A Pagan's Nightmare (9 page)

“But it’s BYOC, not BYOP,” Ned countered. He motioned toward the entrance with his head, and Lanny reluctantly followed. Both
men stuffed a five into the donation box, and Ned pulled open the door to the theatre.

It was small, as island theatres go. Most of the sixty seats were taken, but Ned and Lanny found two together in the third
row. They settled in, and slouched a bit as the scent of coconut and strawberries filled their nostrils.

The two men looked up at the screen to see Jack at the rail of the
Titanic,
watching solemnly as Rose was lowered away in a lifeboat.

Lanny heard sniffles from the row behind him. He leaned over to Ned and whispered, “You’ve seen this before?”

“Twice,” Ned whispered back. “You?”

“Four times. Miranda owns the DVD.”

Sniffles grew louder in the Tiki Theatre as the great ship began to sink. Rose had scrambled out of the lifeboat to rejoin
Jack, and now the two were together again on the teetering vessel, struggling past fellow passengers and sprinting for the
railing. Soon the stern of the
Titanic
hung in the air. Jack and Rose clung desperately to the railing. The great ship foundered and went under, and in seconds
the young lovers were flailing in the frigid Atlantic. Their only chance was to stay afloat in the ocean and hope someone
found them.

Ned blinked back a tear as the tragedy unfolded—Rose lay on the chunk of wood as Jack clung freezing to its side. Soon Jack
was frozen stiff. But as Rose was about to utter her famous line, “I’ll never let go, Jack. I’ll never let go,” her words
instead came out, “I’ll never use a swear word, Jack. I’ll never use a swear word.”

No one else in the theatre even blinked at the edit. It was as if they all expected Rose to speak those very lines.

But not Ned and Lanny. Even before the lifeboat found Rose, and well before the ten-foot tall WANTED photos of Ned and Lanny
appeared on the screen, both men crouched low in the aisle, bolted out of the theatre, and ran fear-struck into a balmy Bahama
night.

Jack sank anyway.

T
HE REALITY WAS INESCAPABLE
—the zealots had come to the islands. With great stealth they had come. And so Ned and Lanny hid. With worry in their heads
and sand in their underwear they hid within a cluster of palm trees and peeked out from behind the dunes on Abaco Beach. Both
were afraid to go near the airport, and both wanted to get a hurricane damage report for Florida, although this too was a
mystery, due mainly to lack of a radio and dead cell phones.

For sustenance, the two men had taken fruit and bottled juices and a cooler from the beach—while the owners were playing in
the surf. They’d also taken two beach towels on which to nap. In an effort at a fair exchange, Ned had left a twenty under
a sea shell.

“Any more fruit?” asked Lanny. It was late morning, and he kept lookout from behind a mound of white sand.

Behind him Ned opened the cooler and had a look. Sunlight shown down through the treetops and over his shoulder. “One more
orange.”

Lanny caught the orange Ned tossed him, then picked at its skin with fingernails too short for the task.

Already the beach was transformed. Already a zealot parasailing company—
We Fly You Closer
—had a line of people waiting to parasail from the surf. And already a drink stand was serving a concoction called a Pre-Glory
Pizzazz.

“Probably just a glorified Slurpee,” Lanny muttered from behind sea oats.

“And without rum,” Ned whispered.

A lively, no-spiking-allowed beach volleyball game brought even
more confusion—shirts identified the two teams as Dunkers versus Sprinklers.

“Those names mean anything to you, Ned?”

“Probably just their donut preferences.”

Sprawled on his stomach and peering through Ned’s binoculars, Lanny pressed his elbows into the sand and tried to pin blame
anywhere but on his own inability to solve problems.

“Ned,” he muttered, scanning the shoreline, “this island is the only place I know where Miranda and her parents would bring
their boat. I think Dock Boy lied to us. He’s really one of
them.”

Ned lay back on his stolen beach towel and stared up through the palm fronds. “The kid sure fooled me.”

Lanny focused in on Dock Boy and watched the kid hurry around the circular dock. Lanny saw the youngster accept a tip and
point three arriving boaters toward the beach and fruity drinks. “This is just like
Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
You never know until it’s too late.”

Ned briefly wondered if his buddy was right. He glanced at his own hands to see if any changes were sneaking up on him. After
two minutes of staring at his fingers, and noticing no alteration in his skin tone or his mental health, Ned dismissed the
idea. “Patience, Lann-o. We’ll sneak back to the airport before sunset and head back to Florida. Then maybe we can disguise
ourselves.”

Tired of watching the marina, Lanny lay back on his towel and beat his fists into the sand. “I will not relax until I find
Miranda.”

DJ Ned opened their cooler and took the last banana. He had no comment.

“Why me?” Lanny asked the palm fronds. His voice broke into a fervent pleading. “Why would I be left? What good is a simple
contractor to a world full of zealots?”

The emotion alone led Ned to respond. He peeled his banana and said, “I’ve been asking myself a similar question, but in your
case they probably need your skills to change out a few million signs and billboards back in Atlanta.”

“Don’t joke, Ned,” Lanny shot back, wiping a sleeve across his eyes. “They’ll take over your radio station, as well.”

This thought caused Ned to squeeze a bruise into his fruit. “Never.”

“It could happen.”

Ned remained defiant. “Then that’s why you were left—to help me barricade the doors to my station.”

This time Lanny had no comment; frustration had his tongue tied.

Through a gap in the dunes Ned watched the retreating tide cover the beach in creamy foam. He briefly considered the order
of nature and the disorder of man but found the contrast overwhelming. “We both need to clear our heads so that we can think
clearly,” he said at last.

Lanny would have none of that. “My head hasn’t been clear since I ate those McScriptures. Who knows, they probably put some
sorta drug in the potatoes.”

“Paranoia is bad for you,” Ned replied. Though his warning sounded like wisdom, it was really just a poor attempt to hide
his own worries. He finished his banana and considered the eastward thrust of the religiosity. “My best friend lives in London.
So maybe we should try to get to… Hey, do ya think the zealots have taken over Europe by now?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Ned tossed the peel over his shoulder and gazed eastward across the sea. “Think of it…. Empty pubs in Ireland, British zealots
on the BBC, no kissing at the Eiffel Tower.”

“Please stop. I do not want to talk about it.”

“Then what
do
you want to talk about?”

Lanny scooped up a handful of sand and let the grains sift through his fingers. Again and again he sifted. “Think that hurricane
made landfall yet?”

Ned stood and peered past the volleyball game at the ocean. “Probably. Unless the PFSC got those giant fans installed and
blew the hurricane back toward the Yucatan.”

Lanny beat his fists into the sand again. Though he knew Ned was only trying to cheer him up, his mind was too focused to
be affected by humor. He folded his left arm across his eyes and
recalled the past New Year’s Eve, when he and Miranda had danced the night away to James Brown music. This reflection only
served to make him miss her even more. He thought back to the revelry of that night, the slow dances, the fast dances. He
recalled how Miranda had taken off her shoes for the fast ones and danced barefoot. He could even remember what songs were
playing….

Soon concern overcame nostalgia, and Lanny grew restless. He grabbed the binoculars again. Peering over the dune at the marina,
he spotted a cruise ship approaching.
More zealots,
he figured,
perhaps a thousand of them. Seeking me
…
the Big stinkin’ Reward.

He handed the binoculars to Ned, who looked for only a few seconds before muttering, “We gotta get off this island. There’s
not enough real estate for us to stay hidden.”

Lanny could watch no longer. He rose from his beach towel and brushed off his shorts. “C’mon, Ned. I have an idea.”

“Where are you going now?”

“To disguise myself and find some Internet access.”

Ned had no time to object; his buddy was already loping inland. He brushed the sand from his shorts and followed Lanny over
the dunes and away from the ocean. They entered a bamboo forest and emerged on the shoulder of a two-lane road. Sporting their
Bermuda shorts and sunglasses, they walked along the shoulder, looking just like two tourists out exploring.

Minutes later they entered town. They walked cautiously past the entrance to the Tiki Theatre and the beachware store, where
they spotted two more posters of themselves. One block later they detoured around a street preacher shouting something unintelligible
through a bullhorn.

Seconds later Lanny entered a tiny Internet café called Islandnet. Ned followed him inside, his pulse racing.

Unsure if the proprietor was a zealot, Lanny tossed three ones on the counter and offered his best poser greeting. “Religious
howdy, religious howdy,” he said, turning for the computers. “We just need a few minutes of Web time.”

The startled clerk stared curiously at the duo for a moment before shrugging and placing the money in his cash drawer.

All six computers were set against the front window, a situation that only served to increase Lanny’s stress. He sat down
at the last of the six computers, logged on to the Internet, and went straight to the Google homepage.

Ned eased up behind Lanny’s chair and peered over his shoulder. “Just what are you trying to find out?”

“Gimme a sec, Ned. I’m googling Miranda first, then us.”

“I don’t wanna be googled.”

The name Miranda Timms came up blank.
No matches.

Into the Google search bar Lanny typed, “Lanny Hooch, Atlanta, Georgia.”

There was only one match:
One of the few remaining unfortunate ones left on the planet. Believed to have recently fled the coast of Florida for an island
in the Bahamas.

A stream of red words then ran across the screen:
THOU SHALT NOT RESIST US! WE SHALL SUBDUE THEE ONE WAY OR ANOTHER
.

Wide-eyed, Lanny pushed away from the computer and turned to Ned. Both men were ashen. They ducked as a pedestrian strolled
by on the sidewalk.

“Let’s head for the plane,” said Lanny. “Right now. C’mon.”

He scrambled from his chair and tried to flee but Ned caught him by the arm. “Not just yet.”

Ned sat down at the computer, placed the cursor back on the search bar, and typed “DJ Ned Neutral, Orlando, Florida.”

Again, Google offered only one match:
One of the few remaining unfortunate ones left on the planet. Believed to have recently fled the coast of Florida for an island
in the Bahamas.

Again the words streamed across. Ned tried to click on the “close” button, but that only increased the font.
THOU SHALT NOT RESIST US
!

That’s when the clerk rose from behind the counter and said,
“Could you two gentlemen stick around a few minutes? I know someone who would, um, like to speak with you.”

Small and thin, the clerk was no match for either Lanny or Ned. Lanny figured the guy had called for backup.

Ned nudged Lanny toward the door, his eyes on the clerk, who remained frozen behind the counter.

“Religious g’bye, religious g’bye,” Lanny said with a wave.

Both men sprinted—pudgy Ned’s gait was more like a jog—down the sidewalk and out of the shopping district and onto the road
that led to the airport. This road curved past the Abaco Marina, however, and neither man noticed Dock Boy sitting on the
sundeck with a dozen teenagers. The kid saw the duo running down the road and shouted, “Saw you in Tiki Theatre! I ran projector!
You like my edits?!”

Ned wanted to go toss the kid in the drink, but Lanny insisted they keep running.

Out on the tarmac, twin propellers spun into a frenzy. Ned tested the Baron’s flaps, adjusted his headset, and prepared for
takeoff.

A sweaty Lanny tightened his seatbelt, anxious to leave Abaco and hoping Miranda was not on the island.
Was she captured? Forced to recite propaganda? Physically abused?
When his mind cleared he looked out over the wing and spotted their pursuers. Wide-eyed, Lanny pointed past Ned toward the
terminal.

Ned glanced to his left and saw an official airport vehicle coming at them, lights flashing.

“Just go!” Lanny urged.

Ned shook in his seat.
What now? I could lose my license.
“Lanny, there are laws that we pilots have to obey and—”

Lanny grabbed his arm and put his hand on the throttle. “Those are now
zealot
laws, man. Just go!”

Ned glanced at the vehicle and the flashing lights, now only a hundred yards away and closing fast. He pressed the throttle
and turned onto the runway.

Engines hummed. The cockpit vibrated. The car gave chase.

Ned didn’t even ask for permission to take off.

Down the tarmac he went.

Faster. More throttle. Yes, we’re pulling away. Now lift!

The plane climbed swiftly above the palm trees, then above Abaco itself. The loud hum of the twin engines drowned out Lanny’s
nervous chatter, and he exhaled as Ned banked over the coastline. Straight ahead in the distant west, the sun was an orange
wafer, sinking on the horizon.

They were only a few miles out of Abaco, still climbing over blue water, when Lanny pulled Ned’s headset from his right ear.
Lanny leaned close to his pilot and shouted, “Is there any way you can circle back over the island and sky-write ‘Lanny looking
for Miranda’ in big puffy letters?”