The Melanin Apocalypse

by Darrell Bain

  Too bad, General Newman thought. We could have worked with the man. He picked up his phone and gave a set of coded signals to one of his operatives while glancing down at his wastebasket, where lay the tatters of the resignation document an aide had prepared after hearing the president call for it. The frightened aide had hurried away while Newman muttered to himself. If that fucking Marshall didn’t know how to run the country, then by God, he did. It was the president who was going to leave office, though not in a formal way. He was seeing to that right now. And after that—well, after Marshall was gone, there would be some real changes made. America had been let itself be a doormat for those gook countries too long. By the time he was finished, they’d be singing a different tune. He grinned crazily. If any of them were left.

  * * *

  Edgar Tomlin had prepared and signed his resignation, but not yet sent it to the president. He was staring despairingly down at the one page statement when the General called.

  “Edgar, just sit tight. I have the situation under control. I’ll take care of the president. You take care of that Santes bitch.”

  “How?”

  “You know how, Edgar.”

  “I don’t want to go that far. It will be traced back to us and we’ll be executed! Besides, the president is denying the whole thing. We’re safe.”

  “You damn fool, don’t you think you’re a dead man if you back down now? You can’t quit. You sit tight or I’ll take care of you myself. Hear?”

  Edgar Tomlin put down the phone, wishing he had called a halt to the process when he had a chance. But then, he reflected, after I provided the funding, it was inevitable that it would go on to a conclusion. And isn’t this what I wanted? A world without blacks, the Arabs no longer dictating policy to us because of a geological accident that located them on top of hundreds of billions of barrels of oil? Maybe Newman can handle it. He who rides a tiger… the old adage drifted through his mind as he slowly tore the resignation into strips and fed them to his shredder. Then he gave the orders. It would have to be done in a hurry. Fortunately, he had been making plans, though he had hoped it would never come to this.

  * * *

  John Dawson wiped beads of perspiration from his wife’s dark colored face. “Can I get you some more pain medicine, honey? Anything?”

  His wife gripped his hand. “John, I’m sorry, I’m not very brave. Could… could you get me enough to just end it? You know there’s no hope.” She grimaced as another wave of excruciating pain swept over her body.

  He squeezed her hand, feeling all the love he held for her welling up inside, creating almost as much ache in him as the Harcourt virus that was ravaging her body was inflicting on her.

  “All right,” he said, choking the words out. He released her hand and went to prepare a solution that would ease her out of life in dignity. As he mixed it he heard President Marshall at another press conference, denying again that he was covering anything up. John Dawson didn’t know if that were true or not, but he did know from the conversations in the oval office he had begun recording once his wife fell ill that if he were not complicit in knowing how the virus began, he was certainly in sympathy with its consequences. It was time to release the recordings. It would mean his job, possibly prison, but he no longer cared. The light of his life was going to be permanently dimmed as soon as he returned with the medicine.

  * * *

  In the big ward at the CDC where treatment facilities had been set up, Leroy Barclay lay dying. He had little regret. Life had never offered him much, he thought. And all because I was born black. Well, if he had to go, he intended to see that some of the damned white men who had made life miserable for his people went with him. That was possible now, and his first target would be one of the highest officials in the government that had been guilty of so much of the oppression and exploitation. He thought of the gun concealed beneath his body and tried to look sick instead of guilty as the secret service agents roved through the room, searching for possible threats. The patients weren’t forced to undergo body searches and the metal framework of the bed made metal detectors effectively useless. After a while they left, but he waited. He would be able to hear them coming when it was time; a political entourage would make lots of noise.

  * * *

  Silas Morgan could practically feel the cancer eating away at his body. He ignored the pain while he cradled the sniper’s rifle in his arms. This would be a long shot, but well within the realm of possibility for him. Marine snipers were the best in the world, and he had been among the best of the best. He knew he was doing a good thing. General Newman himself had recruited him. Well, not personally, but he had assurances that the general and others high in government were behind the effort. That’s what was needed to put the country back on the right path, a path where the niggers and Jews and Spics were kept in their place instead of being allowed to run free, acting like they were just as good as whites. Shit, they even let them marry traitorous white sluts now and it was legal! Well, he might die; no, he was certainly going to die, but he would leave behind a better country, with a man in charge who didn’t play politics with subhuman mud people. He knew he was the right man for the job, too; There was no chance of getting away, not from this close, but it didn’t matter. He was dying from cancer anyway. They might kill him out of hand or try to hold him for trial and execution before his natural death, but it still didn’t matter.

  The little pill in his shirt pocket would take care of that, and also exclude any possibility of giving up the men he worked for.

  In the distance, the throng was gathering, getting ready for the president’s appearance. He eased the barrel of the rifle forward, into its final position. Just a few minutes now… he saw the president striding toward the podium, thinking of what a great spot he had picked for the press conference. The White House stood in the background, a perfect icon for the cameras, a reminder of the power behind his words. Up until now. The president stopped at the podium and looked down at his notes, already laid out for him. Silas had already adjusted for wind and elevation. He moved the rifle barrel minutely, centering the crosshairs of the scope on the president’s head. He took a deep breath, eased it out and slowly pulled back on the trigger.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  The interview with the vice president was finished. Doug had been surprised at how bright and hot the lights were and finally fully realized why interviewees had a tendency to perspire under them. Fortunately, that was over and now they were touring patient wards. Vice President Santes had insisted on visiting some of the patients before leaving and asked for Doug and the others to come with her.

  There was little warning. One minute everything was fine; the next, the lead secret service agent suddenly became alarmed. He pressed a finger to his ear, better to hear the feed coming to him from the device affixed to his other ear. “The President!” he yelled. “The president has been shot!”

  All eyes turned toward the vice president, including those of the secret service agent. Only Doug was in a position to see the patient’s hand coming from beneath the covers. Without thinking, or with any concern for his own safety, he dived for the gunner’s hand with his only good one. He barely managed to deflect the shot. The bullet plowed into an agent beside the vice president. Before others could converge on him, the patient cried out in frustration, trying to wrest the gun from Doug’s grasp.

  Doug was in a position where he could get no leverage. He held on grimly and could only stare in horror as the gunman was able to slowly turn the barrel—toward him. He flinched, but didn’t let go, knowing the vice president had to be protected no matter what. At the last second he managed to get his other arm in the way, the one with the cast on it. The next bullet plowed a furrow into the cast and through the muscle of his forearm. He was shoved away an instant later and two more shots rang out, but those were from the secret service agents. With the abrupt report that the president had been shot, they were taking no chances. The assassin was dead; th
e agent he had shot instead of the vice president was dead from the hollow point that plowed into his neck, shattering his spine. Doug was the only other casualty, and even he didn’t realize he had been hit until he saw smoke still curling from the cast and felt the beginning pain from his wound.

  All the rest of the rest of the episode was anti-climactic for him. When June saw blood seeping from the hole in the cast and out of the opening near his hand, she insisted that he be cared for right away.

  His wound could be treated under local anesthetic; only the muscle had been hit.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting this way,” Doug joked as the same doctor who had repaired him before attended to him again. He flinched as the cast cutter touched his arm. The circular, toothed blade looked ominously sharp.

  “Young man, I’m certainly willing to call a halt to it. I had just dozed off for some well deserved rest when this happened.” He had to talk around the noise of the special instrument used to cut away the cast, an electric saw with a blade that vibrated rather than spun.

  “Was the president hurt or killed? Have you heard?” Doug asked, his eyes still fixed on the saw.

  Surprisingly, it proved to be not dangerous at all. The vibration just ate through the cast without touching his skin.

  “I think he’s dead, but don’t take my word for it; I’m just going by what people have told me.” The nurse used an instrument to gently open the cast along the cut and replaced it with a temporary device to hold his broken arm immobile while the new wound in his forearm was attended to.

  “The president is dead,” June said, returning from a quick visit to Amelia to see whether or not she was needed back at her desk immediately. “There’s something else causing a lot of upset. A secret service agent released some recordings made from the oval office and they’re just now being broadcast. If the President wasn’t in on the plot with Tomlin and General Newman, he was certainly in agreement with the results. If he hadn’t been assassinated, he would have had to resign anyway. And if not, he certainly couldn’t have been re-elected.

  “Ouch,” Doug said to the surgeon. “You missed a spot.”

  “Sorry. Do you want me to inject you again?”

  “No, get it over with. I need to get back to work.”

  “We still have to replace your cast, you know.”

  “I know all too well,” Doug said. “June, I’m fine. If you need to get back to your office, go ahead. All I need to do is check with Teresa when I’m finished here, then consult with Colonel Christian and Qualluf.

  Are they still here?

  “I think they’re both being questioned by the secret service.”

  “Ouch. That’s not for you, doc,” he added hurriedly. “Those guys could take forever and we need to get Qualluf and Christian out of here and back where they belong.”

  “I’ll talk to them,” June said. She leaned forward and kissed him. “Call me when you’re free. I’ll be at the office.”

  “Wait. If the Secret Service doesn’t cooperate, have Amelia try calling Vice—I mean President Santes. I don’t know if this number will still be good, but you can try it.” He gave the number to her and June hurried away, while the doctor gave him a peculiar, but very respectful appraisal before returning to his suturing. Doug winced again, but didn’t complain. He wanted this to be over and done with. He eyed the secret service agent standing nearby, waiting to question him as well.

  * * *

  Vice President Santes was hustled away from the CDC and to her plane. By this time, word had come that President Marshall was definitely dead and that she would succeed to the presidency. Her first order after shakily taking the oath of office from a hastily recruited judge was to issue an arrest warrant for Edgar Tomlin and General Newman; under the terms of martial law there was no waiting for a judge’s approval. She settled into her seat as the plane took off, feeling the mantle of ultimate responsibility descending over her, as she knew it had so many times before in the country’s history. She began making notes on the most urgent tasks facing her, even while knowing there would be many more added to her list the second she stepped into the Oval Office.

  Before they landed in Washington, she got Amelia’s call, on the number she had given Doug. She listened for a moment, then told Amelia to call her back if the men were not released. She wagged her finger at the nearest secret service officer, who also happened to be the same one who had run her detail since she had assumed the vice presidency.

  “Who’s in charge of the detail now?”

  “Until we get to Washington, I guess I still am, Mrs. President. After that, I don’t know.”

  “I’ll try to see that you stay with me, if that’s your preference. In the meantime, call your boss in Washington and tell him I want Qualluf Taylor, Colonel Christian and Doug Craddock not to be bothered until they have some time to spare. I’m sure there’s very little they could add to the picture in any event.”

  “Yes ma’am. I’ll do it immediately.” He hurried toward the front of the plane.

  President Santes resumed scribbling notes on the yellow legal pad. Her PDA had been lost in the scuffle, but word had come that it had been found and would be returned. Without a hint of amusement, she mused about how her first thoughts, her first priorities, would almost certainly be preserved on this pad for future historians. Then she did smile inside, knowing how far removed from her true thoughts these notes were. Some things were best left unwritten.

  * * *

  Captain Timothy Foley cursed fluently, but only to himself. He had just heard of the new president’s order to have both General Newman and Edgar Tomlin arrested. So much for his own orders. There was no longer any sense in trying to carry them out now, with no one to report to, especially since there had been only a slim chance of killing the Colonel anyway. He had about decided to try shooting him in plain sight of others and trying to make it look like an accident. All that would get him now was very probably a thorough going over from both the secret service and military intelligence officers. He had no illusions about being able to stand up under the type of questioning they could bring to bear. But… now he was stuck here, in a combat unit and God only knew when he would be able to get out of it. His fear of combat had been what impelled him into General Newman’s service in the first place; that and his own belief in the white supremacist movement. Now it looked as if he would eventually have to face combat anyway. He felt his body beginning to tremble. This duty was about as bad as punishment for the orders he hadn’t carried out would have been. Damn it all, life wasn’t fair! Suddenly he wondered whether or not the general would betray him after his arrest and began trembling worse than ever.

  * * *

  “You can’t arrest me, you damn fools! I’ll have you all thrown in prison! I’ll have you executed, by God!”

  General Newman yelled at the military police officers who had entered his office without knocking or a by your leave.

  “Put the cuffs on him. Don’t let him hurt himself,” ordered the lieutenant colonel in charge of the detail.

  Enraged, the general lunged for the side drawer of his desk where he kept a pistol concealed. He very nearly made it, with the military police inhibited by his four stars and exalted position as head of the whole military establishment. A female captain acted first, rushing to grab his hand when she suspected what he was up to. The others followed quickly.

  General Newman was hustled out of his office, hands secured behind his back, raving threats and blandishments, spittle flying from his mouth. Eventually, he had to have his mouth taped shut so that charges could be read to him.

  * * *

  Edgar Taylor went silently when his turn came, but tears streamed down his face as he visualized what lay ahead. In the days that followed before his execution, he realized there had never been a chance the American people would have allowed a military dictatorship, even if both assassination attempts had succeeded.

  * * *

  The first thing Presiden
t Santes did after arriving at the White House was get Lurline Tedd on the line.

  She knew that Lurline was privy to many of Marshall’s machinations and she knew Lurline had walked out on the president over the issue of Marshall not arresting Newman and Tomlin.

  “I need you to come back, Lurline. We have to have some continuity here and you’re the best person for it. The country needs you.”

  “In what capacity would I serve?” Lurline asked from the den of her home, surprised that the new president wanted to talk to her at all.

  “It would have to be as assistant Chief of Staff for the White House. Or Presidential Advisor, if you prefer a different title. I can’t bring in someone else over the head of my own chief.”

  Lurline didn’t really need time to think. She was already missing the hustle and bustle of the Oval Office, and she knew the president was perfectly correct; she was the best person available to get the new adminsitration off on the right foot. Already, there were rumblings from congress about the arrest orders and the way Santes had handled the situation in Atlanta. There was also debate over the authenticity of the Dawson recordings, which were stirring a huge amount of controversy. Some also thought Santes should have been much harsher on the rioters. Perhaps Lurline could furnish information on the former president that would still some of the unrest. At the very least, she could show the president the most efficient way to manage the office.

  “I’ll be very glad to come back to work, Mrs. President. And Presidential Advisor is completely satisfactory as a title.”

  “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.”