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
