by Darrell Bain
Call me if you need me.”
“Yes ma’am. Thank you.” He placed the handset back in the cradle and raised his brows at the captain, whose puckered cheeks looked as if he had a mouthful of alum.
“Mr. Craddock, apparently you have more political influence than the new military governor of Atlanta.
I’ve been ordered to tell the commander that you will negotiate with the rioters—and to bring him to your headquarters so that he can participate.”
“Fine. Get him back here as quickly as possible.” Doug grinned. “If I’m not here, send him over to the admin building. That’s where I’ll be.” He saw no good reason to inform the captain that if he had any political influence, this was the first he had heard of it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
All the captives were crammed into the lobby of the administrative building. There were only two small bathrooms for them and people waited impatiently in lines. There was still no power to the building but fortunately the water system was working.
Amelia had just come from using the facilities, even though there was no toilet paper left and they had been forbidden to send anyone to the basement to have it replenished. She had found the lobby staff and got them to show her their paper files, then decided on her own which ones could be sacrificed to use as a substitute for paper in the bathrooms. It was very hot. Some of the men had stripped to the waist, but none of the women followed suit. She didn’t blame them, not the way the guards stared at them with eyes full of menace and anticipatory lust.
“I guess I’ll have to go stand in line soon again soon,” June remarked, pulling her blouse away from her chest and blowing air down inside.
“There’s too many people crowded in here,” Amelia said. “The bathrooms are getting filthy. I’ll be back in a minute. I’m going to see if the guards will let me assign someone to keep them at least minimally sanitary.”
June nodded, but didn’t speak. She was deathly afraid for herself and the others and was worried sick about Doug’s safety. Had they taken the whole CDC complex? Had its defenders all been killed, or had some escaped? The guards brusquely repelled any requests for information. One woman had become hysterical and gotten a rifle butt in the face for her trouble. June remembered only snatches of the defense training she had very briefly participated in, firing her little pistol until the two clips she carried were exhausted. She had no idea whether she had hit anyone or not. After that she had begun nursing the wounded until they were overrun. An image of a man being gunned down as he tried to the last to keep them safe flashed through her mind. After that it had been mass confusion, with an influx of black men and women boiling through both entrances to the improvised treatment ward, shouting triumphantly, waving rifles and pistols, cuffing and clubbing everyone to the floor amid screams of fear and prayers to the Almighty. She had expected to die then, but surprisingly, only two persons had been shot, both of them so hysterical that they wouldn’t stop screaming.
Amelia returned a moment later. Blood was trickling from the corner of her lip where one of the guards had slapped her. It was beginning to swell. “So much for that. I guess they’ll stay dirty, but… June, when you go, would you please tell the people to try to clean up after themselves as best they can? Tell everyone to pass it on to the people in line behind them, too.” She searched her pockets for something to use to staunch the flow of blood but found nothing. She had to be content to wipe at it with her hand then smear it on the carpet.
June got up and stood in line until her turn came. When others came to stand behind her, she repeated Amelia’s request. Ten minutes later, she saw what Amelia had meant. Since her last trip, the conditions inside had deteriorated. She wet some of the copy paper she had brought with her to try wiping guck from soiled surfaces. Soon enough, she had to quit because of impatient sounds from those waiting to relieve themselves.
Amelia was dabbing at her lip with a handkerchief someone had found for her when June returned. All the way back she had seen one of the black guards following her with his eyes, a smirk of sexual innuendo giving an indication of what he thought would occur in the near future. She shivered despite the heat as she sat back down.
Amelia saw the look on her face. “Hold on, June. If it’s possible, Doug will rescue us.”
June felt tears gathering and brushed at her eyes. “Oh God, Amelia, he may not even be alive! I don’t think I could stand it if he’s been killed. I can’t go through that, not again. I love him so much.”
“Don’t give up hope. Remember, the rest of the people here are depending on us.” Amelia put an arm around her, hugged her for a moment, then stood up. “Stay here for a moment while I circulate and try passing out a little comfort and reassurance.”
June took a deep breath and fought back the tears. She felt ashamed of herself. So many people around the world had lost whole families, children included, and they had died in agony, most of them. At least if Doug…” She bowed her head and tried not to think of it.
Amelia was back a few moments later. She licked at her swollen lip and tried a smile. “I couldn’t do much. It hurts to talk. And I must look like an ogre.” She brushed her uncombed hair back behind her shoulders.
June suddenly saw the smirking guard moving toward them. She sucked in her breath, thinking this was probably the beginning of what would prove to be much worse than captivity in a sweltering room.
Instead, the guard touched Amelia’s shoulder.
“On your feet, white meat.” He laughed at his rhyme. “Get your pussy moving. The Preacher want to see you.” He grinned again, showing some missing teeth and looked directly at June. “You next, bitch. I put my name down for you.” He prodded Amelia with the barrel of his rifle. “Move!”
June started to feel her soul shrinking down into a place she didn’t want to go to. She bit her lip, then forced herself to sit up straight and find a reservoir of courage. She was a nurse, damn it, and with Amelia gone to God knew what fate, she was in charge. She couldn’t break down. She squared her shoulders and in a moment was back in control. She made a vow to herself that she would never let go again, no matter what. If Doug was dead, she would make him proud of the way she conducted herself, and if she lived… well, she would bear whatever came with as much dignity as she could and go back to him with her head held high. In the meantime, she would quit acting like some little shrinking violet and try helping those here in far worse shape than herself. Some people were beginning to show signs of heat exhaustion; the body heat of so many people in an enclosed area was adding to the already hot and humid environment. She got up and began mingling with the packed crowd of sweltering humanity.
Presently she heard screams coming from one of the closed rooms. She and a few others started in that direction but were stopped by a guard. After that she sat back down and tried to shut out the sounds of the screams. It was a long time until they died out.
* * *
“Hello, Fridge. It’s been a long time,” Doug said the instant he spotted his old platoon sergeant. By God!
Maybe they had a chance after all! Fridge had been a damn good platoon sergeant and a good man in all other respects. But what was he doing with people like these?
Ali Greene froze in momentary consternation. Goddamn! Doug Craddock, his old subordinate when he was an assistant platoon sergeant and his superior after Doug went through officers candidate school and got his commission. Fridge remembered how they had both been surprised and pleased when they wound up together again, this time with Doug as a new second lieutenant and him a full platoon sergeant.
He also remembered that as a platoon leader, Doug had never lied to his men and turned out to be the best officer he ever served under. He hadn’t let a commission go to his head, either. When their paths crossed later and they were no longer together in the chain of command, Doug had resumed their old friendship even though he had advanced to captain by then. Doug and his wife had visited his home, played with his kids, and stayed on a first na
me basis with him as if there was no divide between their respective ranks.
“Captain Craddock!” Fridge held out his hand before he quite realized what he was doing.
Doug shook the proffered hand grinning at the big man, glad to see him again despite the circumstances.
“Just Doug now. How you doing, Fridge?”
Fridge looked down at their clasped hands and then withdrew his when he saw disapproval written on Qualluf’s face. “I’m okay so far, Cap… Doug. But this ain’t a friendly meeting, not now.”
Doug sobered. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, Fridge. How’s Latanya and the kids?”
“They’re gone.”
“Oh, shit, Fridge. I’m sorry. I’m sorry as hell.” He saw tears in his old friend’s eyes and instinctively moved forward and hugged him. “Goddamn those bastards who started this shit. Damn them all to hell!”
Qualluf broke it up, while at the same time wondering how he could use the apparent past friendship of the two men for his own purposes. “Sorry don’t get it, peckerwood. You sit down. Now!” He pointed to a folding chair set up in the small office off the lobby. The windows were both broken, letting some air in from the outside, but it was still baking hot. Beads of perspiration were forming and running down the faces of everyone in the room.
“You’re Qualluf Taylor, aren’t you?” Doug said, almost sure he recognized the man.
“I’m the man got your balls in my hand, that’s all you need to know.”
Doug nodded to Buddy Hawkins, the person he had chosen to bring with him. He would rather have had Teresa in case something happened to him but he didn’t dare bring a woman into this environment. He and Buddy took their seats. Qualluf, Fridge and a guard by the door were the only others in the room.
Qualluf slid ostentatiously into the seat behind the desk, the position of power. He gave Buddy only a cursory glance but glared at Doug, already aware of where the power lay. “Okay, white boy, here’s what…”
Doug held up his hand. “Mr. Taylor, we won’t make much progress if you start off using epithets. How about us keeping the discussion cordial?” Doug knew he was no diplomat, feeling much more comfortable in a structured environment like the military, but he did understand the art of negotiation enough not to let the other side start off in a dominant position.
Qualluf continued to glare. “You been using epithets for 500 years.”
“I haven’t,” Doug said quietly, keeping his gaze firmly locked to that of Qualluf’s. “Besides, that’s not the issue here. Your status, and that of the people you’re holding captives, is.”
“Listen, peckerwood, we dead anyway. Why should we give you anything?”
“Because the Vice President of the United States is counting on the people you’re holding to help find a cure for the Harcourt Virus, or failing that, a treatment. She’s authorized me to do what it takes to get them back on the job.” Doug didn’t bother to distinguish between administrative staff and the scientists.
He didn’t know if the leaders like Qualluf knew the difference. And poor Fridge was probably still so grief-wracked that he didn’t give a damn.
“Huh. Like that Santes bitch care what happen to black folk.”
Doug got to his feet. “Mr. Taylor, I won’t go any farther with this discussion while you have that attitude.
I’ve spoken personally to the vice president. Believe me, she’s grieving as much as I am. I lost my best friend to that damned bug.”
“White men don’t have black friends. Now you…”
Fridge had been standing and listening. He said “Preacher, you can trust this man. I know him. He about as good as they come.”
“Trust him to do what?” Qualluf spat. “Let us go home to die? We want the cure you been holding back and don’t try claiming you ain’t got it. You do.”
Doug sat back down. He didn’t like the man sitting across from him one little bit but he couldn’t just walk out—even supposing they would let him. “Mr. Taylor, believe me, there is no cure yet. We’re still working on it—and you’re the one holding up progress. You don’t really believe we would hold back a cure if we had one, do you?”
“I damn sure do. Your fucking white man’s government started this hell-spawned virus. You think we don’t know that? You think shootin’ those dumbass rednecks going to convince us it didn’t start in Washington?”
“No. To begin with, there’s not a soul in Washington smart enough to create a virus capable of causing a pandemic, except maybe Mrs Santes. She was a doctor before she entered politics.”
“They give the orders. Same thing.”
“Mr. Taylor, the Harcourt virus was created by a rogue scientist by the name of Savak Johannsen. He was aided in his movements and funneled money and was helped to move about by those very same men who were publicly executed. The money came from a white supremacist organization which has since been declared illegal. Their members are being hunted down and rounded up. You know all of that as well as I do.” Doug didn’t mention that Johannsen was being guarded at the same instant over in the science building. That was a trump card he would play if he had to. He wanted to ask about June’s status but didn’t dare for fear of having her singled out—or learning she was dead.
Qualluf leaned back in his chair and motioned to the guard. When he came over, Qualluf said “Go fetch the bitch and bring her back here.” After the man left, he crossed his arms over his chest and simply stared. Qualluf’s eyes glinted with hidden amusement at the shock the white boy had coming—and an uneasy remembrance of the woman’s screams. He shrugged off the image. Sympathy could play no part in his life now, and that woman deserved what she got. He was convinced of it.
Doug looked over at Fridge. His old friend and comrade gazed silently back, his face immobile, but Doug thought he saw signs of uneasiness being hidden behind that mask. A couple of minutes later, he found out why.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Amelia was barely recognizable. Her face was battered almost beyond recognition, with cut and swollen lips and cheeks. One eye was almost completely closed and the other was only partially open. Her hair hung in greasy strands to her shoulders, laying lankly on the tattered remnants of her blouse. It had rips and missing buttons and she no longer owned a bra. One of her breasts was almost completely exposed.
The pants she had been wearing were also torn at the seams and streaked with blood. She limped painfully while being supported under one arm by the guard. When he let her loose she dropped to the floor. A moan escaped her grotesquely swollen lips.
“Good God! Amelia!” Doug was off his feet and down beside her instantly, ignoring orders to halt.
Amelia squinted painfully and appeared to recognize him. “Doug,” she whispered pitifully.
He looked up from where he was kneeling beside her, rage written in the stark lines of his face. “You sorry bastard! What did you do this for?”
Qualluf simply looked at her. “Tell him, bitch. Tell him what you told us.”
“They made me say it,” Amelia said, seeming to find a fragment of remaining courage. “It’s not true. We didn’t… didn’t start the Harcourt… virus. We don’t… don’t have a cure.” She peered blurrily around the room, seemed to recognize Qualluf. Her voice rose, shrill but cracking at the end. “There is no cure!”
Qualluf jumped to his feet, roaring. “Goddamned white bitch! You told me there’s a cure! We want it!”
“Doug, please…” Amelia’s voice broke completely as she collapsed into a heap, sobbing and moaning.
Doug stood up, coming between her and Qualluf. “The negotiations are ended. They won’t start again until I see her taken to the treatment center and turned over to the doctors.”
“Keep talking, white meat, an’ you be lookin’ just like her,” Qualluf said.
Ignoring him, Doug took out his phone and rang his office. Teresa answered. “Doug here,” he said without preliminaries. “Send two men with a stretcher over here immediately. Have them w
ave a white flag as they come. They’ll be expected.” He flipped the phone closed and closed the distance between himself and the preacher, his expression hardened into rigid flinty lines. “And you call me anything except Mr. Craddock again and it’s going to be Fridge I negotiate with, and you’re going to be left out of whatever amnesty I can arrange. Now go tell your men to let the stretcher bearers through.”
“I’ll do it, Preacher,” Fridge said to Qualluf, a sudden desire to live taking hold of him. Seeing Doug had revived something inside that had been lost beneath the vast bleakness left by the loss of his family. He glanced down at Amelia then looked away, ashamed of what he had let happen.
Qualluf looked rebellious and stood his ground.
Doug watched as Fridge strode over to the door. He spoke to the guard in the old command tone he remembered so well. The guard left immediately, giving Doug a clue to where at least part of the black power in Atlanta resided.
“Thanks, Fridge. We can work this out—and listen; I’ve been party to most of the progress toward a cure here. I can tell you that there isn’t one, and in all honesty there might not be one in time to help. The scientists and doctors have just now discovered a few promising drugs to follow up on. They may or may not work and that’s all I can tell you. However, if they do, I’ll personally guarantee that no bureaucratic bullshit keeps them from being dispensed quickly.”
“They stalling,” Qualluf said, still angry at Fridge’s usurpation of authority.
“The scientists and their staff have been working twelve hour shifts, seven days a week,” Doug returned.
“Don’t tell me they’re stalling.” He felt a weak touch on his leg and looked down. Amelia’s fingers were trying to get a grasp on his fatigue trousers in an attempt to attract his attention. He bent down and put his head near hers, seeing how white her complexion—what was left of it—had become.
