A Pagan's Nightmare (15 page)

Still skeptical of Ned’s plan, Lanny lowered his window to get some air. He pulled out his cell phone, called the marina,
and asked if anyone had boarded the
Saniti.
He was told that the boat had not moved since the hurricane.

Lanny’s heart sank. “Thank you,” he said before ending the call.

Ned now had one foot propped on the newspaper stand and appeared to be searching the classified ads. Lanny honked the horn
and motioned for him to get going, then he pulled down the sun visor and assessed his face and hair.
Wow, I’m haggard!
he thought.
Miranda wouldn’t even recognize me! I need sleep, peace of mind. What I don’t need is to be accosted by zealots at some theme
park.

Lanny honked a second time at Ned before turning his attention to the store next door—a Barnes and Noble. He scanned the store
windows and read a poster advertising new books to be released in September:

COMING SOON!

Non-fiction for busy people:  
Mondays with Marvin

Re-release of Hemingway:  
A Farewell to Pagans

Lanny turned away in disgust, failing to note the foreboding in that second title. In his quest to find Miranda, he’d paid
little attention to himself and his own safety. From the parking lot he saw only
the signage that crowded his world. And signs—those stoic little persuaders—were on display everywhere.

“The entire country has become one giant cheeseball,” he muttered to himself.

He watched a gull soar over the bookstore and swoop down to a grassy median. Lanny wished he had some bread to throw, if only
because Miranda liked to feed birds.

Ned returned with his paper, sat behind the wheel, and continued searching the ads.

“What are you looking for now,” Lanny asked, “more original music CDs?”

Ned shook his head. “Personal ads, Lann-o. I have a hunch that if any other non-religious people are left in Florida besides
us, they might have placed an ad.”

Ned’s index finger slid slowly down the page, through dozens of he-zealots seeking she-zealots, and vice versa. Ned traced
down a second column of ads and stopped near the bottom. “Ah, see here, I found one. It says, ‘Handsome Nissan looking for
a blue VW.’”

Lanny pointed to his brain, as if urging Ned to think. “That’s
my
ad, you dufus. I already told you that Miranda drives a 2004 light blue Jetta, and that she and I kid each other that even
our cars have a budding romance.”

“No way. You told me that?”

“Sometimes when she drives over to my house in Atlanta she’ll nudge her VW’s bumper against my Xterra’s.”

Ned looked dumbfounded, and could only repeat himself. “No way…”

“Believe me, Ned—if Miranda sees that ad, she’ll know it’s me.”

Ned scanned the rest of the personal ads but found none that weren’t obviously posted by zealots. “So much for my great idea,”
he said and cranked the engine. “Let’s go get lost in a crowd, maybe ride a rollercoaster.”

Lanny gave no reply. He was watching the gull again and remembering the good times.

DJ Ned drove swiftly until traffic slowed near the theme park’s
entrance. He noticed Lanny’s despondent air and tried to think of something to cheer him up.

“Ya think Senor Toad ever repented of his wild ride?”

Lanny failed to see any humor in the question.

Ned could not contain himself. He was determined to get his new friend out of his funk. “C’mon, Lann-o, it’s not like they’ve
changed the name of the place to Deity World.”

“How do you know? It could be Deity World… or even Doomsday World. I just have a feeling that it’s not the world you think
it is.”

Ned honked at a slow-moving Audi and motioned for them to get going. “Just be thinking of what we should write on our T-shirts.”

“This is a bad idea, Ned,” Lanny replied. He slumped in his seat, sunglasses covering closed eyes. “Maybe we should turn around.”

Ned would have none of that. He reached over and shook Lanny’s shoulder. “Wake up, man. We’ll just act like one of them, maybe
get some inside info on how to survive under their rules.”

Lanny sat up and removed his sunglasses. At first he saw nothing religious other than a few bumper stickers.
Perhaps theme parks are exempt,
he thought, not realizing that he, too, was edging toward denial.
Maybe Ned is right. Maybe this is okay. And what if Miranda is waiting for me at her all-time favorite ride? The one in the
dark, inside the mountain. Yeah, that’s where she’d be.

Traffic slowed further, stalled, and began rolling again. Ned and Lanny could see only trees to each side and the long line
of vehicles in front and behind.

Yet the closer they rolled, the more nervous Lanny became. Like most people, he was doomed to repeat mistakes from which he
failed to learn a lesson. And his mistake—both his
and
Ned’s mistake, actually—was to not heed the first subtle warning that this idea was a bad one.

The warning looked so innocent at first glance. Just a roadside vendor peddling trinkets and T-shirts. Stationed on Lanny’s
side of the road, the gentleman held up his wares for all to see. What Lanny didn’t notice on the shirts was the tiny print
under the larger print. Under the name of the theme park were the large words
FUN FOR
ALL,
and underneath that phrase were the teeny tiny words
ALL WHO ARE FORTUNATE.

Ned pulled ahead a few feet and glanced right at the T-shirt display. He, too, missed the tiny lettering.

“Lotsa people working to make a buck any way they can,” he muttered, easing past the peddler. Ned produced a magic marker
from his shorts and handed it to Lanny. While traffic stalled again, the two wrote “Fun for All” on each other’s blank beige
T-shirt.

Lanny unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to check behind them. Nothing suspicious. He looked out both windows. Still nothing.
But as Ned rolled forward again, Lanny began shaking. His complexion paled. His palms turned clammy.

“Turn around, Ned,” Lanny demanded. “I’m getting the shakes.”

Ned eased his Mercedes another twenty feet, then ten more, closing in on the parking ticket booth. “I can’t. Traffic has us
blocked in. Plus we’re almost to the parking lot.”

“Did you ever swap out your license plates like I told you to?”

“Nah, forgot.”

Ned rolled forward to the booth and showed the ticket taker his two all-day passes.

The young man examined the tickets. “Sorry, sir, these are no longer valid.”

Ned politely disagreed. “But they’re not expired—they’re still good. I checked.”

“It’s not the expiration date, sir,” the youngster explained. “Ownership has changed, and Deity World is now invitation only.
In fact, you’re trespassing.”

DJ Ned was so mad he could have spit, especially since he had correctly guessed the park’s new name. He shook his head, threw
his gearshift into park, and glared at the clerk. “What if I refuse to leave? What if I demand admittance?”

The youngster did not reply in kind. He did not reply at all. This struck Ned as odd, and he sat there staring out his windshield,
a fuming customer. What he didn’t see was the clerk pushing the red security button inside his booth.

Neither did Lanny. All Lanny did was lean across the console, meet the gaze of the clerk, and change the subject from park
admittance to lost girlfriends. “Listen, man, can anyone here help me locate a Miranda Timms?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but if she’s an unfortunate one, then I have no specific information. Although I can offer a factual
tidbit.”

“Go ahead. Shoot,” said Lanny, hoping for an important clue.

The ticket clerk cleared his throat, paused a moment, then spoke as if to a large gathering of geologists. “Only thirty percent
of the earth’s surface is covered with land; the other seventy percent is water.”

Huh?
Confused, stunned, and downright bewildered, Lanny wanted to ask the clerk to expound on his geographic factoid, but he was
distracted by a marching sound from behind the car.

Ned was the first to see the guards in black fatigues. They marched up quickly, three to each side of his Mercedes. One reached
to open the driver’s door, and Ned saw the patch on his shirt: EOM: Enforcers of the Movement.

The door opened. “What?!”

A hand on Ned’s arm. “Step out of the car, sir.”

“But what have I done?”

A gentle tug to his arm. “That’s just it…. You haven’t done anything.”

Ned now faced the side of his yellow hood—as they frisked him.

“But this makes no sense.” He looked across his hood at Lanny, who was also enduring an embarrassing frisking.

Lanny and DJ Ned were led around to the front of the Mercedes, where the pair were instructed to stand with their backs against
the grill. The six guards in black fatigues stood in front of them, arms crossed, faces sweaty and lacking expression. Park
officials redirected traffic into other lanes.

One of the guards—the apparent leader, since he wore a large brass badge that read Marvin the Apostle—stepped forward and
said, “Thou hast the right to an explanation.”

Ned frowned his most sarcastic frown. “Do tell.”

Lanny feared the worst. Out of the side of his mouth he whispered to his buddy, “They’re gonna kill us, Ned. I just know it.
They’re either gonna cook us extra crispy or torture us like back in the Dark Ages.”

Ned whispered back, “Stop panicking. They don’t even have guns.”

Which was true. But there were six of them, and they appeared strong, and they had billy clubs dangling from their belts.

Marvin the Apostle stepped closer and stopped, feet spread wide, eyes narrowed at the astonished trespassers. “Thy refusal
to joineth the movement shall resulteth in steepest punishment. . .
eth.”

DJ Ned turned to Lanny and whispered, “Oh my gosh, this guy speaks King James English.”

“Is that what that is?” Lanny asked. Suddenly he recalled googling his name—and the stream of words that ran across the computer.

Marvin raised a finger to halt their talk. “Thou hast been observed and followed and foundeth guilty. Now shall thy countenance
be transformed forcefully, since thy deadline for voluntary surrender also hath pass…
eth.”

“What deadline?” Ned protested.

Lanny slowly made a fist.

“Shusheth thy mouth,” Marvin cautioned. “Thou needest to listen. I speaketh on behalf of the United States of America. Thou
hast been giveneth invites over the television, hints in our movies, clues in our newspapers and our fast-food restaurants;
thou hast been reacheth out to in our songs and books, we’ve even lefteth dozens of pamphlets on your doorstep in order that
thou could seeth things our way. And still thou declineth to join us?”

Rethinking a fist fight, Lanny propped one foot on the bumper and crossed his arms. “Not only do we, um, refuseth to join
you, we don’t even
know
you. All we see is, well, do ya mind if I use a construction term here?”

Marvin frowned and motioned for Lanny to get on with it. “Thou shalt continueth.”

Lanny paused to gather his blue-collar thoughts. “All we see is your vinyl siding, either that or your paint. You all seem
satisfied to slather religious latex over everything that’s broadcast, everything that’s printed, and everything that’s visual.
But who are
you?
I mean, even now you’re urging us to join you while you hide behind your odd speech and your commando costume.”

Neither the logic nor the insult did a thing to prevent Marvin and the guards from leading Ned and Lanny to the back door
of a waiting black Lincoln. The car had just pulled up, a blue light flashing on its dash. Tinted windows prevented either
man from seeing inside, and Marvin the Apostle opened the door himself. “Entereth the vehicle, please.”

At first Ned refused. Then a guard shoved him in the back.

When Ned stooped to enter, he heard a quacking sound.

Waiting in the backseat was not another guard but a red-haired guy in a full duck outfit, minus the head.

“What’d
you
do?” Ned inquired.

“Don’t ask.”

Lanny slid in last, leaving Ned scrunched into the middle.

“Shusheth,” said Marvin from outside the back door. “No talking.”

The outer lane had cleared, and off toward the interstate sped the black Lincoln. Neither Lanny nor DJ Ned nor the guy in
the duck suit knew where they were being taken, only that their horizon had shrunk immensely.

This was indeed a small, small world.

I had observed protest marches before, though never in front of my own home. And never a middle-aged-female protest organized
by my own wife.

It was Friday at 11:40 a.m., and my plan had been to work at home until noon and then leave to play golf. Larry and I had
a 1:10 tee time at a municipal course north of Buckhead. He was supposed to pick me up at noon, though now I wondered how
he would get past the twenty-odd women marching circles in my otherwise quiet suburban street. Most of them, including Angie,
hoisted signs that read, JUST SAY NO TO PAGAN JUNK-ART, and, STOP AGENT ORANGE FROM KILLING OUR VALUES!