Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

General Newman realized he couldn’t predict which nation might produce the next pandemic, though the intelligence agencies pointed to several with the possible capability. He couldn’t order them nuked, though, no matter how much he might think it would eliminate a risk. There was too much of a chance for escalation. Maybe later, if things worked out.

His primary concern now was holding the country together in the face of the increasing disruption of supplies and continuing violence in the big cities. Part of Los Angeles had burned to the ground before the bitter, vengeance-bound rioting of its black citizens had been subdued, and part of Chicago was heading in the same direction. He shuffled requests for troops and reinforcements from around the country with an eye on vital areas of industry or transportation hubs. Those received priority. Then there were the nuclear power plants.

Already, he had been forced to send reinforcements to the few plants in Africa his soldiers and airmen were guarding; White faces were anathema in that continent, and there were still plenty of revenge-minded blacks left alive. The whites of South Africa at last report had been wiped out almost to the man, though not without some fierce battles. And now that the Goldwater virus was getting up steam, he was going to be forced to send more troops, these into the Middle East, and have others ready. Israel might help later, but right now they had their hands full fighting off the Egyptian, Syrian and Jordanian armies, the same old antagonists who had been slugging it out for well over half a century. Whatever else happened, he had to try to keep any of those nuclear plants from melting down and contaminating the whole world.

Then there was China and India. So far both nations seemed content to make noises rather than trying to invade other countries and that was good. India especially was probably glad in some perverse way that Pakistan was under the viral gun—or their leaders might have been glad had not so many of their billion citizens been ill. Many would die, but many more would recover. If the country stayed together, it might cause trouble later on. China was even more of a problem. He seriously doubted from the intelligence he was receiving that China’s central government could prevent the country from fragmenting into a balkanized travesty of a nation, where different provinces would be ruled by warlords and with God himself not knowing who controlled their nuclear weapons.

The general sighed. Problems, problems, but perhaps before it was all over, the world would be aligned differently and much more to his liking. He pushed those concerns aside for the moment and turned his attention back to the most pressing problem requiring action, Atlanta and its icon, the CDC. The president had decided that whatever else happened, he couldn’t allow the damn black monkeys to destroy that haven of scientific talent. General Newman had to agree with him in a way. The CDC

complex had gathered the best virologists in the world to work on the new diseases. There was no telling when they might be needed in the future. He had been forced to cancel the intended airlift of an army brigade to Atlanta. The rioters must have some sensible leaders because this time, they took the airport before the locals could react and blocked the runways by driving vehicles out on them, then burning or rigging them with explosives. Another armed mob was headed straight toward the CDC, killing and looting as they came. They had to be stopped, somehow. Reluctantly, he picked up the phone to alert the last two battalions of airborne troops he had available for deployment and ordered them to jump into the suburbs tomorrow morning. He knew it would be chaotic and very, very messy but here was nothing else to do; he didn’t even have enough helicopter transport available for them. Atlanta would just have to suffer. Urban warfare was never pretty. He got a battalion of Marines moving by road from the east toward the airport, then turned his watch over to the vice chairman. He knew he was dopey from lack of sleep; otherwise he wouldn’t have delayed so long making those decisions, though he still didn’t fully agree with the president. All the blacks on earth could die so far as he was concerned, and good riddance.

Amelia was up and in her office early; she had been so tired the evening before that when she finally had been able to get away she still hadn’t gone over the latest progress reports. Her conscience had pushed her to come in early today and review them before starting the regular day’s work.

She entered her password and pulled up the files from each department and began scanning them, trying to absorb the gist of each, if not all the details. It was a chore she disliked, but a necessary one in order to supervise the direction of research and allocate resources to the most promising projects. The first thing she saw was that Johannsen, the rogue scientist responsible for the Harcourt virus, had arrived late yesterday evening and was being guarded by a mixed detail of Marines and government security agents in a recently depleted basement storeroom. She thought she had better warn the virologists—in fact, all of the staff, to watch him closely and report anything he did out of the ordinary to her immediately. She wasn’t about to trust a psychopath like that very far.

There was still little progress on devising a vaccine. She made a note to pull two of the scientists working in that department and reassign them to drug research, where she found a few hopeful signs of possible treatments, if still tentative and largely untested ones. She began hurriedly scanning the following file, one concerning the latest bits of knowledge about the Harcourt virus, not expecting to find anything useful there. She already knew more than she wanted to about how that damnable virus worked.

Suddenly her gaze hung up on a sentence. The words seemed to fairly leap off the screen and into her mind. Could it be possible? She read it again, then took a deep breath and went back to the start, reading more slowly this time. Eventually her breathing slowed to normal as she found only a hint of what, for a few excited moments, she hoped desperately was happening. Unfortunately, it was little more than a hint. She sighed with disappointment, even while castigating herself for expecting anything like a virus to be so simple as to change its characteristics overnight. However, it was certainly worth following up on.

She decided to assign more people to that end of the research, even before knowing where she would find them. Just as she started on the next file, her phone rang.

“Amelia, this is Gene. Alert your people. It looks like we’ve got a big crazy mob heading this way, and the airport’s was taken over by a mob last night.”

“All right, but what…?” She heard a click as the phone disconnected and she was suddenly speaking only to herself. Despite the speeded up beat of her heart, she yawned. It was still early. She looked over to the coffee pot and saw that it was ready. Her hand trembled as she poured. When Gene sounded excited, it could be nothing but trouble. The first person she called to come in was June. As she put down the phone, she was suddenly grateful that Johannsen had arrived here before the airport was closed. He and his guards must have come in on one of the last flights before it was overrun. It was possible he had some useful information, but she really didn’t hold out much hope.

Doug woke to the persistent sound of the phone ringing. He glanced at the bedside clock. It was blinking, signaling that sometime during the night a power outage had occurred. As he reached for the phone, he dreamily thought that he and June might not have noticed even if it had happened while they were still awake, so absorbed in each other they had been. He plucked the handset from its cradle and handed it to June, who was already sitting up. The sheet had cascaded down to her waist with the movement, leaving her as prettily bare to the waist as a generously endowed centerfold from the old Playboy magazines he had perused as a youth, except that she was more beautiful in his sight than any of the remembered images. And realer, he thought, reaching for his watch to see what time it was. He blinked as he saw that it was only four in the morning.