point. Call it a hunch, but I’ve got a feeling about this one. It’s new, the symptoms are unlike anything we’ve seen before and despite Bob’s disclaimer, I don’t like that thing about it affecting only blacks. No, let me take that back. Right before I came from the office, I saw where a couple of Indians from Calcutta had come down with it, so it probably isn’t confined to people of African descent, just those who happen to have dark skin.”

“How dark were they?” Bob twiddled with his PDA, obviously somewhat uncomfortable with the subject matter.

“I have no idea. Anyway, that’s about it, so far as facts that we’re sure of.”

“How many so far?” June asked.

Doug liked the way her voice sounded. It had a pleasant, melodic tone to it. She was pretty, too. Too bad she didn’t seem to take to him.

“It’s gone from a dozen or so a week ago to over three hundred hospitalized now and many more beginning to show symptoms. The clinics have long lines in front of them. A few dozen deaths so far, but according to my sources, none of the sick are showing any signs of recovery; on the contrary, they’re getting worse. We’ll be wanting to take level one precautions until we know more.” Amelia had decided not to bring up what the virology laboratory director had told her; that there was a possibility the virus could have been tinkered with. She wanted to wait until they knew for certain, one way or another. No sense in letting unfounded rumors get started.

The other three groaned at the mention of level one precautions. In the tropics, the protective suits were burdensome and hot and very uncomfortable, especially when worn for long periods.

“We’ll be leaving as quickly as we can, so get your people briefed and check with Bob for anything extra in the way of supplies you think you might need. Plan on the day after tomorrow at the latest. I know this is kind of rushed, but that’s what we’re here for. Any questions?” She scanned the three faces. No one responded. “All right, same time tomorrow morning we’ll meet again and see where we are.”

Doug rose from his seat. He gave Amelia a mock half-salute and strode quickly away, his mind already in overdrive, mentally running down his checklist of the things he would need to do to get his squad ready.

There weren’t many items on the list. Most of the squad were retired military, all professionals, all trained by him personally to be ready to go at an instant’s notice. Two days? Hell, they could be ready in two hours if they had to. Something else was on his mind, too; Bob Handley. Before they parted, Handley stopped him with a touch.

“Doug—for some reason this scares me, the thought that only blacks are falling ill. If I buy the farm, will you see to the family?”

“Of course, but don’t worry; just make sure you wear your biosuit and you’ll be okay.”

Handley’s earnest black face held a graver expression than Doug had ever seen; ordinarily, he was cheerful almost to a fault. And he was such a good friend that they could honestly discuss race relationships and cultural attitudes with none of the intellectual posturing so common when the subject usually came up.

Doug remembered very plainly when he first became aware of racial differences. He was five years old and not yet in the first grade when he stumbled while racing along the sidewalk near his home. He fell and skinned his knees. The old black man who did yard work for the neighborhood helped him up while Doug tried to hold back the tears . Big boys don’t cry! He remembered his Dad’s admonishment but sometimes it was hard to keep the tears inside.

“You okay, little man?” The white haired old man asked, while brushing him off.

Doug nodded, unable to speak. His chin was quivering.

“You a big boy,” the old man said, his smile showing a gold tooth.

Doug nodded again, feeling better. It really didn’t hurt that much.

From out of the blue came another question that he didn’t understand at first. “What you rather be, a black man or a white man?”

For the first time, Doug really looked at the old dark skinned gardener. His shoes were split and taped.

A much used leather belt held up equally worn and patched jeans. His shirt was stained and wet with the pungent odor of dried sweat and his cap was a shapeless mass. But what Doug noticed most was his color and the way his face held a reservoir of old sadness that was never absent. He didn’t laugh and sing and wear nice clothes like the black men he saw on television. He was very dark, almost black, and Doug remembered now that a lot of other people were dark, too, like the woman who came to clean house every week or two. He thought of his playmates and how they were all white. He thought of his parents and their friends. None of them worked outside all day in the yards or mopped floors. He hung his head, ashamed, somehow, but his child’s mind had no idea why. Yet he knew the answer to the black man’s question. From hundreds of overheard jokes and conversations a cultural bias had already soaked into his little mind. He didn’t really want to say anything but his parents had taught him to always answer when an adult spoke to him.

“White, I guess,” he muttered, looking up at the old man.

“Me, too,” the black gardener replied in a soft voice. He seemed to be looking at something far beyond them, something out of sight. “You go home now, get them knees doctored.”

Doug thought he had never seen anyone look as sad as the old man, even when he smiled. “Yes, sir,” he said as he nodded his head and turned back toward home. In a moment he was running again, but not from excitement or playfulness. He was running to escape an unknown menace, something he didn’t understand but knew was threatening.

He never forgot that episode, and even as a child, he began observing how blacks and whites treated each other and by the time he turned thirteen, he knew that blacks were considered an inferior race. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t agree with the prevailing attitude of his white friends and his parents. He didn’t speak out openly very often, being shy and reclusive. He was considered a bookworm by many of his peers. It wasn’t until he was grown and in the army that he began voicing his opinions at times and places he thought were appropriate, but it seemed as if he had always known it was an unfair situation for black people and even as a child always tried to treat blacks as politely and with as much consideration as any one else.

Bob Handley was the only person other than Doris he had ever told that story to. Remembering it, he patted Handley’s shoulder, but was unsure of what else he could or should say.

Handley finally smiled at him. “You’re a good man, Doug. I hope you come out of this okay, too.”

“We will,” Doug assured him again. But now he began to worry.

June lingered after Bob Handley and Doug Craddock had hurried away. This would be her first mission after returning from her extended leave of absence.

Amelia smiled warmly at her. “I’m really glad to have you back, June. I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to talk to you before now. How are you doing?”