Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

Qualluf leaned back in his chair and motioned to the guard. When he came over, Qualluf said “Go fetch the bitch and bring her back here.” After the man left, he crossed his arms over his chest and simply stared. Qualluf’s eyes glinted with hidden amusement at the shock the white boy had coming—and an uneasy remembrance of the woman’s screams. He shrugged off the image. Sympathy could play no part in his life now, and that woman deserved what she got. He was convinced of it.

Doug looked over at Fridge. His old friend and comrade gazed silently back, his face immobile, but Doug thought he saw signs of uneasiness being hidden behind that mask. A couple of minutes later, he found out why.

Amelia was barely recognizable. Her face was battered almost beyond recognition, with cut and swollen lips and cheeks. One eye was almost completely closed and the other was only partially open. Her hair hung in greasy strands to her shoulders, laying lankly on the tattered remnants of her blouse. It had rips and missing buttons and she no longer owned a bra. One of her breasts was almost completely exposed.

The pants she had been wearing were also torn at the seams and streaked with blood. She limped painfully while being supported under one arm by the guard. When he let her loose she dropped to the floor. A moan escaped her grotesquely swollen lips.

“Good God! Amelia!” Doug was off his feet and down beside her instantly, ignoring orders to halt.

Amelia squinted painfully and appeared to recognize him. “Doug,” she whispered pitifully.

He looked up from where he was kneeling beside her, rage written in the stark lines of his face. “You sorry bastard! What did you do this for?”

Qualluf simply looked at her. “Tell him, bitch. Tell him what you told us.”

“They made me say it,” Amelia said, seeming to find a fragment of remaining courage. “It’s not true. We didn’t… didn’t start the Harcourt… virus. We don’t… don’t have a cure.” She peered blurrily around the room, seemed to recognize Qualluf. Her voice rose, shrill but cracking at the end. “There is no cure!”

Qualluf jumped to his feet, roaring. “Goddamned white bitch! You told me there’s a cure! We want it!”

“Doug, please…” Amelia’s voice broke completely as she collapsed into a heap, sobbing and moaning.

Doug stood up, coming between her and Qualluf. “The negotiations are ended. They won’t start again until I see her taken to the treatment center and turned over to the doctors.”

“Keep talking, white meat, an’ you be lookin’ just like her,” Qualluf said.

Ignoring him, Doug took out his phone and rang his office. Teresa answered. “Doug here,” he said without preliminaries. “Send two men with a stretcher over here immediately. Have them wave a white flag as they come. They’ll be expected.” He flipped the phone closed and closed the distance between himself and the preacher, his expression hardened into rigid flinty lines. “And you call me anything except Mr. Craddock again and it’s going to be Fridge I negotiate with, and you’re going to be left out of whatever amnesty I can arrange. Now go tell your men to let the stretcher bearers through.”

“I’ll do it, Preacher,” Fridge said to Qualluf, a sudden desire to live taking hold of him. Seeing Doug had revived something inside that had been lost beneath the vast bleakness left by the loss of his family. He glanced down at Amelia then looked away, ashamed of what he had let happen.

Qualluf looked rebellious and stood his ground.

Doug watched as Fridge strode over to the door. He spoke to the guard in the old command tone he remembered so well. The guard left immediately, giving Doug a clue to where at least part of the black power in Atlanta resided.

“Thanks, Fridge. We can work this out—and listen; I’ve been party to most of the progress toward a cure here. I can tell you that there isn’t one, and in all honesty there might not be one in time to help. The scientists and doctors have just now discovered a few promising drugs to follow up on. They may or may not work and that’s all I can tell you. However, if they do, I’ll personally guarantee that no bureaucratic bullshit keeps them from being dispensed quickly.”

“They stalling,” Qualluf said, still angry at Fridge’s usurpation of authority.

“The scientists and their staff have been working twelve hour shifts, seven days a week,” Doug returned.

“Don’t tell me they’re stalling.” He felt a weak touch on his leg and looked down. Amelia’s fingers were trying to get a grasp on his fatigue trousers in an attempt to attract his attention. He bent down and put his head near hers, seeing how white her complexion—what was left of it—had become.

“Doug, it was…” Her eyes rolled up and she lost consciousness. He touched her face. It felt cold and damp, symptoms of shock. He stood up and looked around, then grabbed some heavy volumes from a bookcase against one wall. He stretched Amelia’s body out and propped her feet up on them. That was all he could do. When he finished, he stood back up, staring at Qualluf with an expression of such raw hatred for the man that the preacher finally averted his gaze and returned to his chair behind the desk.

The stretcher bearers and Colonel Christian arrived at almost the same time.

“Get her to a doctor soon as you can,” Doug instructed the men. “She’s in shock.” He watched them carry Amelia from the room at a fast pace, then before the guard could close the door, Colonel Christian was led into the room.

“Who is it here that’s in contact with the vice president?” he asked immediately. Christian was a tall man with even features and the tanned skin that showed him to be a field officer.

“I am,” Doug said. “Fridge, could we have some more coffee in here? This may take a while and I’m too tired to stay awake much longer.”

“You don’t need no coffee,” Qualluf said.

Fridge nodded to the guard, ignoring Qualluf’s baleful glare. He was gone less than a minute and returned bearing three Styrofoam cups of coffee. While he was out, Doug introduced himself, at the same time making a swift appraisal of Christian. He looked young to be a full colonel, indicating either a high level of competence or a lot of political pull.

“I want to confirm those orders from the vice president,” Christian said. “Our military communications are still erratic. Someone must have put a satellite suppressor in the same orbit as ours.”

“The phone’s still working. Let me try.” Doug dialed the number he had committed to memory. A woman with a pleasant voice answered. He identified himself and asked for the vice president. A moment later she was on the line.

“Ma’am, I have Colonel Christian here and we’re with the leaders of the group holding the hostages.

Their names are Qualluf Taylor of the Church of Blacks, and Ali Greene.” He handed the phone to the colonel.

The brigade commander listened for a few moments, nodding his head occasionally. Finally he said “I understand, ma’am.” He flipped the phone closed and handed it to Doug, then turned his attention to the two black leaders.

“All right, I’ve just been told that I’m to follow Mr. Craddock’s lead in the negotiations. Let’s get started.”

Doug liked the man’s take charge attitude but wasn’t sure how well it would go over with Qualluf Taylor.

The Church of Blacks’ leader was still glaring, first at Doug, then at Colonel Christian, and finally even at Fridge. Doug shrugged mentally and said “Mr. Taylor, we need to get the CDC back in operation as quickly as possible. They’re not just working on the Harcourt virus yet, though some drugs are showing promise. There’s a new virus loose as well.”