Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

“Hallelujah!” Another of the men exclaimed. “Goddamned black apes, it’s about time.” He wiped his mouth after tipping a beer to his mouth and continued, “I still think we should of killed the Swede after we got the stuff from him. What if he gets caught and blabs?”

Rafe shook his head. “No, the big boss said we might need him later. Niggers ain’t the only ones in the world causin’ us trouble. There’s the Chinks and Spics, too.”

“How ‘bout the Ragheads? Those crazy fucks are bad as niggers.”

Rafe chuckled and stretched his long thin legs out on the patched ottoman in the living room. “We got it started, good buddy. Let’s let this play out first. Which reminds, me, better stock up on ammo before it hits here. This is gonna to drive the niggers batshit.”

Eddie stood up and stretched, then sat back down. His puzzled expression focused on Rafe, their leader and the one who was the primary contact with the Swede—as well as the one who received and dispensed the funds coming from the head man. “How they gonna do anything to us? Won’t they just die off real quick like?”

“Naw, Eddie. It spreads kinda like the flu. You know, like it may go on for months before they’re all dead.”

“But Rafe, the flu don’t never get ever’body! What if it don’t kill all of ‘em?”

“The Swede said it would, but it might take some time. Now relax and enjoy yourself. We’ve worked for this day a long time. From now on whites are in charge of the world.”

“Except for the Spics and Chinks.”

“Relax, man, relax. We’ll get them, too, eventually. The Swede said he might could figure something out if he had some more time and money. I know, I talked to him good right before we split up.”

Eddie nodded agreement. A new world was coming, one more to his liking. Like Rafe always told them, everything would be great when there were no more niggers or spiks or chinks. The whole world would be ruled by whites, like God intended it to be. He took another swig of beer and tried to visualize the future, but his imagination was limited. What he mostly thought about was how that goddamned black ape of a foreman who told him he was lazy would be dead, deader than last week’s road kill. He wiped his mouth and grinned.

The security contingent for the CDC teams was housed in a huge converted factory building located just outside the eastern city limits of Atlanta. From the bits of lint and strings of colored cloth that still turned up sticking to clothing and gear, Doug suspected it had once been a textile mill. Those days are gone, he thought. China and Bangladesh and other low-pay countries manufactured almost all the mass produced clothing now. Still, the building was sufficient for their purposes. There was enough room to house several hundred troops, as well as a mess hall and lounge. A smaller building adjacent to it served adequately as a supply and arms depot. It was always under guard by a contract security firm. Those who were married or had some other arrangements were allowed to live away from the headquarters unless they were on the go team. That duty rotated and Doug considered himself lucky to have caught this assignment. He liked seeing new places and had never been to Nigeria.

The security building held a briefing and conference room, which was where Doug and his squad were now. He had just told them where they were headed.

“Nigeria!” One of the troops exclaimed. “That’s Africa, huh?”

Doug was always astounded by questions like that. He was well aware of the fact that geography was no longer considered part of a well-rounded school curriculum, but damn, didn’t people even read these days? Or watch something besides sports and cartoons? It was a pet peeve of his. He controlled his irritation at the man’s lack of knowledge, even though Nigeria had been in the news for years with its perennial religious and tribal conflicts between Muslims, Christians and Animists over control of the country’s oil supply and government.

“Yes,” Doug acknowledged. “Nigeria is in western Africa. It’s a big oil producer when they’re not on strike or banging away at each other over religious issues. We’re going to Port Harcourt on the coast. Be sure and go over the briefing packet I gave you, especially the street maps of the area around the hospital and clinics. All of them. I know you don’t have much time but that’s what the go team is for; a quick deployment.”

“Can we expect any action?” Buddy Hawkins, a former Marine, asked. He had somehow missed the Gulf wars and the latest dustup in South America. Doug thought of the circumstances, the fact that only blacks and other dark skinned people were being affected by the disease. “I can’t tell you officially, but personally? Yeah, I think there’s a good chance of it this time.” He didn’t try to tell the young man that combat was hard, dirty, frightening and crazy, and nothing at all like the storybooks. If it came, he would find out the hard way, like every soldier in history had.

“Terrorists?” Martha Myers questioned. She was a short, dark-haired former army medic who had applied for and made the cut when the infantry began accepting females who could pass the strength and endurance tests. He liked her; she was calm and knowledgeable in her field, and well-read besides.

“No terrorism that I know of, but there’s a factor here that’s sure as hell going to get a lot of folks agitated, so we’re taking our full load, machine guns and all.” He told them as much as he knew and saw their faces lose the happy smiles over getting ready to go somewhere. The three blacks and two Hispanics in his twelve man squad exchanged glances and tightened their lips.

“Any more questions? No? All right, we’re confined to quarters for the duration. We’ll meet at nine in the morning after you’ve gone over your packets, and I’ll find out in the meantime where we’re likely to go to first and whatever else I can. We may have another day here, or we may not. Be completely ready to leave before you go to bed tonight. Comprende?”

Nods and muttered assents told him they were probably already geared up. There wasn’t much he needed to worry about there. He had the best squad in the contingent and his men knew it. His had been one of the first units put together by Gene Bradley, the Security Director, a special forces colonel who had lost his left arm in action, though no one knew exactly where or when it had happened.

Just as Doug turned to leave, Bradley appeared. He wagged his finger and Doug hurried over to the doorway.

“Hi Colonel. What can we do for you?”

Bradley put his arm around Doug’s shoulders and walked him back into the room. His squad members pushed out of their chairs and rose to their feet. It wasn’t required, but military manners were hard to shake.

“I just got a call from Homeland Security,” Bradley announced. “You now have orders not to talk about your mission, and there’s to be absolutely no leaks about how this disease in Nigeria is affecting only people of color.” His gaze roved the room, making eye contact with each of them.

“But sir—isn’t it already public knowledge?” One of the older men asked.

“The disease is. Whom it infects isn’t. And I’ve been informed there’s a possibility of terrorism involved.”

“Jesus Christ!” Martha Myers exclaimed. “Who would do a thing like that?”

“I have no idea. Just remember—no talking, even when you call your families. It’s all right to tell them where you’re going, since that’s already been announced, but no details. Clear?”

“There won’t be any leaks from this squad, sir. But I really doubt it’ll stay secret for long.”

“Yes, I realize that and I’m sure the people higher up do as well. They just want a chance to get a handle on what’s really happening before speaking up. No sense in causing unwarranted panic. And we’ll all be safer if it’s not something being bandied about by the public just yet.”