Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

President Marshall rubbed his hand over his face, feeling unshaven whiskers. It was late at night and his day hadn’t ended yet. Every time he tried leaving the Oval Office, something else came up to capture his attention and prevent him from getting some badly needed sleep.

The latest crisis was in North Korea, where they were threatening nuclear retaliation for deaths caused by the Harcourt virus. Damned crazy Koreans, getting upset over casualties from the disease that were minuscule compared to some nations. Why hadn’t Clinton, or even Bush, taken out their nuclear capability when they had a chance? Goddamn wimps. Now look. He shoved the briefing paper toward the pile destined for the shredder. What did they expect him to do? Personally, he thought they were going off the deep end because the world economy had crashed, and without exports they couldn’t feed their people. They ought to be glad the Harcourt virus was thinning them out a little. Fewer mouths to feed.

General Newman wanted to act now, take out their nukes, but he had refused. It might come to that, but he wasn’t going to start it. The little bastards had been digging into their mountains for damn near a quarter century. Deep probing satellite imagery showed so many tunnels and caverns that there was no way to get them all, despite the general’s confidence. That man was beginning to grate on his nerves. But what to do?

Finally he pressed the button that called in an aide.

“Get me Willingham. Tell him to get his ass up here as soon as possible.”

It’s worth a try, he thought. Get China to do the job. They had the manpower and the nukes, if it came to that. Anything to keep them away from America. The nation was holding together but he didn’t think it could survive the panic that would be caused by an atomic explosion on North American soil. China’s war with Taiwan wasn’t going well. If he offered to stop all replacement munitions shipments to Taiwan and withdraw the few naval units near the island, maybe they would come around—if their government survived long enough. So many factories on the mainland had shut down that the peasants and workers were going hungry.

Australia. Now that was one of the few nations in the world almost unaffected by the Harcourt virus.

Damn smart of them, keeping blacks and Asians out of their country, and their indigenous blacks were no problem. Besides they would be dead soon. Australia had a fairly decent navy, according to General Newman. Suppose he offered some inducements, additional weapons perhaps, for them to send some troops to Africa and the Middle East? Maybe even South America, at selected ports that could be easily defended. Best to keep a toehold there if they could. At least the Aussies weren’t big enough to turn on the United States and had never developed nuclear weapons. He made another note for Willingham.

He looked at his next brief and scribbled an okay with his distinctive flourish. Defaulting on some of the bonds held by foreigners and releasing the gold in Fort Knox to the citizenry would help stimulate the economy. Of course the default wouldn’t be couched in those terms. It would be worded as a

“postponement in payment”, but he knew the debts would never be paid.

Marshall sighed. Where was Willingham?

A half hour later the man appeared, tie askew and hair uncombed, as if he had been running his fingers through it. The president frowned. He had never seen the man in such a state.

“I’m sorry I was delayed, Mr. President, but a suicide squad just crashed a jetliner into a skyscraper in Chicago, and Turkey and the Kurds are fighting again. What are we going to do?”

Marshall groaned. Would this madness never end? Goddamn it, the Arabs were finished. Why didn’t they just go quietly to their heaven and virgins and so forth and quit this martyr bullshit?

June did the best she could to keep the captives calm and under control and to give what little aid she could to some of the older workers who were prostrate with heat exhaustion. All she could really do was keep pushing liquids and bathing them with cool water. Fortunately, there was plenty of water and the guards allowed them to go to and from the fountains. She avoided the area where the smirking guard lolled in one of the padded lobby chairs, knowing he had turned her into a focal point; a visible object of the misery the blacks were suffering. She was scared of him. She had just finished tending to an older woman whose breathing was becoming irregular, using cool water carried from the drinking fountain, when the guards changed shifts. The smirking black who had been following her all day with his eyes didn’t leave the lobby like the others who had been relieved. Instead, he headed in her direction as she went over to check on a patient.

The wounded and sick staff workers were laid out in rows at the edge of the crowd, where what little air circulation there was could get to them. Most of them were suffering silently, but a few were moaning with pain. June was kneeling by the side of a man, checking his pulse, when she felt a presence behind her. She looked around. The guard who had been watching her was wearing a leer now. “On your feet, bitch. Some other peoples got needs, too.” His lips split into a grin, displaying his missing teeth.

June didn’t move, but simply stared up at him, in the manner of a death row inmate whose cell had just opened for the escort to enter, ready to usher the prisoner on the short but utterly terrifying last steps to the death chamber.

The black’s lips closed in anger at her lack of response. A knife suddenly appeared in his hand as he leaned over her. The point broke the skin on the side of her neck, a pinprick, but it felt as though the knife was entering her body—just as this man planned on doing, and just as brutally as a knife blade would have been. His other hand closed over her upper arm, gripping it painfully. He jerked her to her feet. She felt more pain as he pulled on her, and felt the point of the blade dig in and open up a narrow cut. A second later it was at her back, probing at her spine as she felt blood wetting her blouse below the shallow neck wound.

“This be sharp, bitch. How you like it you be par’lyzed? Move you pussy.”

Stumbling with fear, June complied. She couldn’t endure the thought of the knife blade entering her spine, seeking out her spinal cord. Better to let him have his way and hope she survived. She had seen a figure out of one of the windows who she thought was Amelia, being carried back to the science building on a stretcher, and now she remembered the screams she had heard shortly after Amelia had been dragged off, to the same room this man was steering her toward. That’s going to happen to me , she thought, her mind skittering around imagined scenes, as if trying to find an alternate when the previous one was too frightening to contemplate. Oh, Doug! Doug ! She cried his name to herself as if she were praying, and perhaps she was.

The door opened and a hard shove sent her reeling inside. She landed on the carpeted surface, near where it was already spotted with blood stains. They were still damp and sticky.

Amelia looked worse than when he last saw her, Doug thought. IV bottles were hooked to both arms and her head had been partially shaved to expose a deep gash running from her forehead back past her hairline. The swelling had increased and purpled, like a discolored volcano dome rising under pressure from below. He knew she could barely see to recognize him through eyelids so puffed that they allowed only slits of light, but she was conscious and alert, no longer in shock. She gripped his hand and squeezed feebly. He felt tears leak from his eyes at the sight of her mangled face. He could only imagine what damage had occurred to the rest of her body, and didn’t want to think about the degradation she must have suffered, nor what it might have done to her mind.