Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

“I’m okay, Amelia. It just took a while for me to get over it. I guess no woman really expects to become a widow when she’s barely in her thirties and…”

Amelia nodded sympathetically. “Yes, but—June, I saw the way you reacted to Doug. Please don’t take it out on him just because he was a soldier. He’s a good man and I’m glad he’s going to be with us.”

“I’m sorry. I know I was rude, but when he walked into the room, just the way he acted… so… so…”

“Soldierly?”

June granted Amelia a small chuckle. “I guess so. And I guess I’m still a little resentful that it wasn’t the professionals who took so many of the casualties; it was the National Guard troops.” She fingered her pendant, a nervous habit she wasn’t even aware of. It was made from her wedding and engagement rings, cut down and set on a small flat oval made of yellow gold. “Anyway, is there anything special I need to know? Anything that’s changed since I’ve been gone? I didn’t want to ask while the others were here.”

Amelia shook her head. “The only thing that’s changed is that the world has become an even more dangerous place since you took your leave. I guess you know that, though.”

June smiled and Amelia thought how engaging and cheerful a simple smile made her look. She was glad that June had decided to return. Moping wouldn’t bring her husband back and Amelia was a firm believer in work. Perhaps staying busy would help dispel the last remnants of sorrow she still carried inside her.

“Oh yes, I have kept up with the news,” June said. “The terrorists are getting worse all the time, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are. That’s not our problem, though. We just want to identify this new bug and find a cure or a vaccine, if that’s possible. At the very least, we need to find the vector.”

“Well, if there’s nothing else, I’m going to go brief my gang. Thanks for taking me back, Amelia. I really do appreciate it.”

Amelia Foster watched the younger woman leave the conference room. It’s good to have her back, she thought. June was an excellent infection control nurse.

In another part of the building, Amelia’s superior sat at her desk in the CDC Director’s office and rubbed her eyes. There were never enough hours in the day or enough money in the budget to cover everything that needed doing. Mary Hedgrade had to take the time for the next task though. Just in case. She punched a button on the console that held three phones, a speaker phone and a teleconference line connected to the big flatscreen on the wall behind her desk.

“Yes ma’am?” Her assistant’s voice came from the adjoining office of the CDC Director’s suite.

“Tammy, get Mr. Tomlin on line one for me, please. As quickly as you can arrange it.”

Sometimes the wait to speak to Edgar Tomlin, Homeland Security Director, was a long one. Mary tried to review the latest morbidity reports, but couldn’t keep her mind on the papers in front of her. Shuffling papers ate up an administrator’s time, but there was no help for it; it sometimes seemed to her that the more advanced computers became, the more they generated a need for hard copies. While she was waiting, her mind wandered, but always came back to the subject of her call—that new illness in Nigeria.

The last update from the initial small team sent a few days ago prompted her to make it. Doctor visits in Port Harcourt were far above normal, as were hospital admissions. Patients almost all had the same symptoms, a tingling sensation that advanced to pain and weakness. In itself, such a disease wouldn’t have prompted her to notify Homeland Security, but the new report confirmed the earlier findings. Only people with dark skin were falling prey to whatever it was. More deaths had been reported, and even more ominous, still not a single person had recovered. There weren’t that many bacteria or viruses so target specific—and so universally deadly.

Mary’s assistant broke into her reverie. “Ms. Hedgrade, Mr. Tomlin is ready for you.”

Mary picked up the secure phone. She barely knew Edgar Tomlin, but what little she knew of him struck her positively. He wasn’t simply an out-of-work politician appointed to fill the National Security Director’s seat temporarily until a new Director was nominated and confirmed; he was a career official and the former undersecretary, and CIA Director before that. His predecessor had died of a heart attack two weeks ago.

“Mr. Tomlin, I have some news for you. A new disease, a bad one, has poked its head up in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. It appears to infect only blacks and other very dark skinned persons.”

“Good God! Won’t that cause a run of paranoia! But why tell me?” He sounded impatient. Mary imagined his workload probably outweighed hers.

“There’s a possibility that the original virus could have been deliberately altered to produce just that effect, Mr. Tomlin.”

Dead silence reigned at the other end of the line for a long moment. Finally Tomlin spoke. He no longer sounded as if he wanted to hurry. “But you’re not sure yet. Is that it?”

“Yes, sir. But we should know within a few days. I just wanted to give you fair warning. This could be a bombshell.”

“Damn right it could! Bombshell is an understatement. What are your people doing about it?”

“I sent one small team initially. Within forty eight hours I’ll have a complete contingent over there. I would appreciate it if you would have the Secretary of State pave the way for them. And I suppose you need to start your wheels rolling just in case?” Her last sentence was framed as a question.

Another silence, then he said “Yes, I’ll start some preliminary work but… uh, Mary is it?”

“Yes.”

“Mary, I’m going to put a clamp on this. Tell your people not to talk about it, especially the part about it affecting only blacks. Good God, what would—wait! Is there any possibility it could spread to here? Is it contagious?”

“Mr. Tomlin, that’s what we’re going to find out. We have no idea yet how it spreads, nor exactly how fast; only that it’s doing it, and doing it very rapidly.” She didn’t finish with the implication. Whether or not Tomlin knew it, Port Harcourt was a metropolitan city, the hub of both air and sea travel into and out of Nigeria, the most populous nation in Africa. If it could be spread by human to human contact, as apparently it could in some way, then it was already present in nearly every country in the world.

Including the United States of America. Globalization and universal air travel would have seen to that.

Edgar Tomlin put down the phone and stared into space, reviewing the conversation in his mind. Had he responded properly? Been appropriately concerned? Finally he nodded to himself. Yes. He had said just what he should have.

Rafe Smith grinned gleefully at his companions and clenched his fingers into a fist, shaking it in the air.

“We did it!”

There were five of them, all looking much alike; faces seamed with wrinkles burned into the skin by long exposure to the sun. They were dressed in jeans and snap button shirts and battered tennis shoes or heavy, lace up work boots. There were two cases of beer stacked in the kitchen of the old farmhouse, with more cooling in the refrigerator. It had been a long time coming and now they were celebrating.

“You reckon we’ll get all the niggers?” Eddie Dunstop, Rafe’s second in command, asked. He tipped a beer can to his mouth and swallowed. It went down easy and cold, a proper reward for a working man after a day outside at the construction site.

“Hell, yes,” Rafe answered. “That crazy Swede said Africa’s just the start. Before long there won’t be a nigger left alive.”