Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

Late that night, after reading the booklet, he decided to go see what the Church of Blacks had to offer him. Perhaps they had what he was looking for. He certainly had nothing else to do now, and little desire to do anything else.

“But Doug, we still don’t know anything about how the Harcourt virus is being spread! There must be something obvious we’re overlooking. Can’t we wait a few more days?” Amelia was agitated and haggard looking. She had been working as hard as anyone else in her scientific capacity and still finding time for all the administrative duties concerning the thirty people she supervised, but she felt their job was unfinished.

“What are you hearing from home?” Doug nodded toward the secure phone on the desk of the tiny office she had been assigned. It contained little else other than a half dozen folded chairs leaning against one wall.

Amelia ran her fingers through the portion of her hair below the clasp holding it behind her neck. It was beginning to feel greasy from not taking the time to wash it. “Oh hell, Doug, it’s popping up everywhere.

And did I tell you? Bob Handley came to me yesterday. I think he may have it, too. He’s presenting some of the symptoms.”

“Oh damn! Hasn’t he been wearing his suit?”

“He says he has. But when I checked in at noon, I heard that a couple of our blacks at CDC contacted it, despite every precaution. We can’t explain it!” She looked almost ready to cry from frustration.

“Well, crap. Amelia, if that’s the case, can’t you study the possible vectors just as well back home?”

“I… yes, I guess we could, so far as that goes, but I was hoping we’d find whether or not it’s a mutation of the poliovirus that was passed from some animal reservoir here or… or…”

“Or whether it was man made?”

“Altered by man, anyway. I… oh hell, Doug, I guess I’ve just been doing some wishful thinking. It’s looking more and more like something that was deliberately altered, then planted. We just can’t figure out how it’s spreading! I…”

With the suddenness of a dish slipping from her hand and breaking, Amelia’s composure finally cracked.

Tears formed, then she began crying in earnest. Doug kicked the partially opened door closed and gathered her into his arms. She sobbed in broken gasps, trying to contain the abrupt release of emotion but unable to stop for long moments.

Finally she stepped back and fumbled in the pocket of her lab jacket for a handkerchief. She wiped at her eyes and smiled wryly. “Sorry. That’s not like me, you know. It’s just that… how could someone do such a thing?” She sniffed again.

“I don’t know, Amelia, any more than I can understand the endless number of terrorists so fanatical that they’re willing to blow themselves up so long as they… never mind, that’s another problem. And security is my decision, not yours. Go get everyone here ready to go. I’ve already sent a truck back for my off-duty troops and any of your people that’re there. Grab your notes and any specimens you think are irreplaceable, but that’s all. Don’t waste time trying to pack personal gear. Send everyone to the lobby.

We’re heading for the airport while it’s still open.”

“Has it gotten that bad already? I thought…”

“It’s going to get that bad. That’s my considered opinion, as well as that of Captain Presley. Go on, now.

I’ll try to make arrangements through the embassy for a plane.”

First Doug used his military-configured phone to alert his off duty troops. He got Martha on the line the first try, and didn’t waste words. “Martha, this is Doug. Get the troops together. Round up anyone else that’s there and pile into the truck I’m sending for you. It’s already on the way, so hurry. We’re getting out of here.”

“Got it,” she said and hung up.

Doug liked dealing with the former medic. She grasped orders quickly and carried them out with dispatch. That matter taken care of, he dialed again.

Amelia’s phone was a duplicate of his; both had securely encrypted lines to the American Embassy in Lagos and the CDC back home. He tried the embassy first and was unable to get through after several attempts. So much for arranging for a plane to pick them up. There might not be enough time to get one here anyway, he thought.

“Damn it,” he muttered and cursed the politicians who blocked the CDC security teams from direct communication with the military. They were required to go through embassy personnel if they thought help was needed. There was another way, though. Gene Bradley, the head of security for CDC, still had plenty of military connections. Doug took out his personal phone, plugged in Gene’s number, then waited almost a minute while his call wound its way from satellite to satellite and through various connections before reaching Atlanta. And that damned line was busy, too. He hung on, hoping that Gene had his call waiting activated; his own phone number was tagged with an urgent symbol when and if it appeared on Gene’s phone.

In the near distance several shots rang out. He heard some faint shouts, a distant scream, then the noise died away. Come on, come on, answer, damn it! he said to himself.

“Doug? That you?” Gene’s voice came through, a little static mixed with it but understandable.

“Yeah. Gene, I understand there’s a carrier offshore here. Can you get through to them and arrange for them to send some choppers for us? I think all hell’s going to break loose here before long.”

He waited impatiently for the answer, knowing that even at the speed of light, a call to and from the other side of the world sometimes took a second or two to make the circuit through satellites and ground relays.

“I’ll put a flag on it to give you priority over the lace panty set. Where’s the pickup?”

“Main hospital in Port Harcourt. They should have the GPS coordinates, but just in case, here they are.”

He read off the numbers, then added, “Give us one hour. And it wouldn’t hurt to throw a little air cover over the embassy—and us, too if you can manage it.”

“The embassy’s already in the works, Doug. I’ll try to get the flyboys to add you to their itinerary. Hang tough. Good luck.” The line went dead.

“Gene will try to get some helicopters to pick us up, Amelia. Go round up your people and take them upstairs. I’ll send a couple of my guys up in a minute.”

Doug checked his Glock .45 caliber pistol, as he did several times a day, then hurried outside. Presley was waiting at the main entrance, his rifle in his hands. He was speaking to one of the black guards in a tribal language that sounded to Doug like someone trying to talk through a mouthful of food. As he watched, the soldier spit on the ground at Presley’s feet and walked away. The other two Nigerians stared nervously after him but stayed at their posts.

“News?” Presley asked, not moving his gaze away from two groups of Nigerian civilians back behind the wire. The apparent leader of the smaller group was discoursing loudly to the larger throng, using his hands and arms to wave and point in the direction of the hospital entrance and back toward the center of the city.

“Chopper evac in an hour, hopefully. Can the roof support enough weight to take one? I hope so, because that’s where I’m sending our folks.”

“Why—oh, I see. Might be best, old boy.” He touched the ear plug with the wire leading to where his little radio was belted. “Text to voice from the infonet. Blasted gov’ment wags can’t stop that, no ‘ay.”

“What do you hear?”

“Riots in Lagos. Army desertions. Some whites lynched already. Bloody strange. ‘S not like there’s so many down with ‘t bug, but the net’s gone haywire with conspiracy tales.”