Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

“Yes, sir, I spoke to him shortly before arriving here. He’s been in contact with the Russians. They’ll try to restrain China. However, the military advisor to the premier wants to talk to General Newman about aid if China’s invasion of Taiwan keeps going badly for the Chinese and they turn on Russia. Frankly, I think you should talk to Willingham. He seems to be taking hold and I’m not well versed in international affairs.”

“I’ll see to it. Now let’s talk politics. What about the End-Timers? Are they going to cause us as much trouble as that damned Church of Blacks?”

Politics was something Lurline did understand. “The End Timers are marginally beneficial to the party so long as they don’t get too much wilder. I can’t say they do much good for the nation as a whole. Many of them have quit work, anticipating the arrival of the Rapture before they run out of money.”

“Crap!” The president exclaimed. They had to keep production and distribution going and food distribution couldn’t stop, not for anything. Hungry people were unpredictable. “Well, what should we do about them, if anything?”

Lurline considered. The End-Timers were a rapidly expanding faction of Fundamentalist Christianity, taking Biblical predictions to heart. Or rather interpreting Biblical pronouncements, mostly from the book of Revelations, in a way that indicated the End Times were at hand. Personally, she thought many of them were simply combining the Bible and current events into a convenient excuse to quit work. She had seen many people like that, men and women caught in hateful, minimum wage jobs that barely kept food on the table or their kids fed; or husbands and wives making themselves believe the End Times would terminate relationships that had grown unbearably oppressing. But most of them were sincere believers.

They could be reasoned with.

“Sir, I think you should go on a nationwide hookup during prime time and explain that while the Rapture may be coming, they’ll miss it if they starve to death or get killed by mobs of hungry people. Urge them to stay with their jobs. Urge them to help keep the cities running. They’ll listen to you; just give them the type of speech you’re famous for, then take questions for fifteen minutes or so.” Lurline knew she was giving good advice. President Marshall, whatever his faults, was a superbly convincing orator.

“All right, set it up, but make it day after tomorrow. I’ll be tied up with the U.N. tomorrow. Which reminds me—I need to see Emilee Bailey beforehand. Get her over here first thing in the morning.”

Lurline made a note. “Yes, sir. How about the Arab ambassadors. Several of them are demanding to see you.”

“Stall them. The Arabs are no longer a problem, or won’t be shortly. Isn’t that right, General?”

“Yes, sir. Another couple of months and we can move in, assuming we can release some of our troops from street duty. It’s funny,” he mused. “Whatever bug the Jews used, it’s infecting Arab and non-Arab alike. Iran is suffering almost as much as Egypt and Syria, and the farther away from the Middle East, the fewer people are infected.”

“Good. The more of those goddamned fanatics that die, the better I like it. I’ll have some more morbidity figures from the CDC once it’s completely back in our hands, but I was told the last ones I saw aren’t likely to change much. Listen, let’s break this up for now. I’ve got to see the speech writers and get them going, then some of the governors. Damn it, there’s just not enough hours in the day to cover everything.”

“Perhaps Vice President Santes could assume some more duties, sir?” Lurline suggested hopefully.

Anything to bring more rationality into the government.

“I’ll manage,” Marshall said shortly. “Besides, she’s busy with the CDC negotiations right now.”

As if that’s taking up all her time, Lurline thought . He doesn’t want to share power. Except with General Newman, maybe.

“Damn it, there’s no help for it. I have to get back,” Doug insisted. He had regained consciousness upstairs and was forcefully resisting attempts to treat him. “Just bandage me up good, splint this arm and give me some crutches.” A hell of a negotiator I am, he thought. Damn it, I should have gotten Colonel Christian’s personal phone number. I bet he has his own phone with him. Qualluf probably wouldn’t have believed he was hurt until he saw the bullet holes though, so it probably didn’t matter.

There was a weary nurse standing by the gurney. “Mr. Craddock, you’re in no shape to go anywhere.

Your upper arm is broken and your leg has a bullet hole in it on top of your previous wound.”

“I’m sorry. I’m responsible for every one of our people being held captive. I don’t care how you do it, but get me over there. Send someone with me if you think I’m that bad. And give me a phone number where I can reach Amelia immediately.” He needed to talk to Amelia in more detail as soon as she was out of surgery and able to speak.

In the end, the medics just gave up. An air cast was put on Doug’s arm to immobilize it, a few stitches were taken to pull his wounds together temporarily and his leg bandaged tightly enough to prevent any more bleeding. All the while it was going on, Doug kept telling them to speed things up. When he left, riding a gurney, the nurse accompanied him. She was carrying pain medicine and another IV bag to use when the one dripping fluids into his good arm was exhausted. He was past his self-imposed time limit by the time the gurney was rolling along the walkway between buildings, but the blacks were becoming accustomed to the white flags by now.

Surprisingly, Fridge was outside to greet him as he returned.

“I heard you caught a ride back, Doug. What in hell you been doing, trying to feed yourself with your left hand again? You know you ain’t got that much coordination.” He eyed the nurse tagging along with him.

“How bad you hurt?”

“I’ll live, but we’ve got more problems than a broken arm or a shot up leg. Let’s go.”

“Yeah, the preacher’s getting impatient. Come on, we’ll go in through the lobby.”

Doug was searching the room the moment the big front doors opened. He didn’t have far to look. June had been alerted by Fridge and was waiting just inside the entrance.

“Doug! Oh, sweetheart, what happened? Are you hurt? Oh God, stupid question,” she added as she leaned her head near his and kissed him.

Doug raised up enough to meet her lips. “I’m fine. Or maybe not so fine, but I can’t take time off to be sick. I’m glad you’re not hurt. I was so worried that…” He saw the untreated wound at the neckline of an overlarge white tee shirt, apparently borrowed from a man. “What happened to you?”

“It’s all right, this man here saved me from anything bad.”

“June, baby, we’re going to have to talk later. I’ve got a situation waiting that may be the most important thing in the world right now. Fridge? Can she come?”

Fridge shook his head. “Not a good idea. Mrs. Craddock, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait here.”

“Fridge, thank you for taking care of her, but I think she could join us. She may know something that has a bearing on the information I’m going to give you.”

“How so?”

Doug hadn’t wanted to bring her into the danger of the negotiations, nor let Taylor know his wife was anywhere close, but this was bigger than both of them.

“June’s been acting as administrative assistant to the CDC Director. I’ll tell you more inside. It’s not good, but maybe we can make something out of it.”

“All right,” Fridge conceded. He was getting impatient with the preacher himself.