Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ve already seen enough violence, even though I can’t feel one iota of sympathy for those brutes. I’m glad they had a military trial so the damn lawyers didn’t get involved and string it out forever.”

Doug stroked her back. “I am, too, even though that transcript of the proceedings we downloaded was fake.”

June sat up straight. “A fake? How do you know?”

“I was in the military, remember? I served on a court-martial once for an enemy alien guilty of murder.

I’m pretty sure at least parts of transcript were fabricated, if not all of it. For one thing, the timing was too convenient—right after the White House itself was overrun, and right when the origin of the virus and how many deaths it’s going to cause was getting into the media. There may not have even been a trial at all.”

“Surely our government wouldn’t—oh hell, that’s just turning my face to the wall. Of course they would.

What else made you suspect it?” She leaned away from him, far enough that she could see his face.

“The wording. Those guys are supposedly from Mississippi and northern Louisiana, but the phrasing attributed to them doesn’t ring true. Remember, I’m an old southern boy, even if I don’t have the same attitudes. The part of the transcript that has them ranting about how they were willing to die for the cause of White Supremacy sounds more like it came from the mouths of college graduates instead of high school dropouts like all but one of them are. Then further on, it goes back to sounding like something they would say, about the supreme court, abortions, gay rights and so forth, all in language about the level of fourth graders. It gives the impression that they’re about as bright as a bunch of door knobs, which is probably true. I doubt that any of them, except maybe the one with a couple of years of college, have IQs higher than room temperature with the air conditioning going. The transcript was a hurry-up job and they made mistakes. Hell, even that story about the CIA agents killed in South Africa while capturing them sounds phony. It’s more likely they turned them over to the Marines at our embassy there and then got caught up in the rampages while they were still trying to hunt down Johannsen, that rogue scientist.

“I guess I’m just naïve. I might not have suspected anything wrong if you hadn’t told me.”

“You’re no more naïve than I am—and that’s what the government wants. They were counting on reactions just like yours—and mine, for that matter.”

June looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Weren’t you glad to see those nutcases caught? And put to death? They’ve caused such a horrible number of agonizing deaths, and they’re the ones responsible for all the riots and violence and looting by the black community. That’s what people were thinking about all day; how they were going to get their just desserts. And I’ll bet you that the national commentators hardly even question the story of that geneticist’s death. You noticed they didn’t mention a body, didn’t you?”

June rested her cheek against Doug’s chest while answering. Her voice was so hampered by emotion that he could barely hear her. “I guess you’re right, Doug, once you made me face facts. But do you know what the worst part of it is?”

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

“We’ve known such things were possible for years, but we’ve concentrated more on how suicide bombers, or how maybe an atom bomb or a chemical weapons could be sneaked into the country by terrorists, and as much as ignored how a few geneticists and a bit of money could cause an epidemic killing millions. We should have been monitoring genetic labs all along and maybe prevented this.”

Doug hated to contradict her, but he shook his head. “Yeah, I guess we might have. But June… how could we have stopped this when we haven’t even been able to wipe out meth labs inside our own country or heroin and cocaine smuggling? Hell, we can’t even stop the goddamned oxy pipeline that feeds pseudooxytocin solution to the date rape and pedophile customers. If I ever got my hands on any of those lowlifes that prey on young girls and women I’d probably execute them myself. Especially the ones that seduce kids not even out of elementary school. There’s no worse scum on earth.”

“I’d take my turn with those, too. Let’s change the subject, Doug. This is too depressing.”

“Fine by me. Shall we talk about how pretty your eyes are? Or how much I like it when you tell me you love me?”

June blinked. Her lips parted as she remembered fairly screaming the words during the throes of her last orgasm. A visible blush appeared on her face and neck. “Did I say… yes, I did, didn’t I? Oh, goodness, Doug, I…”

Doug pulled her to him and kissed her as thoroughly as he knew how. “I think I’ve fallen in love with you, too. How did it happen so fast?”

“I don’t know, but you make me feel like… like this was ordained to happen. Does that make sense?”

“It does to me, and we’re the only ones that count, aren’t we?”

June nuzzled his neck. “Yes. But kiss me again, just to be sure.”

He did. She was sure.

This can’t be right ! Rafe Smith struggled futilely at his bonds. He stared wildly at the riflemen preparing to execute him and his cohorts. They’re supposed to thank me, not kill me ! He saw the officer raise his sword and begin the count.

“Wait, wait! You can’t kill me! I’ll talk! I know who…”

“Fire!” the officer called loudly, his sword sweeping downward in a precise arc. Rifles firing in unison drowned out Rafe’s last words. His body slumped forward against the restraints and hung from the pole, lifeless. A physician moved onto the courtyard. As quickly as Rafe was pronounced dead, the doctor retreated and it was the next prisoner’s turn to die.

Reading the charges, the sentence, then the execution and pronouncement of death of the five white supremacists took a long time, just as planned. The president had been the one to suggest that the executions be stretched out so that the scene of their punishment would stick with the audience, both live and to those watching the broadcast. He watched the first two himself, then got back to business.

There were only three persons present in the underground bunker beneath the big military base near Tel Aviv; Yitzhak Luria, the premier of Israel, Sheila Goldblatz, his Chief of Staff and General Yael Rabin, the highest ranking man in the Israeli armed forces.

Yitzhak Luria’s ancestors were a mixture of Eastern European and second generation Sabra settlers. He was short, stout and known among his intimates for his cut-throat brand of poker. He was proposing to play poker now on a grand and unprecedented scale. “We’ll never have a better opportunity than right now,” he said, his voice level and determined. “No matter what we do, or how many peace treaties we sign, the Arabs are determined to wipe us out. This is our chance to end the threat for all time.” He stared forcefully at the other two persons in the absolutely secure bunker. Meetings here were never recorded and Luria never brought an aide with him, nor allowed others to do so.

“Iran and Pakistan have nuclear weapons,” Goldblatz said bluntly. “What if they decide we’re behind it and retaliate? No, let me rephrase that: when they decide we set the virus loose they’ll retaliate. What then?” She shifted the penetrating gaze of her clear blue eyes toward Yael Rabin.

Luria felt the satisfaction welling up inside him. Goldblatz hadn’t been angered or horrified at the very mention of his proposal. Instead, he saw the remnants of the beauty which had once graced her face become brighter and more apparent. Luria turned to Yael Rabin. “Yael? What about it?”