The Melanin Apocalypse

by Darrell Bain

  “Well, if there’s nothing else, I’m going to go brief my gang. Thanks for taking me back, Amelia. I really do appreciate it.”

  Amelia Foster watched the younger woman leave the conference room. It’s good to have her back, she thought. June was an excellent infection control nurse.

  In another part of the building, Amelia’s superior sat at her desk in the CDC Director’s office and rubbed her eyes. There were never enough hours in the day or enough money in the budget to cover everything that needed doing. Mary Hedgrade had to take the time for the next task though. Just in case. She punched a button on the console that held three phones, a speaker phone and a teleconference line connected to the big flatscreen on the wall behind her desk.

  “Yes ma’am?” Her assistant’s voice came from the adjoining office of the CDC Director’s suite.

  “Tammy, get Mr. Tomlin on line one for me, please. As quickly as you can arrange it.”

  Sometimes the wait to speak to Edgar Tomlin, Homeland Security Director, was a long one. Mary tried to review the latest morbidity reports, but couldn’t keep her mind on the papers in front of her. Shuffling papers ate up an administrator’s time, but there was no help for it; it sometimes seemed to her that the more advanced computers became, the more they generated a need for hard copies. While she was waiting, her mind wandered, but always came back to the subject of her call—that new illness in Nigeria.

  The last update from the initial small team sent a few days ago prompted her to make it. Doctor visits in Port Harcourt were far above normal, as were hospital admissions. Patients almost all had the same symptoms, a tingling sensation that advanced to pain and weakness. In itself, such a disease wouldn’t have prompted her to notify Homeland Security, but the new report confirmed the earlier findings. Only people with dark skin were falling prey to whatever it was. More deaths had been reported, and even more ominous, still not a single person had recovered. There weren’t that many bacteria or viruses so target specific—and so universally deadly.

  Mary’s assistant broke into her reverie. “Ms. Hedgrade, Mr. Tomlin is ready for you.”

  Mary picked up the secure phone. She barely knew Edgar Tomlin, but what little she knew of him struck her positively. He wasn’t simply an out-of-work politician appointed to fill the National Security Director’s seat temporarily until a new Director was nominated and confirmed; he was a career official and the former undersecretary, and CIA Director before that. His predecessor had died of a heart attack two weeks ago.

  “Mr. Tomlin, I have some news for you. A new disease, a bad one, has poked its head up in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. It appears to infect only blacks and other very dark skinned persons.”

  “Good God! Won’t that cause a run of paranoia! But why tell me?” He sounded impatient. Mary imagined his workload probably outweighed hers.

  “There’s a possibility that the original virus could have been deliberately altered to produce just that effect, Mr. Tomlin.”

  Dead silence reigned at the other end of the line for a long moment. Finally Tomlin spoke. He no longer sounded as if he wanted to hurry. “But you’re not sure yet. Is that it?”

  “Yes, sir. But we should know within a few days. I just wanted to give you fair warning. This could be a bombshell.”

  “Damn right it could! Bombshell is an understatement. What are your people doing about it?”

  “I sent one small team initially. Within forty eight hours I’ll have a complete contingent over there. I would appreciate it if you would have the Secretary of State pave the way for them. And I suppose you need to start your wheels rolling just in case?” Her last sentence was framed as a question.

  Another silence, then he said “Yes, I’ll start some preliminary work but… uh, Mary is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mary, I’m going to put a clamp on this. Tell your people not to talk about it, especially the part about it affecting only blacks. Good God, what would—wait! Is there any possibility it could spread to here? Is it contagious?”

  “Mr. Tomlin, that’s what we’re going to find out. We have no idea yet how it spreads, nor exactly how fast; only that it’s doing it, and doing it very rapidly.” She didn’t finish with the implication. Whether or not Tomlin knew it, Port Harcourt was a metropolitan city, the hub of both air and sea travel into and out of Nigeria, the most populous nation in Africa. If it could be spread by human to human contact, as apparently it could in some way, then it was already present in nearly every country in the world.

  Including the United States of America. Globalization and universal air travel would have seen to that.

  * * *

  Edgar Tomlin put down the phone and stared into space, reviewing the conversation in his mind. Had he responded properly? Been appropriately concerned? Finally he nodded to himself. Yes. He had said just what he should have.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rafe Smith grinned gleefully at his companions and clenched his fingers into a fist, shaking it in the air.

  “We did it!”

  There were five of them, all looking much alike; faces seamed with wrinkles burned into the skin by long exposure to the sun. They were dressed in jeans and snap button shirts and battered tennis shoes or heavy, lace up work boots. There were two cases of beer stacked in the kitchen of the old farmhouse, with more cooling in the refrigerator. It had been a long time coming and now they were celebrating.

  “You reckon we’ll get all the niggers?” Eddie Dunstop, Rafe’s second in command, asked. He tipped a beer can to his mouth and swallowed. It went down easy and cold, a proper reward for a working man after a day outside at the construction site.

  “Hell, yes,” Rafe answered. “That crazy Swede said Africa’s just the start. Before long there won’t be a nigger left alive.”

  “Hallelujah!” Another of the men exclaimed. “Goddamned black apes, it’s about time.” He wiped his mouth after tipping a beer to his mouth and continued, “I still think we should of killed the Swede after we got the stuff from him. What if he gets caught and blabs?”

  Rafe shook his head. “No, the big boss said we might need him later. Niggers ain’t the only ones in the world causin’ us trouble. There’s the Chinks and Spics, too.”

  “How ‘bout the Ragheads? Those crazy fucks are bad as niggers.”

  Rafe chuckled and stretched his long thin legs out on the patched ottoman in the living room. “We got it started, good buddy. Let’s let this play out first. Which reminds, me, better stock up on ammo before it hits here. This is gonna to drive the niggers batshit.”

  Eddie stood up and stretched, then sat back down. His puzzled expression focused on Rafe, their leader and the one who was the primary contact with the Swede—as well as the one who received and dispensed the funds coming from the head man. “How they gonna do anything to us? Won’t they just die off real quick like?”

  “Naw, Eddie. It spreads kinda like the flu. You know, like it may go on for months before they’re all dead.”

  “But Rafe, the flu don’t never get ever’body! What if it don’t kill all of ‘em?”

  “The Swede said it would, but it might take some time. Now relax and enjoy yourself. We’ve worked for this day a long time. From now on whites are in charge of the world.”

  “Except for the Spics and Chinks.”

  “Relax, man, relax. We’ll get them, too, eventually. The Swede said he might could figure something out if he had some more time and money. I know, I talked to him good right before we split up.”

  Eddie nodded agreement. A new world was coming, one more to his liking. Like Rafe always told them, everything would be great when there were no more niggers or spiks or chinks. The whole world would be ruled by whites, like God intended it to be. He took another swig of beer and tried to visualize the future, but his imagination was limited. What he mostly thought about was how that goddamned black ape of a foreman who told him he was lazy would be dead, deader than last week’s road kill. He wiped his mouth an
d grinned.

  * * *

  The security contingent for the CDC teams was housed in a huge converted factory building located just outside the eastern city limits of Atlanta. From the bits of lint and strings of colored cloth that still turned up sticking to clothing and gear, Doug suspected it had once been a textile mill. Those days are gone, he thought. China and Bangladesh and other low-pay countries manufactured almost all the mass produced clothing now. Still, the building was sufficient for their purposes. There was enough room to house several hundred troops, as well as a mess hall and lounge. A smaller building adjacent to it served adequately as a supply and arms depot. It was always under guard by a contract security firm. Those who were married or had some other arrangements were allowed to live away from the headquarters unless they were on the go team. That duty rotated and Doug considered himself lucky to have caught this assignment. He liked seeing new places and had never been to Nigeria.

  The security building held a briefing and conference room, which was where Doug and his squad were now. He had just told them where they were headed.

  “Nigeria!” One of the troops exclaimed. “That’s Africa, huh?”

  Doug was always astounded by questions like that. He was well aware of the fact that geography was no longer considered part of a well-rounded school curriculum, but damn, didn’t people even read these days? Or watch something besides sports and cartoons? It was a pet peeve of his. He controlled his irritation at the man’s lack of knowledge, even though Nigeria had been in the news for years with its perennial religious and tribal conflicts between Muslims, Christians and Animists over control of the country’s oil supply and government.

  “Yes,” Doug acknowledged. “Nigeria is in western Africa. It’s a big oil producer when they’re not on strike or banging away at each other over religious issues. We’re going to Port Harcourt on the coast. Be sure and go over the briefing packet I gave you, especially the street maps of the area around the hospital and clinics. All of them. I know you don’t have much time but that’s what the go team is for; a quick deployment.”

  “Can we expect any action?” Buddy Hawkins, a former Marine, asked. He had somehow missed the Gulf wars and the latest dustup in South America. Doug thought of the circumstances, the fact that only blacks and other dark skinned people were being affected by the disease. “I can’t tell you officially, but personally? Yeah, I think there’s a good chance of it this time.” He didn’t try to tell the young man that combat was hard, dirty, frightening and crazy, and nothing at all like the storybooks. If it came, he would find out the hard way, like every soldier in history had.

  “Terrorists?” Martha Myers questioned. She was a short, dark-haired former army medic who had applied for and made the cut when the infantry began accepting females who could pass the strength and endurance tests. He liked her; she was calm and knowledgeable in her field, and well-read besides.

  “No terrorism that I know of, but there’s a factor here that’s sure as hell going to get a lot of folks agitated, so we’re taking our full load, machine guns and all.” He told them as much as he knew and saw their faces lose the happy smiles over getting ready to go somewhere. The three blacks and two Hispanics in his twelve man squad exchanged glances and tightened their lips.

  “Any more questions? No? All right, we’re confined to quarters for the duration. We’ll meet at nine in the morning after you’ve gone over your packets, and I’ll find out in the meantime where we’re likely to go to first and whatever else I can. We may have another day here, or we may not. Be completely ready to leave before you go to bed tonight. Comprende?”

  Nods and muttered assents told him they were probably already geared up. There wasn’t much he needed to worry about there. He had the best squad in the contingent and his men knew it. His had been one of the first units put together by Gene Bradley, the Security Director, a special forces colonel who had lost his left arm in action, though no one knew exactly where or when it had happened.

  Just as Doug turned to leave, Bradley appeared. He wagged his finger and Doug hurried over to the doorway.

  “Hi Colonel. What can we do for you?”

  Bradley put his arm around Doug’s shoulders and walked him back into the room. His squad members pushed out of their chairs and rose to their feet. It wasn’t required, but military manners were hard to shake.

  “I just got a call from Homeland Security,” Bradley announced. “You now have orders not to talk about your mission, and there’s to be absolutely no leaks about how this disease in Nigeria is affecting only people of color.” His gaze roved the room, making eye contact with each of them.

  “But sir—isn’t it already public knowledge?” One of the older men asked.

  “The disease is. Whom it infects isn’t. And I’ve been informed there’s a possibility of terrorism involved.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Martha Myers exclaimed. “Who would do a thing like that?”

  “I have no idea. Just remember—no talking, even when you call your families. It’s all right to tell them where you’re going, since that’s already been announced, but no details. Clear?”

  “There won’t be any leaks from this squad, sir. But I really doubt it’ll stay secret for long.”

  “Yes, I realize that and I’m sure the people higher up do as well. They just want a chance to get a handle on what’s really happening before speaking up. No sense in causing unwarranted panic. And we’ll all be safer if it’s not something being bandied about by the public just yet.”

  Doug nodded. America was becoming so ethnically and racially divisive that the least suspicion of action deleterious to a particular group was likely to cause anything from riots to political and physical retaliation against the other party. The former colonel turned and left as abruptly as he had come. There was never any waste motion with him. Doug knew his boss was just carrying out orders, but personally he thought it was a futile effort. The information net was ubiquitous and hardly anything stayed under cover for long.

  * * *

  Manfred Morrison felt a chill steal over him as he read the update from the CDC just handed to him by his administrative assistant. He hadn’t paid that much attention to the first notification about the new disease in Nigeria; new bugs seemed to pop up almost monthly these days, a result he thought came from continuing excursions into previously neglected habitats. The world was just growing too fast. But this…

  This could be horrible, and not just because of the disease, but the repercussions from it. Natural or man made, the appearance of a new virus that infected only dark skinned humans would be explosive. Hardly anyone would believe it wasn’t deliberately set loose.

  The update held the attention of Manfred like nothing else had since his appointment to the post of Presidential Science Advisor. His eyes were fixed on it so avidly one might have thought he held a winning lottery ticket in his hand. The CDC scientists now believed the virus was related to the one causing polio, but thought it had been altered by methods that could only happen through deliberate manipulation in a laboratory. They still didn’t know why it was so lethal nor how it spread, and hadn’t even begun to study the possibility of a vaccine. The update also confirmed his fears. The first cases were now being reported in other countries besides Nigeria, among them South Africa, Ethiopia, India and…

  England? Then he remembered, England had a fair percentage of blacks in its population now. Manfred took a deep breath and continued reading. Houston, Texas was reporting several possible cases. And New York and Seattle hospitals thought they had some. Mexico City. He scanned on down.

  Still no cure, not so soon, and still no one recovering. The president would be coming to him soon for recommendations. There hadn’t been an inordinate number of deaths yet, but the way the thing was spreading and the way it affected only very dark skinned persons… that was the biggest threat. Manny reached for his phone, intending to punch the number for a direct connection to CDC headquarters in Atlanta and see i
f any more information was available before requesting an appointment with the president. Instead he paused and stared at the skin of his own dark brown arm. His hand was trembling when he finally managed to look away and make the call.

  * * *

  “Hello, Mr. Craddock,” June said to Doug. He had gone to the forward part of the passenger compartment of the big military cargo plane to get another cup of coffee. He was surprised that her voice didn’t sound nearly as frosty when addressing him as it had at their last meeting, even though he had hoped to have a few words with the new nurse. If nothing else, he wanted to find out if his original analysis of her attitude had been correct.

  “Hello, Ms. Spencer. Do we have to be so formal, though?”

  “I… no, I guess not.” No sense blaming him for Charlie’s death, she thought.

  “Good. I’m Doug, in case you don’t remember. And it’s June, right?”

  “Yes. Douglas?”

  He laughed, showing an even row of white teeth that appeared to have been capped but hadn’t. “No, just plain Doug. My parents liked the short version, I guess. I’m wondering why we haven’t met before now.

  Are you new?”

  “I took an extended leave after my husband was killed in a helicopter crash.”

  Doug’s smile disappeared. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “No reason you should have. I don’t know why I brought it up.”

  “Nevertheless, losing a spouse is rough on anyone. I know.”

  June halted in the act of turning to leave. “You lost your wife?”

  “It’s been a while. The Mall Terrorists.”

  “Oh God! How terrible.”

  “It doesn’t much matter how she died, June. Dead is dead. I loved her, but after a while you have to go on.”

  “Well… maybe. Anyway, I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Same here. What brought you to the CDC?”