Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

There was a silence. After a moment a sigh. “All right, if it will make you feel better, I’ll send someone I can trust to Christian’s headquarters unit with orders from me to keep an eye on him and to eliminate him if I give the order. So far as anyone will know, it will be a simple transfer. Now don’t call me again. Use our regular contact methods.”

Tomlin switched off the phone, still dissatisfied. Regular contacts! They always took at least twenty four hours and frequently longer to get data to the right person. He looked down at his hands. His nails were bitten back to nothing. I never bit my nails before. Why now? But of course he knew why.

Amelia had the head of her bed elevated at about a fifteen degree angle, enough to make good eye contact with anyone she was talking to. She was still pretty groggy from the anesthetic and the painkiller drip in her I.V., but not so much that she couldn’t reason or know what was going on around her. “Hello, Doug,” She smiled as he pushed his wheelchair into her room. “I heard what happened to you. Aren’t we a pair?”

The sound of Doug’s name woke June from her nap. She got up from a chair on the other side of the bed where she had been dozing and came around to Doug.

“Mmmm,” he when she finally removed her lips from his. “That’s better than medicine. One more like that and you’ll have me up and running around the room.” He brushed a tear from her lashes with his forefinger.

“What have you two been talking about?”

“Johannsen,” they both said at once.

He raised his brows. Information about the scientist was what he had come for. “Good. Amelia, I hate to rush you, but I’ve got to get back to the other building and try to keep the pot from boiling over again.

When we were talking right before you went into surgery, you mentioned something else you had found out about Johannsen. Do you remember what it was?”

Amelia looked puzzled for a moment, trying to recall the memories. Suddenly her face brightened. “Oh! I remember now. I told you there was a possibility of a vaccine, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“And that a couple of drugs are showing promise of being at least partially effective in limiting the level of quinol in the blood from the…” Seeing his frown, she smiled. “Let’s just say we might have a treatment, if not a cure. It’s not certain yet, though. And of course even if we do develop a vaccine, it will be too late for most blacks.”

“Nothing seems to be very certain with virology, does it?”

“No, that’s the nature of the little demons. But here’s the good part of what Jenkins got out of Johannsen at their first meeting. He said that during his initial lab experiments, the Harcourt virus began attenuating after its hiatus in the cells first infected. He thinks that will probably happen with humans, too.”

“What do you mean, attenuated?”

“Sorry. That means it changes and even if it still causes the same disease, it’s not as serious. We also know it has mutated somewhat, because it’s not migrating to the liver of people with secondary infections.

The people who’re catching it now go right on and present with the symptoms after a short time, weeks instead of two years or so. Also, from what few reports we have so far, it appears that most patients are recovering from the disease caused by the secondary rather than primary infection. That’s what was so important. Just bear in mind, this is from a very limited amount of data. We’ve lost contact with all the medical teams in Africa, ours and the U.N. both. That’s where the disease was first spread but we can’t get any reports from there. The whole continent is a disaster zone, medical and otherwise.”

As she related that news, Doug’s face was a study in conflicting emotions; first smiling with delight, then the smile descending into a frown. When she finished, he sighed. “But again, you’re not sure, huh?”

“No, but on this subject, we should know more in a short while.”

“Well, I guess that’s good news. It will be great if it works out like that. All right, I’ll have to be satisfied.

Thanks. Can you spare June long enough to wheel me to the front exit?”

“Certainly. But if she’s not back in a half hour, I’m going to send someone to find her.” Amelia watched as June pushed Doug’s wheelchair out the door. What a perfect couple they make, she thought; then sadly, began wondering why she had never married.

Before leaving the building, Doug paused to call Vice President Santes. Somehow, he had to bring her into the drama, especially if Christian found proof of Tomlin’s involvement with Johannsen. Had he been asked, he wouldn’t have been able to say exactly why he didn’t trust the White House. Maybe I just don’t like the guy in office, he thought, then discarded the idea. That wasn’t it. His distrust went deeper, down to the visceral level. He didn’t necessarily believe Marshall was involved, but he doubted the man would be willing to do anything to hurt his reelection chances; to his eyes, he was obviously a man who enjoyed the exercise of power. Making public Johannsen’s and Tomlin’s collusion, if it proved to be true, would probably force him to resign. Doug would conceal the knowledge if he could, until the right time to release it. Or perhaps not. He would probably have to trust Santes in the end. No one else had the clout to protect them. He raised the white flag on its slender pole and one of the black security guards came to meet them.

Colonel Christian was glad he had ordered his men to break the door down. The occupant was in front of the fireplace, tossing papers and folders into the fire.

“Get that fire put out!” he roared, but a quick thinking sergeant was already ahead of him. He emptied his canteen onto the smoldering papers, bypassing the time it would have taken to run water from the faucet and carry it back.

While that was going on, both soldiers and blacks swarmed over the man doing the burning.

“Don’t kill him! Jerry, Kilgore! Check the computer and grab all the backups you can find. Waller, help me sort through these papers. Quickly, now!

Shane Stevenson, as the man owning the house indeed proved to be, had fortunately been in too much of a hurry. He threw enough documents into the fireplace to almost smother the first flames he started, and he hadn’t gotten the fire going good again when the water put it out.

Lieutenant Waller knelt beside the colonel, with a black man in a suit coat but no tie on his other side. A moment later he raised his eyes to Christian. “Sir, no wonder those white supremacists we executed didn’t leave a trail to their lair. Everything is right here. Files on the whole organization, from years back.”

Christian took the papers and shuffled through a few of them. “These are good, but not all I want. Go make sure the computer records are secured. Hurry.”

Puzzled, the lieutenant went off to comply, wondering why the colonel wanted him there. Two men and two women were already doing that.

As quickly as the lieutenant was out of sight in the spare bedroom that had been turned into an office, Christian, nodded. “Here it is.” He caught the eye of the man representing Qualluf. “See it?”

“I see. I got something else here, too. Look.”

Colonel Christian’s face paled as he read. “Good God! Keep this quiet or every one of us will be shot!”

“Is it true, though? Why would anyone leave records like this laying around when they could have it all on a portable drive they could just throw away?”

“I don’t know. Hell, maybe they do. We’ve got what we came for, though. Now…”