Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

“There’s a little room near the Chief Scientist’s suite designed for when an overnight stay at the office is necessary. Amelia appropriated it for us. We can manage there. I’ve already got it equipped with everything you’ll need, including clean clothes that Teresa sent over.”

“Which reminds me, I’ve got to…”

“You don’t have to do anything. Teresa is as efficient as Ky. If my husband is going to be meeting the vice president, I want him to look like he’s still living instead of something the cat dragged in. Right now you could just about pass for a corpse.”

True to her word, the little room was ready, complete even to a shower. June had even thought far enough ahead to procure plastic bags to protect the cast on his arm and the wounds in his lower leg. By the time he had brushed his teeth and showered, with June stripping his clothes and helping him as he sat on the seat inside, he was nearly gone. He would have been, had it not been for the pain. A pill took care of that and he fell asleep in mid-sentence. He never did remember what he had been talking about.

“What do you mean she’s gone! Where in hell is she!” President Marshall roared at his new, temporary Chief of Staff. With Lurline gone, he felt as if he was foundering, unable to keep what needed to be done separated from what could just as easily be either postponed or cancelled entirely.

“I don’t know sir. I didn’t know she had gone anywhere until you asked me to contact her. Ms. Tedd didn’t leave any instructions for me in order to assure continuity. I…”

“Well, get her on the phone, you fool! No wait. Have you heard from General Newman?”

“Was I supposed to, sir? I didn’t know. And do you mean call the vice president or Ms. Tedd?”

Marshall avoided an explosion of temper by the barest of margins. He buried his head in his hands, then massaged his temples to calm himself down. It wasn’t Credence’s fault. Lurline had been so efficient she had rarely relied on her assistant for backup and as a result the man was totally lost. The president raised his head, wishing he could have a drink. He glanced at his watch. Hell, it was late enough. One wouldn’t hurt.

“Make me a drink—no, come watch me while I do it so you can see how I like it.”

As President Marshall carefully measured out precisely three quarters of a shot glass of hundred proof premium bourbon, he gave Credence instructions on what to do next.

“First try to get in touch with General Newman and tell him I want his resignation immediately. If you can’t reach him, get the joint chiefs together for a conference call and notify me when they’re ready.” He poured the shot glass of bourbon over two ice cubes in a small water glass and added enough water to bring it three quarters of the way from the rim. “Next, try to reach the vice president. No, try to find her first. See if her plane has left. Whenever you reach her, notify me immediately. I want to talk to that bi…

that lady.” He stirred his drink, tasted by downing a third of it, then held still for a moment while it burned its way down and began warming his body.

Back behind his desk, the president continued. “Call my quarters and tell the family I’ll be staying here overnight. There’s too much going on to leave the office. I’ll try to get a nap here if I can. Get the speechwriters and press secretary. Have them fix up a denial of Santes’ story, but include a statement that both of those crazy fools involved with the Harcourt virus are leaving office ‘for the good of the country’, but don’t phrase it that way. The speech writers will know what I mean. And finally, get that colonel in Atlanta on the phone. I have some orders for him. That’s all; now get busy.”

Mylan Credence left the president sitting at his desk, sipping bourbon and sifting through briefs that had been stacking up. The president was rubbing his eyes as he closed the door behind him. Then Credence began trying to sort through everything the president wanted done while thinking that maybe Lurline had the right idea. Resignation was beginning to sound like a preferable option to this madhouse.

“Mr. President, I won’t help you brush this under the table. I joined the ticket because I honestly felt it would help our party govern better. I’m sorry to see I made a mistake. I won’t deny this story under any circumstances, and I won’t return to Washington.”

“But Marlene, we’ll be thrown out of office.”

“Perhaps, but I swore an oath to defend the constitution, not the office. This is the right thing to do. Edgar and General Newman should be arrested and tried.”

“I’ve asked for their resignations.”

“And have you gotten them?”

There was silence at the other end of the line, allowing Santes to hear the barely audible hum of the big jet she was on descending toward Atlanta. When the president came back on the line he simply said “I’ll talk to you later.”

Thoughtfully, she handed the phone back to an aide and considered what to do. “Call the local media in Atlanta. Tell them I’m having a followup press conference at the CDC. Give them approximate times. Tell them to contact the CDC for more details. Then send the press back here. I’ll want to talk to them before even stepping off the plane.”

Too bad, General Newman thought. We could have worked with the man. He picked up his phone and gave a set of coded signals to one of his operatives while glancing down at his wastebasket, where lay the tatters of the resignation document an aide had prepared after hearing the president call for it. The frightened aide had hurried away while Newman muttered to himself. If that fucking Marshall didn’t know how to run the country, then by God, he did. It was the president who was going to leave office, though not in a formal way. He was seeing to that right now. And after that—well, after Marshall was gone, there would be some real changes made. America had been let itself be a doormat for those gook countries too long. By the time he was finished, they’d be singing a different tune. He grinned crazily. If any of them were left.

Edgar Tomlin had prepared and signed his resignation, but not yet sent it to the president. He was staring despairingly down at the one page statement when the General called.

“Edgar, just sit tight. I have the situation under control. I’ll take care of the president. You take care of that Santes bitch.”

“How?”

“You know how, Edgar.”

“I don’t want to go that far. It will be traced back to us and we’ll be executed! Besides, the president is denying the whole thing. We’re safe.”

“You damn fool, don’t you think you’re a dead man if you back down now? You can’t quit. You sit tight or I’ll take care of you myself. Hear?”

Edgar Tomlin put down the phone, wishing he had called a halt to the process when he had a chance. But then, he reflected, after I provided the funding, it was inevitable that it would go on to a conclusion. And isn’t this what I wanted? A world without blacks, the Arabs no longer dictating policy to us because of a geological accident that located them on top of hundreds of billions of barrels of oil? Maybe Newman can handle it. He who rides a tiger… the old adage drifted through his mind as he slowly tore the resignation into strips and fed them to his shredder. Then he gave the orders. It would have to be done in a hurry. Fortunately, he had been making plans, though he had hoped it would never come to this.

John Dawson wiped beads of perspiration from his wife’s dark colored face. “Can I get you some more pain medicine, honey? Anything?”