A Pagan's Nightmare (3 page)

He called out, “Hey, anyone want to join me for lunch?”

No one answered. Just the clock, ticking off the seconds. He’d never noticed the ticks before.

Next he retrieved his cell phone from his jacket and tried to call his own show, but the call would not go through. “Please
check with your phone company,” it said.

Confused and a bit freaked out, Ned rushed from the building and into bright sunlight. He tried to calm himself, took deep
breaths. He even walked a block down the sidewalk of the business district. In seconds Orlando seemed normal again—humidity
high, shade low. The only thing he noticed that looked odd was that fewer people were on the streets.
Maybe everyone went to the beach today.

Food always helped Ned relax and clear his mind, o he entered The Streetside Café, one of several local eateries he frequented.

Ned was a big eater—and had a habit of ordering dessert along with his entrée—so when a middle-aged waitress arrived to take
his order, he pointed first to the dessert menu. “Got any more of that Devil’s Food Cake?” he asked her.

She promptly pulled out a Sharpie pen, leaned down to the plastic menu, and marked out the word
Devil’s.
Then she wrote a new word in its place. “Management just changed the name to David’s Food Cake,” she said. “One slice could
fill Goliath.”

At first Ned could only blink at her.

The waitress smiled politely, pointed to the menu. “Would you like a piece of David’s Food Cake, sir? It’s already quite popular
in Tucson, Dallas, and Chattanooga.”

Blank-faced, DJ Ned stared at the waitress, hoping that she was kidding.

But she just waited patiently with pad in hand, ready to take his order.

Ned had yet to connect his lack of callers with the renaming of Devil’s Food Cake, but it seemed to him that a strange form
of religiosity was sweeping across America from west to east, just like the latest fad from L.A.

W
HEN LANNY ARRIVED
at Southside Elen entary on the south side of Atlanta, he parked his Xterra in ; visitor’s spot and unhitched his seatbelt.
By now he had convince I himself that he was simply the victim of a huge practical joke, anc over the past half hour he had
given little thought to the odd happ snings at McDonald’s and the BP station. The billboard, however still troubled him.

Skies were sunny and winds were mild as he got out and grabbed his toolbox from the rear hatch. Whiffs of honeysuckle drifted
past, and for a moment Lanny stood and sniffed. The sweet scent restored a sense of normalcy to his day, and around h m everything
looked in place: grass freshly mown, windows adornec with Crayola drawings, tricycles in the playground, bicycles lined t
p and parked beyond the sidewalk.

“I remember my little purple bike, back when I was as seven,” he said to himself. He shut the hatch to his truck and toted
his toolbox toward the front entrance.

On his way toward the school, Lanny heard an intercom blaring some kind of announcement from inside the building. He could
not make out the words.

As soon as he pushed open the lobby door, he smelled Pine-Sol. But he found no one at the front desk to greet him, so he continued
down the hall to room 12B, where he had been instructed to knock before entering. He knocked twice, but there was no answer,
no sound at all from inside the room.

The intercom system crackled to life, and from down the hall an emotionless male voice said, “Go to 12D. You’re at 12B.”

Lanny wondered why no one was talking to him in person, and
how they even knew he was in the building. He loped down the hallway, his toolbox heavy in his hand, his mind suspicious once
again.

This is Monday. Surely there are kids here on Monday.

The door to 12D was also closed. Instead of knocking, Lanny almost left to find the school principal. But he went ahead and
tried the door, and it opened to an empty classroom. Desks were pushed to the sides, and masking tape was arranged on the
floor in the form of a big boat. Drawn skillfully on the chalkboard to his right were colorful fish and a huge octopus.

In the rear, just outside the restroom, he saw the shiny porcelain. An uninstalled kiddie commode sat against the back wall,
its lid up, as if inviting him to get to work. Lanny toted his toolbox to the back and read a note taped to the commode handle:

Lanny glanced at his watch and saw that the time was already 1:28. Curious as to where everybody had gone, he went to the
window and peered out at the schoolyard. It too was empty.

Then the intercom voice said, “Better hurry.”

Lanny muttered, “Mind your own business,” and opened the restroom door. He was relieved to see that the old commode had already
been removed.

He finished the installation in thirty minutes, and as always, he gave the commode a test flush. The swishing sound was immediately
followed by the impatient voice on the intercom.

“The children are waiting to return to their classroom.”

Lanny paused from arranging his tools in his box to glance up at the gray speaker mounted on the ceiling. “Why can’t I meet
the kids? I’m not dangerous, ya know.”

The voice was monotone and robotic. “We cannot risk them becoming tainted.”

“Tainted?” This was the second time today Lanny had heard that word.

“Thank you for the new commode,” the voice said.

Lanny frowned and shut the lid. “You’re… welcome.”

Five seconds passed before the voice sounded again. “But you are not allowed to use it.”

This time Lanny stood on his toes and stared at the speaker, perturbed at the lack of humanity. He decided to humor whoever
was doing the talking. “Why can’t I use it? Because I’d have to sit all squished with my knees up to my chin?”

“No, because you’re not one of us. You’re Mr. P.”

At that instant Lanny knew that today was no practical joke. No way would two different strangers, on two sides of Atlanta,
call him that. Fighting nerves, he muttered, “So I’m Mr. P., eh?”

“Leave within the next ten seconds or we summon the authorities.”

Defiant, Lanny waited twelve seconds. And through the speaker he heard sirens wail.

His complexion paled as he grabbed his toolbox and fled room 12D. His footsteps echoed in the empty hallway, and the intercom
offered nary a good-bye.

When Lanny reached his Xterra, he flung the toolbox in the rear, jumped into the driver’s seat, and left skid marks in the
Southside parking lot. Two miles down the road he tried again to reach Miranda on her cell phone. It was 2:15, and he knew
that her flight should have landed by now. But again there was no answer, not even her friendly, recorded message.

He tried the radio, searching for a breaking news story, hoping he was not caught in the middle of some strange invasion.
Instead he discovered something far more personal—he heard Atlanta’s traffic reporter utter his name.

The female reporter’s voice grew excited. “I repeat, Marvin the Apostle is offering a second
Big Reward
for the capture and conversion of Georgia’s last remaining holdout, Lanny Hooch. He was last seen leaving the building of
Southside Elementary.”

Lanny jammed the accelerator.
A reward to capture and convert
me?
He swerved around a pair of minivans and paid no attention as his speedometer soared passed 80.
What is happening to Atlanta? And why me?

At the on-ramp to 1-285, Lanny again had trouble merging. But by now he had lost patience with the zealots. Again he jammed
the accelerator. Then he pulled onto the shoulder and sped past an endless line of religious bumper stickers. He drove straight
to 1-85, took exit 99, turned left over the bridge, then hung a right into Miranda’s apartment complex. He parked in front
of building G, hurried to her door, and knocked.

No answer.

She’s a smart girl. Maybe she knows about these zealots, missed her plane on purpose, and is hiding out at her sister’s.

However strong his panic, however anxious his thoughts, what Lanny wanted most was to get out of Atlanta. He ran back to his
truck, climbed in, and started the engine. But he left the gearshift in park—at the back of the lot he’d spotted an old Camaro
with its front wheels up on blocks, and this car offered the subtle disguise he needed.

Two minutes later, Lanny had swapped license plates. In survival mode, he drove out of the gate and turned back toward the
interstate. His instincts told him to floor it and flee. But first he knew he should call customer service at Delta Airlines.
He fumbled with his cell phone, dropping it on the floor mat. His truck swerved back and forth over the center line as he
grabbed the phone from under his ankle. He dialed the number, took deep breaths, and waited for an answer.

Finally a female voice greeted him. “Welcome to Detour Airlines, earthly flights for the heaven-bound.”

Lanny nearly crashed his truck. “
Detour
Airlines?” he shot back. “What is that?!”

But he was too shaken to wait for a response. He slammed his phone shut and veered into the exit lane, turning south onto
1-85, then back onto 1-285. Traffic flowed now, and he felt safest in the middle lanes, driving and thinking, driving and
fighting panic, driving and fearing the worst.

He looped around Atlanta in a stupor, trying his golf buddies over and over on his cell but getting no answers. He turned
on the traffic report again and heard the reporter giving details of the reward offer: “. . . This offer has a three-day time
limit…. The first Big Reward was claimed in Athens at 11:00 a.m. today, a deft capture of holdout number two…. He is now
en route to the containment area…. And now one holdout remains…. Lanny Hooch last seen leaving Southside Elementary…. Believed
to be driving a forest green Nissan.”

Containment area? What is that?! At least they got the color of my truck wrong.

Someone behind him honked, and out of sheer panic Lanny swerved across three lanes. In minutes he was on 1-75, aiming his
SUV for Florida. His plan evolved quickly—he changed his mind and took Highway 81 to 1-20, wanting to make a stop in Augusta,
since Miranda’s sister, Carla, lived there. And if he could not find Miranda in Augusta, he would continue on to Cocoa Beach,
to her parents’ house.

Now doing ninety miles per hour on 1-20 east, Lanny tried his best to be optimistic.
Perhaps Augusta and the Sunshine State are immune to the religiosity.

At a minimum, he hoped to find a few more yellow M&M’s.

On Thursday Larry came walking into my office in blue argyle socks, loafers dangling from his fingertips. He walked over to
my window and, as was his habit, gazed down at Atlanta in non-stop commute. We had yet to greet each other. I just watched
him watching the traffic and wondered why he was carrying his shoes.

“Agent Orange loves it?” Larry asked, still mesmerized by the freeways. “Tell me you love my story.”

I pushed away from my desk but remained seated. “The religious right is gonna shoot you.”

“Nah, they’re gonna love me.”

“You mean there’s some sort of conversion in this story?”

Larry turned from watching the traffic, and his face went blank.
“Conversion?
You mean like when someone switches from debauchery to chastity? Nah, I don’t really deal with that issue, Ned.”

I shoved a stack of manuscripts aside and motioned for Larry to sit in my guest chair. “You’re not gonna make me ask why you’re
carrying your loafers in your hand?”

Larry glanced at the shoes dangling from his left thumb and forefinger, as if he’d forgotten he was holding them. “These loafers?”

“Those loafers.”

“Just bought ‘em yesterday. Italian shoes. You’ve probably never heard of the brand.”

“Probably not. So why—”

“Why am I not wearing them? Because they’re tight and my feet hurt. Italian shoe designers must have skinny feet.”

“Why don’t you just take them back?”

Larry rolled his eyes. “Image, Ned. I need the right shoes, regardless if they fit.”

“Didn’t they feel tight when you tried them on?”

Larry dropped the shoes to the floor and came over and tapped
his index finger hard on my stack of papers. “The manuscript, Ned. Are multiple offers on the way?”

From my briefcase I pulled out Larry’s first three chapters and pointed to the title page. “In the story, you’re Lanny Hooch,
right?”

Larry tugged the sock on his right foot and smiled. “That’s correctomundo.”

“And I’m… I’m DJ
Ned Neutral?”

“We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” He switched to his left sock. “My therapist says my childhood affects my writings, but I
won’t bore you with what happened. Can you sell this?”

“Possibly. But the religious right. . . Well, I’m not sure if they’re ready to laugh at themselves.” A tangent flashed into
my head, and I tried to steer our chat in a new direction. “You don’t have much experience with theology, do ya?”