The Melanin Apocalypse Read online

  “My husband worked for them in administration. It just seemed natural to take a job with them myself when they had an opening. My folks tried to get me to go back to Houston and start over there after Charlie died. I did for a while, but once I decided to go back to work, I found I could come back here in more or less the same position I’d held before, so I did.” June suddenly realized she was chatting with a former military man as if she felt no bitterness against the army.

  “I guess we both must be idealists.”

  June had again turned to go but that remark stopped her as quickly as the former one had. “Why do you say that?”

  Doug sipped at his coffee. “Anyone who volunteers for this kind of assignment has to be either an idealist or a closet martyr. You don’t strike me as a martyr.”

  June hadn’t ever considered herself an idealist. “More like being born with itchy feet. I like doing different things and going to different places.” She was startled when Doug burst out laughing.

  “Sorry,” he apologized. “It’s just that you used the exact term to describe my whole family. It’s sort of a joke with us. We’ve always had problems settling down. I guess that’s one reason I went into the military.”

  “You don’t look old enough to be retired. Why did you get out?”

  “Thanks, but I am retired. Five years ago, but I went in when I was seventeen. Like most teenagers, I didn’t have good sense. I thought fighting a war would be fun and glorious. Couldn’t wait for one to happen. Then when it did and I saw a few bodies, I realized how dumb I’d been.” Doug didn’t mention that his retirement was because of a leg wound that left him unable to march long distances and forced him out of the infantry.

  “So why did you stay in?” June found that she was interested despite her vow to have nothing to do with anyone associated with the military from now on.

  Doug poured more coffee. “I guess I’m an idealist in the purest sense. Being human, I suppose we’ll always have wars and fighting. As long as it has to happen, why leave it to the ones who enjoy such things? I think the military ought to be made up of soldiers who hate to fight—but who, if it comes to it, do it well.” His gaze wandered away from the present to events existing only in his memory. “It turned out that I was good at my job.” He blinked and realized he was talking too much. “Sorry. Sometimes I keep talking after my mind says to stop.”

  June wondered if she should tell him that her husband had been in the National Guard—and died when called to active duty. No, he probably wouldn’t be interested in how she felt about that. In fact, he would probably resent her attitude. Suddenly she felt nervous in his presence. “I’d better be getting back to my gang, We’re still looking over the packets we were given. This was all done in such a hurry, there was no time before we left.”

  “Same here, and I’d better be getting back, too. Some of my guys aren’t very well versed in geography. I keep telling them Port Harcourt is in Nigeria, not New England but I’m not sure they believe me. Nice talking to you.” He walked back toward his seat, glad that he had apparently been wrong about her unfriendliness. She was easy to talk to.

  June chuckled to herself as she followed Doug back down the narrow aisle between the trucks and jeep and their stacked and tied hand luggage. She had the same problem, too. One of her young male nurses had thought their only stop, Hawaii, was in the Atlantic Ocean. It was a brief one, just enough time for a maintenance check and refueling, then they were back in the air. She had checked her map distances and wondered why they were taking this route, but supposed the military had a reason. They always had a reason, even if it didn’t make sense. Like that helicopter flight… no! Stop it, she told herself. Like the man said, dead is dead. Keep him in a special place in your memory and move on.

  * * *

  The temperature and humidity were stultifying. The atmosphere hit Doug like a wall of heated fog as soon as he stepped off the big cargo plane. Whew! He thought, wearing biosuits in this place will sap our strength quicker than a sauna. “Stay close, guys,” he told his squad as he looked around for their transportation.

  Amelia was already talking with the head of the welcoming committee—an-all military one, from the looks of things. As he watched she turned in his direction. “Doug!” she called. “Over here!” He hurried toward her.

  “This is Major Mustafa. He’ll be our liaison with the government.”

  Doug shook hands with the man. His skin was a rich black color. “Major,” he said.

  “And this is Captain Presley. He’s in charge of the military detachment at the hospital. You’ll be reporting to him.”

  “Captain, glad to meet you.” His new commander nodded amiably. Surprisingly, he was Caucasian.

  Strands of bright red hair peeking from beneath the bill of his cap contrasted with the gray at his temples.

  The major pointed. “Your transportation is arriving now. Quarters have been arranged near the hospital, or you may erect tents on the grounds. You will be given every assistance. The situation is rapidly becoming serious. I shall see you again once you’ve been quartered.” He waved a hand as if including everyone in the statement and ran back to his jeep. The driver raced off as soon as he was seated.

  In a pinch, they could all have crowded into their jeep or the trucks with their supplies, but using the two buses that the major had pointed to would be far more comfortable. It ferried most of them and their hand baggage to an old two story building only a couple of hundred yards or so from the big hospital, which Doug had learned was the only hospital in Port Harcourt. To be a manufacturing and transportation hub, the city had a surprisingly small population. He rode with Captain Presley in his jeep while Amelia and June rode in their own, driven by Amelia. Bob Handley had been assigned half of Doug’s men to help with unloading and to stay with the trucks at the hospital. Bob would see that the arms and supplies didn’t wander off, he knew. For the time being he and the other men carried only their light weapons.

  One thing Doug noticed on their way was that traffic was light; there were few pedestrians and every intersection sported several soldiers and at least one military vehicle, either a jeep, SUV or armored personnel carrier. Had the situation deteriorated that quickly? He hoped not, but then why was the hospital being guarded—or was it just to keep order from too many patients wanting to get inside?

  It was the latter, he learned quickly. “See,” Captain Presley said as they neared the area and pedestrians increased in number. “More’re becoming ill every day. Th’re’s only so much room. We’re clearing out the building next t’ your digs for auxiliary wards but t’ey aren’t ready yet.” His accent was a strange mixture of Nigerian, Australian and Scot.

  There were also guards around their quarters. Doug wondered whether he should ask for more help from back home. No, it wouldn’t do any good. Once they were airborne after the stop in Hawaii, Amelia had quietly gathered him, June and Bob and told them that she had received an encrypted call from home.

  The disease was cropping up in other countries. They would be needing security, too. This fact had already made Doug decide to keep all his men at the hospital during the day and stay with the health workers when they came back to their quarters to sleep. No tents would be erected; he didn’t want to take the time or trouble.

  * * *

  Over the next week, Doug established a routine. When in a foreign country by invitation, the local authorities, both military and civilian had to be deferred to. His squad was there mainly to repel or ideally to prevent spontaneous attacks on the hospital infection disease specialists while they carried out their duties, much like marine guards at embassies around the world. There was little that could be done to resist masses of people if they were determined to overrun a place. And he personally was responsible for deciding at what point security and safety for the “Civilians” as they were called privately, could no longer be maintained. That frequently threw him into the company of Captain Presley, who attended the morning de
partment head briefings held by Amelia for Bob Handley, June and himself. Privately, he conferred with Captain Presley more often.

  Doug had his men on two shifts a day, noon until midnight and from then until noon the next day. It was wearing, but already he didn’t like the signs he was seeing: the way black patients looked at him and the others as they were admitted, and particularly the increasingly surly—and fearful—attitude he noticed among the black soldiers guarding the approaches to the hospital and those assigned to the grounds and entrances. He mentioned it to Captain Presley.

  Presley’s ancestors were from Scotland. He was red headed, short and swarthy, with a tanned, freckled face. He wiped sweat from his brow as he made the rounds with Doug. “Can’t say as I blame t’ chaps, having t’ wear those suits in t’ heat. They can’t take it more than an hour’r so at a stretch.”

  Amelia had allowed all their crew except the blacks and three others with dark skins to dispense with the biohazard suits as it became increasingly evident that Caucasians were immune to the disease—which was becoming known popularly as “The needles” after the pain symptoms. Officially, it was classified as Enterovirus harcourtii, named after the city where it was first discovered. The professionals referred to it as simply “The Harcourt Virus”.

  “Five of my own men are still in the suits, Captain, although I keep rotating them. And I don’t think it’s just the suits making the soldiers nervous and surly. Rumors are rife that it was started deliberately by white supremacists.”

  Presley shrugged. “Could be, old man. I dare say th’re’s them as ‘ud do it ‘f given a chance. Though given my druthers, I’d of rather seen ‘em go after t’ ragheads if they were of a mind t’ kill off some ‘un.

  Blasted retards, suiciders and all that. Don’t give a bloody damn who t’y kill so long’s it’s Americans or Europeans.”

  “Funny place for it to start, though, Nigeria,” Doug commented after pausing with Presley to speak to Buddy Hawkins and the three Nigerian soldiers guarding the main entrance, and to see whether or not they were having any problems. None so far, though if looks could kill, one of the black soldiers would have laid him out.

  “Have to agree there. South Africa would’ve been a more likely bet. Or maybe your country. Lots of hard feelings both places, don’t y’know? Even back home, lots of bad feelings. Bloody damned politicians, t’cause of t’all. How’re your boffins doing? Any luck so far?”

  Doug had to think a moment before remembering what the term meant. In England, scientists were sometimes referred to as boffins. “You heard Amelia this morning same as I did. We can’t establish a vector. Hell, not even any clues yet.”

  Presley took out a pack of cigarettes and shook one free. He tucked it between his lips and offered the pack to Doug. Without thinking, he took one and accepted a light. As soon as the smoke hit his lungs, he felt the familiar satisfying sensation—and a sudden dizziness at his first breath of nicotine in months. It happened every time. War and smoking seemed to go together in his mind. There had been no shooting yet, but he was beginning to doubt they would get out of Nigeria without fighting.

  “Same’s back home t’way I hear it over t’ radio. Our boffins say it’s a virus, but ‘s peculiar. Seems to be spread by family sometimes, but not always. Blasted strange, eh?”

  They paused again at the back entrance to the hospital. There, a gathering crowd was pressing forward toward rolls of barbed wire that had been hastily emplaced around the hospital grounds two days before, a worrisome sign in itself. All of the crowd were black. Many were yelling and shaking their fists, but others appeared barely able to stand and were being supported by what he supposed were family members.

  Abruptly, an irregular volley of rifle shots rode above the crowd noise and silenced it for a moment. Doug scanned the scene quickly and saw that it hadn’t turned violent yet; the Nigerian soldiers had fired over the heads of the crowd. It was a portent, though. He pulled out his military phone and thumbed it on to let the troops in front know what was happening. He had to wait a moment while a voice amplified by a bull horn warned the crowd to stay in line or to go to the new hospital just opened.

  “Heads up, guys,” he said, then after giving both the front and back guards time to recognize the incoming message signal, continued. “Those were warning shots, but stay alert. Remember, you’re not authorized to use force unless it’s the last resort—but don’t hesitate if any of our people are threatened.”

  In the meantime, Presley was busy conveying information to his troops. When he saw that part of the throng had begun to troop off toward the newly rigged hospital, he spoke to Presley. “How much longer, do you think, Captain?”

  Presley’s normally nonchalant countenance had sobered. He shook his head negatively, knowing exactly what Doug was asking. “If ‘twas my lookout, I’d be telling my chaps to start packing, old man. I rather doubt whites’ll be popular ‘round here in another day or two—not that we’re very popular right now, eh?” His grin returned momentarily, then vanished again as his phone rang.

  While he was talking, Doug was thinking. It would be nice if the scientists could stay long enough to discover the vector for the “prickles”, another designation for the disease here, but their safety was his primary concern. Local news was already being censored, but Amelia had told him yesterday that the newly commissioned U.S.S. Andrew Jackson, one of their finest aircraft carriers, had arrived offshore with attendant ships, including part of a Marine Expeditionary force. Americans who wanted to leave would be evacuated. When that news got out here, as it inevitably would, the type of mild uproar he had just witnessed would be the least of their worries. Abruptly, he made his decision.

  “Captain Presley, I’m going inside to tell our folks to get ready to leave. After that, I’m bringing all my troops and the medical people back here. I’m thinking we’d better call for a lift and get to the airport as soon as possible.”

  “I rather agree, old boy. Any chance of going with you?”

  “You’ll desert?”

  “Call it what you like, old man, but I’ve kept my ear rather close t’ the ground. It’s sticky now, but within a fortnight, I’m willing t’ bet white skins’ll be hunted through t’ streets like bloody foxes. I’d rather like to avoid that ‘f I can.”

  “I can get you aboard a flight, Captain, but I can’t guarantee what the customs and immigration folks back home will have to say about it.”

  “Better a lockdown than a coffin, eh?”

  Doug couldn’t argue with that. He waved one of his guards over, then sent him hurrying to drive one of the big trucks back to the quarters and bring everyone to the hospital.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ali Green was called Fridge, his nickname, much more often than by his real name. Right now, he didn’t give much of a damn what anyone called him. All he could think of was the little body of his youngest, his daughter and the last of his children. He had buried them all, one by one. His wife rested in a plot beside them. She had gone first.

  Tears wouldn’t come. He had already shed so many that there were none left, but he raged inside at the injustice of the world, at the way blacks were treated. He knew just as certainly as God made the earth that some whites, somehow, had been responsible for this newest scourge devastating the black race. He wanted revenge, but he didn’t know who to strike out at. Deep down, he knew that all whites weren’t guilty but he couldn’t control his feelings. Somehow, someway, he had to make them pay.

  He trudged away from the graveyard by himself. Many people, especially blacks, were beginning to avoid being close to others for fear of catching the disease, but Fridge didn’t think that made much difference. After all, he had been with all four of his children and his wife and never showed the slightest sign of symptoms, the prickling under the skin that presaged the full blown disease.

  He was looking down at the graveled path, lost in his thoughts. It almost caused him to collide with a well dressed black man barring
his path.

  “Go away,” he said brusquely. “I don’t want no company.”

  “Mr. Green, maybe I can help you. I’m from The Church of Blacks.”

  Fridge met his level gaze with his own, having to look down at the other man. Fridge was as big as a linebacker though he had never played professional sports. His career had been with the military. “How the church going to help me? They going to bring my family back to life?” He had heard of the Church of Blacks, of course. It had become very big in the South and big cities of the north over the last several years. He had never attended any of their services, not being particularly religious, though he did believe in God, in a vague, undefined way.

  “We can’t return your family to you, Mr. Green. But if you’re seeking retribution, we have a place for you.”

  Fridge examined the man, closer. He was wearing a suit, even on this warm day, and carried sheaf of booklets in his hand. Now he remembered; he had seen him at the funeral home on another occasion, talking with other grieving friends and relatives of deceased blacks. “What you mean, retribution?” He felt a stirring inside, a spark of new animation at the thought.

  “Doctor Taylor is looking for good men with military experience. I understand you were in the army.”

  Fridge knew the man was referring to Dr. Qualluf Taylor, a minister and founder of the Church of Blacks.

  “How do you know me?”

  “One of our members recommended we come see you. I can’t tell you much right now, but believe me, Doctor Taylor intends to make the white establishment pay for this latest outrage against our people.”

  “You think the government started it, huh?”

  “Who else? Something like this doesn’t just pop up from a jungle. We don’t have proof yet, but we know, just like you do.”

  Fridge had to admit they were thinking alike. Still…

  “Here, Mr. Green. Take one of these booklets. It will explain the church’s philosophy. If you agree with it, or want to learn more, there’s a contact number and address inside.”