The Melanin Apocalypse

by Darrell Bain

  Lurline let out a merry laugh. “No problem, Mrs. President. Thank you for your confidence.”

  The line went dead. Lurline replaced the phone and began packing, whistling to herself. After a moment she recognized the tune. It was an old one, Begin Again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “Where’s Johannsen? I would have thought he would be out there with them,” June said. She and Doug were laying on the bed two weeks later, backs propped against big pillows leaning on the headboard, watching a news cast. It was the first time they had managed a day off to simply relax and be by themselves, back in their apartment in transient quarters, which had been cleaned up and refurnished.

  Doug looked at the screen as the camera again panned across the three stakes set in a courtyard. Shane Stevenson, General Newman, and Edgar Tomlin stood with their hands tied behind them, with others in the wings, waiting their own execution. The eyes of Newman and Stevenson were wild, faces contorted as what was about to happen impinged with brutal force on their consciousness. Tomlin had accepted the offer of a blindfold; the others had not. General Newman had a wide piece of tape plastered across his mouth. No one wanted to listen to his ravings any more, not even the newsmen.

  Doug looked surprised. “Didn’t I ever tell you what was going to happen to Johannsen? No, come to think of it, I didn’t. Part of the initial agreement that stopped the fighting here was that once we had milked Johannsen of all he knew about he Harcourt virus, and his connections with the white supremacists, was to hand him over to the Church of Blacks. In fact, if I heard the anchor right, they’ll be televising his demise right after the executions here.”

  “I don’t want to watch either of them, but I would like to know what they’re going to do to Johannsen. I can’t abide the thought of anyone being tortured, even him. They should just kill him.”

  Doug’s arm that was in the cast couldn’t be used much, but he moved his fingers to touch her thigh where he had pushed the sheet aside. He caressed her fondly, thinking of how much he loved her. “Well, they’re not going to torture him, in the classical sense of the word, but he’s not going to have a painless death, either.”

  “Well, what, then? A lethal injection?”

  Doug confessed, hoping she wouldn’t think less of him. “It was my idea, June. And yes, it will be a lethal injection, just not a regular one. I thought of it back when we were still negotiating. Savak Johannsen is going to receive a fatal dose of quinol, the substance that causes such a painful death in dark skinned people who have the virus. He’s going to die in the same kind of agony as all his victims did. I couldn’t think of a better way for him to go.”

  “Lord have mercy! How long will it take. No, don’t tell me, and let’s turn this off. I don’t want to watch.”

  When the screen went blank and silent, June rolled onto her side. “I don’t know if I totally agree with you, but I certainly can’t think of a more fitting death for him.” She lay her head on his chest.

  Doug felt himself wanting to make love again. There had been very little time for it the last two weeks. He curled his arm around her. He kissed her and ran his good hand over her shoulder and the curve of her hip.

  June looked up. “Again? Good.”

  “Mmm hmm. Only thing is, with this damned cast, the only comfortable way for me is on my back.”

  “Just pretend you’re a woman,” she laughed. “I’ll take care of everything else.”

  * * *

  Fridge stood out of the way of the camera lights and watched Johannsen writhe under the quinol intoxication. He stood there for a long time, but finally it began to remind him too much of seeing his family die in front of his eyes, while he watched, helpless to do anything for them. He turned around and left.

  “No comment,” he said to the gaggle of reporters outside. He didn’t want to talk to anyone right now.

  Instead, he decided to visit the cemetery where his wife and children were buried. They had died early enough in the pandemic so that he had been able to bury them, rather than having their bodies consigned to a mass grave. One day when he had time, he would place markers. For now, all he wanted was a quiet place to grieve one final time before placing their memories in an archive of his mind where he could call up the happy times they had spent together. Maybe… the thought flitted away on the wind, but he didn’t try to revive it.

  * * *

  Qualluf Taylor stayed until the last, almost twenty four hours later. Johannsen had suffered, but when the time came that he was no longer responsive, he called a halt to it and ordered another injection to finish him off. Afterward, he went back to the office he had been given in the Atlanta chapel of the Church of Blacks. There was still work to be done until the Presidential Council got organized. Santes was keeping her word.

  * * *

  Doug returned to his duties the next day. He enjoyed the frequent contact with Amelia, where he could see June, but that was about to end. She blew him a kiss as he pulled open the door to Amelia’s office.

  He paused there to blow the kiss back to June. She caught the imaginary missive and touched her fingers to her lips. She smiled serenely at him, a promise of things to come when they were alone again.

  Inside, Amelia was on the phone with someone. She motioned him to a seat. He took it and tried not to listen to the conversation, thinking it might be private, but he couldn’t help overhearing an occasional

  “Mrs. President” as she talked.

  Amelia replaced the phone. “Did you and June enjoy your day off?” she asked, a twinkle in her eyes.

  “Immensely,” Doug said. “Too bad we can’t have more of them. Or a honeymoon.”

  Amelia looked pensive for a moment. “You may have one despite yourself. That was the president, as I guess you heard. She wants you in Washington next week if congress approves her request.”

  “Request?”

  “Yes. You’ve been nominated for the Congressional Medal of Freedom.”

  “I didn’t do anything to merit that honor.”

  “Don’t be modest. Haven’t you been following the news? You’re a national hero.”

  “Me?” Doug was astounded. If anyone was a hero it was the men who had died defending the CDC

  complex. All else had followed from that.

  “You. And she’s also requested enough authority for the council so that it will have some real power. If that’s approved, and I suspect it will be, you may as well stay in Washington. I’ll hate to lose you and June but you’re ready to move on.” She laughed. “Doug, there’s even talk of you being on the ticket with President Santes if she runs for re-election, which I expect she will.”

  “What! Me a politician? Never! Once we get that council organized and running good, I’m going to take June home and have a family. She says she’s ready.”

  “Hmm. The president is awfully good at persuasion.”

  “She’ll have to be damn good to ever get me to agree to that!”

  EPILOG

  Three years later, Doug wondered where the time had gone. The Harcourt virus had run its course and the secondary infections had proven to be much milder than the original. The virus had indeed attenuated—for the better, though the world was still suffering from its aftereffects.

  The African continent remained largely a lawless wilderness, the violence and fighting over scarce food supplies having taken a very heavy toll on the survivors of the virus. The Middle Eastern population was severely depleted, but Israel hadn’t gotten off scot-free. It turned out that they hadn’t gotten all of Iran’s nuclear arsenal as they thought they had, and an atomic bomb had exploded over one edge of Tel Aviv, the largest city in the nation. They had retaliated with a single atomic explosion over Tehran to emphasize the unwavering policy of retaliation, an eye for an eye, but they were still picking up the pieces of Tel Aviv, and neither the Middle Eastern nations or Israel were a force in world politics any more.

  Doug thought the world was very fortunate that only those two
atomic bombs had been used and that so far only one nuclear power plant had suffered a meltdown. It could have been much, much worse.

  China had become balkanized, with warlords holding various sections of the country. It was a very scary situation, for no one knew which ones, if any, controlled the small nuclear arsenal China had possessed.

  Taiwan was cautiously trying to help, but they had their own troubles, too. Before the war with China petered out its cities had suffered a ferocious barrage of conventional weapons, and a large portion of its navy had been sunk. And of course some of their citizens had died from the Harcourt virus.

  Russia was cooperating with the reconstituted United Nations, now called the Confederated Nations, and with the United States—so far. He had no idea how long that would last, but the relationship showed promise.

  In the end, a billion and a half people had died before the cure and prevention of the Harcourt and Goldwater viruses were fully developed; not as many as predicted by some scientists, but certainly bad enough. The world was only slowly coming out of the economic depression, but no one begrudged the money being spent on the huge new research facility being built alongside the CDC in Atlanta. Its mission would be very simple: find a way to prevent such a man-made calamity from ever happening again. The scientists he had talked to were cautiously optimistic.

  The Presidential Council for Urban and National Affairs had done some very good work after congress relented and gave it enough power to override political protests at some of their actions. Amelia, Fridge, Qualluf, Franklin and a very competent woman by the name of Selena Martinez were still running the Council and he continued to serve as the chairman, with General Christian as the military advisor.

  President Santes was considering General Christian for a seat on the Joint Chiefs. It was a good choice, he thought.

  Doug sighed. There was only so much he, or the army or the nation could do, even under the banner of the newly organized Confederated Nations, after the original organization disintegrated into chaos, accusations and recrimination, then fell completely apart. That had been a good thing, he now realized. It allowed a completely new start and provided an opportunity to get rid of the cronyism and bureaucracy-fattened old union that had become increasingly unable to function effectively, even before the Harcourt virus.

  “What is it sweetheart?” June asked, concern carrying an almost visible presence in her voice.

  “Nothing, really. Just thinking of all that’s happened and all that still has to be done.”

  “Come here,” June said.

  He walked over to where she sat, rocking and nursing their firstborn child, a daughter.

  “Please relax, Doug. You know you can’t do it all. You’re a fine and wonderful man and I love you, but this is a time to relax. Be grateful for what we have.”

  Doug smiled, looking down at his daughter, happily and innocently nursing at June’s breast, without a care in the world. He met June’s gaze and nodded. “You’re right, as usual. I’ll try harder. You deserve all of my time I can give.”

  June nodded. She looked up and returned his smile, very content, and thinking that he wouldn’t be Doug if he didn’t try so hard. He was doing a wonderful job and everyone of consequence knew it.

  Later that evening, as they were preparing for bed, the Steward knocked. She heard his voice plainly.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Vice President, but President Santes wants to talk to you.”

  Doug gazed helplessly at June. He closed the door and came back to her. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Maybe I can handle it from here. If I can’t I’ll let you know before I leave.”

  “It’s okay. I know she wouldn’t call you on a Sunday unless it really was an emergency. Just try to hurry.”

  “I will,” Vice President Doug Craddock assured her. And he would, too. His wife and daughter were more important to him than anything else in the world. In the end, nothing else really mattered.

  Afterward

  This was a rather difficult book to write, and I realize it might arouse intense emotions among cultural and racial groups in the United States and other parts of the world. However, I feel like the story needed to be told, and saw no better way to do it than through a fictional account of what may become a very real possibility in the near future. Many articles have been published concerning the inherent danger of genetic manipulation of disease-causing microbes and viruses, perhaps even prions, but they are read mostly by professionals, and the dangerous possibilities rarely impinge on the general public’s consciousness.

  Fiction, on the other hand, reaches out and touches readers at the gut level. They can see in fictional form how a genocidal pandemic could affect real people and real nations, real families and real children—just like their own. I hope that they take note and urge our representatives in Washington to begin research now to limit the damage should something like the virus described in this book be released into the world.

  At the risk of appearing gauche, I would also like to state that some of the despicable attitudes and beliefs described in this book are most emphatically not my own and I trust that any offence I may have caused is outweighed by the need to alert the country to one of the many dangers lurking in the future.

  The near future, I might add.

  I might also mention here that I took some liberties with the layout and organization of the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta and its nearby environs. It was rather ironic in a way. I asked the CDC for a map or a description of their outside building (or buildings) and was refused. Perhaps they thought I was a terrorist! At any rate, as the potential for biological terrorism increases, the CDC might very well come to resemble the description in this novel.

  I also took a few liberties with the White House, but not many.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to extend my thanks to the following people for their help in getting this book into your hands. First and always, my wife Betty. She is a very astute judge of what’s right and what may be wrong with a particular book and she has saved me from making a number of grievous errors in the past. She also has a talent for getting to the very heart of controversial subject matter. While I won’t say she is always 100% right, it turns out that she is right very nearly all the time. Personally, I think our government could benefit from her advice in a number of areas if they would just ask.

  As usual, Jamie Jones reviewed my flying sequence and saved my mechanically and aeronautically untalented self from making any number of errors. He and his family are really good friends even though we’ve never met other than over the internet.

  I would also like to extend my thanks to Lida Quillen for her belief in my ability as a writer and the potential of this book to reach a large audience. Twilight Times Books is still a small publishing company and she risked a large amount of capital to bring this book to market.

  Thanks are also due to Leslie Holman-Anderson, for her fine editing. Working with her is always a pleasure. I also appreciate her altering her schedule to coincide with mine for this particular book.

  And finally, thanks to all my readers, especially those from the electronic book world. They are the ones who are really responsible for what success I have achieved as a writer. They have purchased my books, given me a following, written me letters with many very good suggestions and propelled my name to the very top ranks of authors whose books are released in electronic versions as well as print. Every time I see my name and books listed with such notables as King, Niven, Bear, Weber, Chrichton and other nationally known authors on the e-book best seller lists, I think of my readers and wish there was some way of letting them all know individually how much I appreciate their support. I suppose there isn’t, but thanks folks, from the bottom of my heart, and I wish you all happy reading for many more years to come.

  Darrell Bain

  July 2005

  Author Bio

  Darrell is the author of about two dozen books, in many genres, running the
gamut from humor to mystery and science fiction to non-fiction and a few humorous works which are sort of fictional non-fiction, if that makes any sense. He has even written for children. For the last several years he has concentrated on humor and science fiction, both short fiction, non-fiction (sort of) and novels. He is currently writing the fourth novel in the series begun with “Medics Wild.”

  Darrell served thirteen years in the military and his two stints in Vietnam formed the basis for his first published novel, “Medics Wild.” Darrell has been writing off and on all his life but really got serious about it only after the advent of computers. He purchased his first one in 1989 and has been writing furiously ever since.

  While Darrell was working as a lab manager at a hospital in Texas, he met his wife Betty. He trapped her under a mistletoe sprig and they were married a year later. Darrell and Betty own and operate a Christmas tree farm in East Texas which has become the subject and backdrop for many of his humorous stories and books.

  Visit Darrell’s web site: www.darrellbain.com

  Visit www.twilighttimesbooks.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.

  Copyright

  Twilight Times Books

  Copyright ©2005 by Darrell Bain

  Published by Twilight Times Books, July 2005

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are used fictitiously and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.