Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

June started to feel her soul shrinking down into a place she didn’t want to go to. She bit her lip, then forced herself to sit up straight and find a reservoir of courage. She was a nurse, damn it, and with Amelia gone to God knew what fate, she was in charge. She couldn’t break down. She squared her shoulders and in a moment was back in control. She made a vow to herself that she would never let go again, no matter what. If Doug was dead, she would make him proud of the way she conducted herself, and if she lived… well, she would bear whatever came with as much dignity as she could and go back to him with her head held high. In the meantime, she would quit acting like some little shrinking violet and try helping those here in far worse shape than herself. Some people were beginning to show signs of heat exhaustion; the body heat of so many people in an enclosed area was adding to the already hot and humid environment. She got up and began mingling with the packed crowd of sweltering humanity.

Presently she heard screams coming from one of the closed rooms. She and a few others started in that direction but were stopped by a guard. After that she sat back down and tried to shut out the sounds of the screams. It was a long time until they died out.

“Hello, Fridge. It’s been a long time,” Doug said the instant he spotted his old platoon sergeant. By God!

Maybe they had a chance after all! Fridge had been a damn good platoon sergeant and a good man in all other respects. But what was he doing with people like these?

Ali Greene froze in momentary consternation. Goddamn! Doug Craddock, his old subordinate when he was an assistant platoon sergeant and his superior after Doug went through officers candidate school and got his commission. Fridge remembered how they had both been surprised and pleased when they wound up together again, this time with Doug as a new second lieutenant and him a full platoon sergeant.

He also remembered that as a platoon leader, Doug had never lied to his men and turned out to be the best officer he ever served under. He hadn’t let a commission go to his head, either. When their paths crossed later and they were no longer together in the chain of command, Doug had resumed their old friendship even though he had advanced to captain by then. Doug and his wife had visited his home, played with his kids, and stayed on a first name basis with him as if there was no divide between their respective ranks.

“Captain Craddock!” Fridge held out his hand before he quite realized what he was doing.

Doug shook the proffered hand grinning at the big man, glad to see him again despite the circumstances.

“Just Doug now. How you doing, Fridge?”

Fridge looked down at their clasped hands and then withdrew his when he saw disapproval written on Qualluf’s face. “I’m okay so far, Cap… Doug. But this ain’t a friendly meeting, not now.”

Doug sobered. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, Fridge. How’s Latanya and the kids?”

“They’re gone.”

“Oh, shit, Fridge. I’m sorry. I’m sorry as hell.” He saw tears in his old friend’s eyes and instinctively moved forward and hugged him. “Goddamn those bastards who started this shit. Damn them all to hell!”

Qualluf broke it up, while at the same time wondering how he could use the apparent past friendship of the two men for his own purposes. “Sorry don’t get it, peckerwood. You sit down. Now!” He pointed to a folding chair set up in the small office off the lobby. The windows were both broken, letting some air in from the outside, but it was still baking hot. Beads of perspiration were forming and running down the faces of everyone in the room.

“You’re Qualluf Taylor, aren’t you?” Doug said, almost sure he recognized the man.

“I’m the man got your balls in my hand, that’s all you need to know.”

Doug nodded to Buddy Hawkins, the person he had chosen to bring with him. He would rather have had Teresa in case something happened to him but he didn’t dare bring a woman into this environment. He and Buddy took their seats. Qualluf, Fridge and a guard by the door were the only others in the room.

Qualluf slid ostentatiously into the seat behind the desk, the position of power. He gave Buddy only a cursory glance but glared at Doug, already aware of where the power lay. “Okay, white boy, here’s what…”

Doug held up his hand. “Mr. Taylor, we won’t make much progress if you start off using epithets. How about us keeping the discussion cordial?” Doug knew he was no diplomat, feeling much more comfortable in a structured environment like the military, but he did understand the art of negotiation enough not to let the other side start off in a dominant position.

Qualluf continued to glare. “You been using epithets for 500 years.”

“I haven’t,” Doug said quietly, keeping his gaze firmly locked to that of Qualluf’s. “Besides, that’s not the issue here. Your status, and that of the people you’re holding captives, is.”

“Listen, peckerwood, we dead anyway. Why should we give you anything?”

“Because the Vice President of the United States is counting on the people you’re holding to help find a cure for the Harcourt Virus, or failing that, a treatment. She’s authorized me to do what it takes to get them back on the job.” Doug didn’t bother to distinguish between administrative staff and the scientists.

He didn’t know if the leaders like Qualluf knew the difference. And poor Fridge was probably still so grief-wracked that he didn’t give a damn.

“Huh. Like that Santes bitch care what happen to black folk.”

Doug got to his feet. “Mr. Taylor, I won’t go any farther with this discussion while you have that attitude.

I’ve spoken personally to the vice president. Believe me, she’s grieving as much as I am. I lost my best friend to that damned bug.”

“White men don’t have black friends. Now you…”

Fridge had been standing and listening. He said “Preacher, you can trust this man. I know him. He about as good as they come.”

“Trust him to do what?” Qualluf spat. “Let us go home to die? We want the cure you been holding back and don’t try claiming you ain’t got it. You do.”

Doug sat back down. He didn’t like the man sitting across from him one little bit but he couldn’t just walk out—even supposing they would let him. “Mr. Taylor, believe me, there is no cure yet. We’re still working on it—and you’re the one holding up progress. You don’t really believe we would hold back a cure if we had one, do you?”

“I damn sure do. Your fucking white man’s government started this hell-spawned virus. You think we don’t know that? You think shootin’ those dumbass rednecks going to convince us it didn’t start in Washington?”

“No. To begin with, there’s not a soul in Washington smart enough to create a virus capable of causing a pandemic, except maybe Mrs Santes. She was a doctor before she entered politics.”

“They give the orders. Same thing.”

“Mr. Taylor, the Harcourt virus was created by a rogue scientist by the name of Savak Johannsen. He was aided in his movements and funneled money and was helped to move about by those very same men who were publicly executed. The money came from a white supremacist organization which has since been declared illegal. Their members are being hunted down and rounded up. You know all of that as well as I do.” Doug didn’t mention that Johannsen was being guarded at the same instant over in the science building. That was a trump card he would play if he had to. He wanted to ask about June’s status but didn’t dare for fear of having her singled out—or learning she was dead.