Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

Presley took out a pack of cigarettes and shook one free. He tucked it between his lips and offered the pack to Doug. Without thinking, he took one and accepted a light. As soon as the smoke hit his lungs, he felt the familiar satisfying sensation—and a sudden dizziness at his first breath of nicotine in months. It happened every time. War and smoking seemed to go together in his mind. There had been no shooting yet, but he was beginning to doubt they would get out of Nigeria without fighting.

“Same’s back home t’way I hear it over t’ radio. Our boffins say it’s a virus, but ‘s peculiar. Seems to be spread by family sometimes, but not always. Blasted strange, eh?”

They paused again at the back entrance to the hospital. There, a gathering crowd was pressing forward toward rolls of barbed wire that had been hastily emplaced around the hospital grounds two days before, a worrisome sign in itself. All of the crowd were black. Many were yelling and shaking their fists, but others appeared barely able to stand and were being supported by what he supposed were family members.

Abruptly, an irregular volley of rifle shots rode above the crowd noise and silenced it for a moment. Doug scanned the scene quickly and saw that it hadn’t turned violent yet; the Nigerian soldiers had fired over the heads of the crowd. It was a portent, though. He pulled out his military phone and thumbed it on to let the troops in front know what was happening. He had to wait a moment while a voice amplified by a bull horn warned the crowd to stay in line or to go to the new hospital just opened.

“Heads up, guys,” he said, then after giving both the front and back guards time to recognize the incoming message signal, continued. “Those were warning shots, but stay alert. Remember, you’re not authorized to use force unless it’s the last resort—but don’t hesitate if any of our people are threatened.”

In the meantime, Presley was busy conveying information to his troops. When he saw that part of the throng had begun to troop off toward the newly rigged hospital, he spoke to Presley. “How much longer, do you think, Captain?”

Presley’s normally nonchalant countenance had sobered. He shook his head negatively, knowing exactly what Doug was asking. “If ‘twas my lookout, I’d be telling my chaps to start packing, old man. I rather doubt whites’ll be popular ‘round here in another day or two—not that we’re very popular right now, eh?” His grin returned momentarily, then vanished again as his phone rang.

While he was talking, Doug was thinking. It would be nice if the scientists could stay long enough to discover the vector for the “prickles”, another designation for the disease here, but their safety was his primary concern. Local news was already being censored, but Amelia had told him yesterday that the newly commissioned U.S.S. Andrew Jackson, one of their finest aircraft carriers, had arrived offshore with attendant ships, including part of a Marine Expeditionary force. Americans who wanted to leave would be evacuated. When that news got out here, as it inevitably would, the type of mild uproar he had just witnessed would be the least of their worries. Abruptly, he made his decision.

“Captain Presley, I’m going inside to tell our folks to get ready to leave. After that, I’m bringing all my troops and the medical people back here. I’m thinking we’d better call for a lift and get to the airport as soon as possible.”

“I rather agree, old boy. Any chance of going with you?”

“You’ll desert?”

“Call it what you like, old man, but I’ve kept my ear rather close t’ the ground. It’s sticky now, but within a fortnight, I’m willing t’ bet white skins’ll be hunted through t’ streets like bloody foxes. I’d rather like to avoid that ‘f I can.”

“I can get you aboard a flight, Captain, but I can’t guarantee what the customs and immigration folks back home will have to say about it.”

“Better a lockdown than a coffin, eh?”

Doug couldn’t argue with that. He waved one of his guards over, then sent him hurrying to drive one of the big trucks back to the quarters and bring everyone to the hospital.

Ali Green was called Fridge, his nickname, much more often than by his real name. Right now, he didn’t give much of a damn what anyone called him. All he could think of was the little body of his youngest, his daughter and the last of his children. He had buried them all, one by one. His wife rested in a plot beside them. She had gone first.

Tears wouldn’t come. He had already shed so many that there were none left, but he raged inside at the injustice of the world, at the way blacks were treated. He knew just as certainly as God made the earth that some whites, somehow, had been responsible for this newest scourge devastating the black race. He wanted revenge, but he didn’t know who to strike out at. Deep down, he knew that all whites weren’t guilty but he couldn’t control his feelings. Somehow, someway, he had to make them pay.

He trudged away from the graveyard by himself. Many people, especially blacks, were beginning to avoid being close to others for fear of catching the disease, but Fridge didn’t think that made much difference. After all, he had been with all four of his children and his wife and never showed the slightest sign of symptoms, the prickling under the skin that presaged the full blown disease.

He was looking down at the graveled path, lost in his thoughts. It almost caused him to collide with a well dressed black man barring his path.

“Go away,” he said brusquely. “I don’t want no company.”

“Mr. Green, maybe I can help you. I’m from The Church of Blacks.”

Fridge met his level gaze with his own, having to look down at the other man. Fridge was as big as a linebacker though he had never played professional sports. His career had been with the military. “How the church going to help me? They going to bring my family back to life?” He had heard of the Church of Blacks, of course. It had become very big in the South and big cities of the north over the last several years. He had never attended any of their services, not being particularly religious, though he did believe in God, in a vague, undefined way.

“We can’t return your family to you, Mr. Green. But if you’re seeking retribution, we have a place for you.”

Fridge examined the man, closer. He was wearing a suit, even on this warm day, and carried sheaf of booklets in his hand. Now he remembered; he had seen him at the funeral home on another occasion, talking with other grieving friends and relatives of deceased blacks. “What you mean, retribution?” He felt a stirring inside, a spark of new animation at the thought.

“Doctor Taylor is looking for good men with military experience. I understand you were in the army.”

Fridge knew the man was referring to Dr. Qualluf Taylor, a minister and founder of the Church of Blacks.

“How do you know me?”

“One of our members recommended we come see you. I can’t tell you much right now, but believe me, Doctor Taylor intends to make the white establishment pay for this latest outrage against our people.”

“You think the government started it, huh?”

“Who else? Something like this doesn’t just pop up from a jungle. We don’t have proof yet, but we know, just like you do.”

Fridge had to admit they were thinking alike. Still…

“Here, Mr. Green. Take one of these booklets. It will explain the church’s philosophy. If you agree with it, or want to learn more, there’s a contact number and address inside.”

Fridge took the booklet from the man’s extended hand. “Won’t hurt to look,” he said.

“That’s all we ask. Thank you, sir.” Fridge felt his hand being shaken then he was alone again.