Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

“Fine. Thank you very much, Lurline. I personally appreciate it and I know others will, too. Can you start tomorrow morning, or do you need a little more time to arrange your personal affairs?”

“I can start tomorrow, Mrs. President, although I may not manage to get there first thing in the morning.”

“That’s all right. Um, you might bring a change of clothes and your personal toiletry items. I expect to keep you very busy for the first few days, if not longer.”

Lurline let out a merry laugh. “No problem, Mrs. President. Thank you for your confidence.”

The line went dead. Lurline replaced the phone and began packing, whistling to herself. After a moment she recognized the tune. It was an old one, Begin Again .

“Where’s Johannsen? I would have thought he would be out there with them,” June said. She and Doug were laying on the bed two weeks later, backs propped against big pillows leaning on the headboard, watching a news cast. It was the first time they had managed a day off to simply relax and be by themselves, back in their apartment in transient quarters, which had been cleaned up and refurnished.

Doug looked at the screen as the camera again panned across the three stakes set in a courtyard. Shane Stevenson, General Newman, and Edgar Tomlin stood with their hands tied behind them, with others in the wings, waiting their own execution. The eyes of Newman and Stevenson were wild, faces contorted as what was about to happen impinged with brutal force on their consciousness. Tomlin had accepted the offer of a blindfold; the others had not. General Newman had a wide piece of tape plastered across his mouth. No one wanted to listen to his ravings any more, not even the newsmen.

Doug looked surprised. “Didn’t I ever tell you what was going to happen to Johannsen? No, come to think of it, I didn’t. Part of the initial agreement that stopped the fighting here was that once we had milked Johannsen of all he knew about he Harcourt virus, and his connections with the white supremacists, was to hand him over to the Church of Blacks. In fact, if I heard the anchor right, they’ll be televising his demise right after the executions here.”

“I don’t want to watch either of them, but I would like to know what they’re going to do to Johannsen. I can’t abide the thought of anyone being tortured, even him. They should just kill him.”

Doug’s arm that was in the cast couldn’t be used much, but he moved his fingers to touch her thigh where he had pushed the sheet aside. He caressed her fondly, thinking of how much he loved her. “Well, they’re not going to torture him, in the classical sense of the word, but he’s not going to have a painless death, either.”

“Well, what, then? A lethal injection?”

Doug confessed, hoping she wouldn’t think less of him. “It was my idea, June. And yes, it will be a lethal injection, just not a regular one. I thought of it back when we were still negotiating. Savak Johannsen is going to receive a fatal dose of quinol, the substance that causes such a painful death in dark skinned people who have the virus. He’s going to die in the same kind of agony as all his victims did. I couldn’t think of a better way for him to go.”

“Lord have mercy! How long will it take. No, don’t tell me, and let’s turn this off. I don’t want to watch.”

When the screen went blank and silent, June rolled onto her side. “I don’t know if I totally agree with you, but I certainly can’t think of a more fitting death for him.” She lay her head on his chest.

Doug felt himself wanting to make love again. There had been very little time for it the last two weeks. He curled his arm around her. He kissed her and ran his good hand over her shoulder and the curve of her hip.

June looked up. “Again? Good.”

“Mmm hmm. Only thing is, with this damned cast, the only comfortable way for me is on my back.”

“Just pretend you’re a woman,” she laughed. “I’ll take care of everything else.”

Fridge stood out of the way of the camera lights and watched Johannsen writhe under the quinol intoxication. He stood there for a long time, but finally it began to remind him too much of seeing his family die in front of his eyes, while he watched, helpless to do anything for them. He turned around and left.

“No comment,” he said to the gaggle of reporters outside. He didn’t want to talk to anyone right now.

Instead, he decided to visit the cemetery where his wife and children were buried. They had died early enough in the pandemic so that he had been able to bury them, rather than having their bodies consigned to a mass grave. One day when he had time, he would place markers. For now, all he wanted was a quiet place to grieve one final time before placing their memories in an archive of his mind where he could call up the happy times they had spent together. Maybe… the thought flitted away on the wind, but he didn’t try to revive it.

Qualluf Taylor stayed until the last, almost twenty four hours later. Johannsen had suffered, but when the time came that he was no longer responsive, he called a halt to it and ordered another injection to finish him off. Afterward, he went back to the office he had been given in the Atlanta chapel of the Church of Blacks. There was still work to be done until the Presidential Council got organized. Santes was keeping her word.

Doug returned to his duties the next day. He enjoyed the frequent contact with Amelia, where he could see June, but that was about to end. She blew him a kiss as he pulled open the door to Amelia’s office.

He paused there to blow the kiss back to June. She caught the imaginary missive and touched her fingers to her lips. She smiled serenely at him, a promise of things to come when they were alone again.

Inside, Amelia was on the phone with someone. She motioned him to a seat. He took it and tried not to listen to the conversation, thinking it might be private, but he couldn’t help overhearing an occasional

“Mrs. President” as she talked.

Amelia replaced the phone. “Did you and June enjoy your day off?” she asked, a twinkle in her eyes.

“Immensely,” Doug said. “Too bad we can’t have more of them. Or a honeymoon.”

Amelia looked pensive for a moment. “You may have one despite yourself. That was the president, as I guess you heard. She wants you in Washington next week if congress approves her request.”

“Request?”

“Yes. You’ve been nominated for the Congressional Medal of Freedom.”

“I didn’t do anything to merit that honor.”

“Don’t be modest. Haven’t you been following the news? You’re a national hero.”

“Me?” Doug was astounded. If anyone was a hero it was the men who had died defending the CDC

complex. All else had followed from that.

“You. And she’s also requested enough authority for the council so that it will have some real power. If that’s approved, and I suspect it will be, you may as well stay in Washington. I’ll hate to lose you and June but you’re ready to move on.” She laughed. “Doug, there’s even talk of you being on the ticket with President Santes if she runs for re-election, which I expect she will.”

“What! Me a politician? Never! Once we get that council organized and running good, I’m going to take June home and have a family. She says she’s ready.”

“Hmm. The president is awfully good at persuasion.”

“She’ll have to be damn good to ever get me to agree to that!”

EPILOG

Three years later, Doug wondered where the time had gone. The Harcourt virus had run its course and the secondary infections had proven to be much milder than the original. The virus had indeed attenuated—for the better, though the world was still suffering from its aftereffects.