Only a metre and a half away, Michael Andrews, attempting to fill in a form with a very short and almost blunt pencil, was therefore quite easily defeated by the temptation to mind someone else’s business.
The more he listened, however, the more he became alarmed, for what he heard was his business, after all. He was not a Lemming, but he could not deny he had spiritual kinship with them. They would all be tarred with the same brush; someone anxious to start rebuilding his life with the reward money would not care about the differences between one set of fanatics and the next. Government sanction for murder! he thought for the fourth or fifth time, having discounted almost immediately the bureaucrat’s attitude of disapproval. People like that little man would do as they were told. Half-remembered details of biographies Michael had read of those who’d suffered under repressive governments for holding “incorrect” ideologies churned and roiled in his mind.
The surging wave of associations suddenly slapped into a wall as he realised he’d come to a section on his form which required details about his relatives: names, addresses, and so on. He put down the pencil stub, and folding the form and putting it into a pocket, slipped away as surreptitiously as he could manage. Dad has to hear about this, he thought.
*****
Vehicles of every description moved Northward in a great mass that made rush hour look light. Clare Latimer, a passenger in one of them, looked at her watch; she and her husband Stephen had been on the road four hours, and were still only twelve or thirteen miles from Ground Zero.
For a brief period following the start of the journey, they had been able to move relatively quickly; the traffic ahead had seemed to thin out quite suddenly as, following the lead of a few foolhardy and impatient souls, cars flooded through the gaps in the motorway’s central reservation and drove against the Southbound traffic. Clare and Stephen could faintly hear tyres screeching and horns being sounded as the much sparser oncoming traffic was forced off the road; but no bangs or crashes. Watching the cars on the other side cruise along, they seriously considered crossing over; but very soon they caught up again, and were passing queues on the Southbound side which did not appear to be moving at all. Crawling along for another fifteen minutes brought them in sight of the plume of smoke rising from the inevitable pile-up. It took them a long while to pass it - drivers on their own side had abandoned vehicles to go and help the injured - and since neither of them knew any first aid, the only ease they could offer their consciences was a whispered prayer for the fools who lay dying in and around the wreckage.
“There’s no point stopping,” Stephen said, but he was trying to convince himself as much as Clare. “There won’t be any emergency services. And very likely the local hospitals’ resources will be stretched to the limit already. Better not to prolong the agony. Best if they die sooner rather than later.”
Clare nodded, feeling sick. Stephen did not notice the nod.
“Besides,” he said, “there are people behind us trying to get out of a radiation zone. It would be wrong to hold everyone up. We’re making little enough progress as it is.” He looked at her. “And there’s the baby to consider.”
Progress, however, continued at a minimal rate, and soon the queue moved so slowly that they could not manage to stay even in second gear for more than a few metres at a stretch. Stephen eyed the temperature gauge with a worried frown; the needle was just a fraction off the red. Why had he kept putting off getting the car serviced? “I don’t think we’re going to get very much further, love,” he said.
“Why? Is anything wrong?"
“Not yet. But we could be stuck soon if we can’t give the engine an opportunity to cool down. Ten to one that’s one reason we’re getting nowhere - probably somebody up ahead has a radiator that’s boiled dry.”
“Maybe we should take the next exit,” suggested Clare. “We might find things are easier on the country roads.”
“Hm. Anything would be better than this, I suppose.” Stephen signalled left, trying to get onto the hard shoulder, which was just as clogged as the carriageway itself; after a minute or so, someone grudgingly made a space for him, and he moved over. “Let’s hope there are no parked cars ahead,” he muttered. On reflection, his opinion was probably not; though movement was slowest of all along the edge of the motorway, it was at least perceptible.
Eventually, the slip road came up; and though lots of other drivers appeared to have had the same idea as themselves, there was a sense of relief as the traffic thinned out enough for them to get up to second gear for a short spell.
They travelled once around the roundabout to see where most other people were going, then chose the least popular exit. Then, at the earliest opportunity, they turned onto a side road that looked as if it had some prospect of presently leading Northward (they ignored all the road signs for Northern destinations; these presumably directed drivers back towards the motorway).
They were encouraged by the sight of a lengthy stretch of open (though uneven) road ahead of them; Stephen could not resist accelerating strongly despite the tooth-rattling jolts which hit them every time they went over a hole or a bump in the asphalt. Then the road began to twist and turn, and they had to slow down again.
A few miles on, they passed a sign for a little town neither of them had heard of, which was obviously no help towards getting their bearings.
A little beyond the sign, the road became a series of switchbacks, some with treacherously sharp curves at unexpected points. It was as they were coming out of one especially bad right turn at the bottom of a hill that they met the gunman.
He stood squarely in their path, pointing a rifle at them.
Stephen’s first instinct was to swerve around the gunman and accelerate away. But in an instant, he realised it was impossible; the road was too narrow, the hill immediately ahead was too steep, and they had lost all their momentum going around the corner. In the time it would take him to select a lower gear, the gunman could quite easily squeeze the trigger. Stephen slammed on the brakes and came to a stop so close to the jaywalker that the latter had to jump back a few steps.
Stephen turned to his wife. “Are you all right?"
Clare nodded, though her face was swiftly draining of all colour. “I think so.”
The gunman approached them cautiously, keeping the rifle trained on them. He signalled to Stephen to get out. “I need your car,” he said. “It’s an emergency. No sudden moves!” he snapped as Stephen stepped out rather too quickly. The gunman ducked his head and told Clare: “Come on, you too -” then he broke off as he noticed she was pregnant. “Wait a minute.” He paused, considering something. “You got long to go?"
“Four weeks,” said Clare.
The gunman grunted, and turned to Stephen. “You got any other weans?"
“No,” said Stephen, bewildered.
“You been to those classes?” asked the gunman, gesturing towards Clare.
“Classes?"
“The classes!” said the gunman impatiently, this time pointing the gun towards Clare’s bump. “Y’know. The classes!"
Stephen realised then what the man meant, though he still couldn’t see the point of the conversation. He nodded.
“Good,” said the gunman. “Open the back door. You get back in the driver’s seat and drive where I tell you to. And no tricks or I’ll blow her head off.”
Stephen swore under his breath, wishing he’d had the nerve to have driven right over this character the moment he’d stepped into view. “Look,” growled Stephen, “it’s obvious you need our help for something. But I can tell you this. If you cause the slightest harm to my wife, you’ll get nothing from me. Do you hear? Nothing!"
The rifle swung to point at Stephen. “Shut up and get in. Go on!” The gunman shook the weapon threateningly. “Get in!"
As they moved off, the business end of the rifle rested on the back of Clare’s seat only an inch or two from her head. Her face was ghostly white now, but when she spoke, it was with a dece
ptively natural tone: “What do you want from us?"
The gunman debated with himself for a moment, then replied: “My wife’s about to give birth, and - I think something might be wrong. I don’t know enough about what I’m supposed to do. There’ve been no phones, no doctors, since -” he stopped; he seemed to have no idea of the date or the time.
Stephen laughed bitterly. “You think we’re experts? We just told you, this is our first -”
“You’ve been to the classes, haven’t you?"
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean -”
“Then you know a whole lot more about it than I do!” the gunman screamed suddenly. “Just shut up, okay? I know you’re not doctors, but you’re all I’ve got. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Stephen glanced at him in the rear-view mirror, beginning to realise for the first time just how close to the edge this man really was. Their passenger’s eyes flicked back and forth as if he was trying to take in everything before him, yet not really managing to see any of it; and he rocked on his seat as if he could somehow by the motion lend the car a little more forward momentum. Stephen wondered whether he might be high on something.
“Take the next left,” said the gunman.
Stephen obeyed; and they found themselves on a looped driveway in front of a fine old house which had been hidden from their view by a row of pines.
“Pull up by the door.”
Stephen drew in a breath, ready to begin arguing with him again, then thought better of it. Perhaps I won’t have to, he hoped. Probably nature had taken its course, and the baby had been born without any fuss while its father had been away.
“Okay, you,” the gunman told him. “You’re coming with me.” He turned to Clare guiltily. “You’ll get him back when it’s all over. And don’t even think about doing anything stupid. If I hear the sound of the engine, I’ll kill him.”
The two men got out of the car, cautious tension in their every movement, so that they looked almost as if they were performing some kind of ritual dance. The gunman threw Stephen a key, startling him, and gestured towards the door. “Open it.”
Stephen did so, and they went inside. Clare caught a glimpse of a big hallway with a broad staircase off to one side before the door shut again; the gunman would have no problem covering Stephen’s movements. Separating them did not seem to be the slip-up she had thought it would be; the rifle could be trained on her husband all the time now, and she could do nothing at all to help him.
She stared at the door, and was quickly considering and rejecting a succession of unworkable ideas such as climbing in through a ground floor window, going upstairs and helping her husband overpower the villain like some plucky heroine from a Hollywood movie (Ha! I can just about climb in and out of the car!), when a sharp twinge in her abdomen brought things more crisply into focus. She offered up a prayer that her own labour had not been prematurely induced; if that was the case, she would have to get into the house to Stephen, no matter what dire consequences had been threatened.
On the other hand, having a baby in the presence of someone who couldn’t make up his mind whether to shoot you or your husband was hardly ideal. With typically female pragmatism, Clare decided to proceed on the assumption that Stephen would be returning to the car shortly, since no other option was acceptable. She did concede that a quick getaway might be necessary, though, so with much puffing and grunting, she struggled over the gearstick and handbrake and settled into place behind the steering wheel.
A long cry that she did not immediately recognise as a wail of anguish set off another muscle spasm. She heard the rapid thuds of feet on stairs, and someone howling: “Your fault! Your fault! If only you’d been here sooner -” Then the front door swung violently open, and Stephen was scrambling out, trying to avoid being hit as the door sprang back against him. Then everything seemed to go slomo.
“Start the car!” he yelled at her.
“Your fault!” screamed Eric Reeve, and a tremendously loud crack made Clare scream too. Stephen seemed to leap forward as if someone had pushed him vigorously from behind; there was a look of startlement on his face, (and, Clare was convinced afterwards, disappointment,) then he went down, too close to the car for her to see anything of him but his feet sprawled on the doorstep, her view obscured slightly by a fine mist of his blood on the glass of the passenger side window.
A moment later, Reeve appeared in the doorway. Almost smothered by her horror and panic, she fumbled with the ignition, but somehow kept failing to grasp the key properly. Reeve’s rifle swung around to point at her with the slowness of giant artillery; then he took a half-step towards her.
Time sped up again.
From nowhere, something sleek and black pounced on him. It moved far too fast for her to get a good view of it, but before Reeve’s struggles with the animal caused both him and it to tumble into the car mirror’s blind spot, Clare saw plainly enough that it was not a dog.
There was another blast from the gun, and at that instant, Clare’s fingers found the ignition key. The car started immediately; without really thinking about what she was doing, she slammed it into first gear and gunned the engine. Tyres squealing, the car roared away from the house, out onto the road.
She had only driven a mile when tear-blurred vision and frighteningly intense contractions necessitated a stop. She stamped on the brake pedal, and the car came to rest askew in the road with the driver hunched over the steering wheel.
No, she thought. This can’t be happening. Not here. Not now.
But it was.
She presently named the baby Martin Stephen Latimer, after her late father and late husband.
*****
“You’re sure about this?”
“As sure as anyone can be, Dad. Those posters are sending out a pretty clear message, and they’re all over the place. I’m surprised you haven’t seen one yourself. And that guy at the relief centre -”
“If he really had done it - even if the whole thing is some sort of spoof - if it leads to murder, something has to be done.”
“Like what? You’re not thinking of blowing the whistle, are you?”
“That would seem to be the logical next step, Michael.”
“Dad, if it has official sanction, the first person you tell will just pass your name along to someone with a gun!”
“Son, give me credit for having some sense. I’m not going to talk to a Policeman or some government official. I’ll try somebody like a journalist first.”
“I’m worried about you. You’ll be putting yourself into a very vulnerable position.”
“My position is stronger than it looks. I’m not exactly famous, but I have a higher profile than Joe Public. I’ll kick up as big a stink as I can, and if my body turns up in a ditch after that, people will know that something ugly is happening. The Dirty Tricks Department won’t chance it. It’ll put them under the spotlight -”
“Dad, this is stupid! They don’t have to kill you; they can make you just disappear! And anyway, with so many dead bodies about, who’s going to ask questions about one more?”
“Um, you will, I hope!”
“- and as for having a high profile, doesn’t that make you even more of a target for people chasing reward money?”
“Michael, you’ve got to have faith. I won’t try to tell you that everything will be alright, because I don’t know whether that’s so. But we’ve all got to do what we believe is right, and if that means my number will shortly be up, well - we’ve all got to go sometime.”
“Dad! Will you at least promise me that you’ll move out? You can’t just sit there and wait for them to come and get you.”
“Uh, speaking of moving, what are you going to do? Where will you go?”
“I’m not sure. I was talking to some of the Fellowship before this developed, and they think West might be a good direction; Fermanagh, or maybe across the border.”
“I have a feeling you won’t be allowed to cross. Listen, I have a better idea.
Hide out with your friends for a few weeks; if everything settles back to normal, great. But if not, there’s someone I’d like you to contact. His name’s Philip Allen. He’s a decent Christian man, but he’s very quiet, keeps himself to himself - he hardly exchanges two words with his neighbours in a week, and he’s been involved in almost nothing out-and-out evangelical for as long as I’ve known him, so he should have a very low profile with the bounty hunters. But I happen to know he has a particular interest in what might be called the underground church. He’s the perfect man to handle a situation like the one that might be developing here. Have you got a pen? Here’s the address - I’m pretty sure it’s still standing-”
“Sorry, what’s that name again?”
“Doctor Philip Allen.”
*****
As soon as the flash died away, Lemuel Page realised what was happening. Oblivious to the pandemonium he could hear outside - rumblings, smashing noises, gunshots and screams - he continued steadfastly on his knees, praying as he waited to be taken supernaturally from the Earth.
He waited in vain; and after five hours of resisting doubts, he cautiously admitted to himself the possibility that the events of the past morning may not have fitted just where he thought they would into his neat and tidy eschatology.
But where had he gone wrong? Was it some unconfessed sin, perhaps? Surely not. He knew he was saved. He knew he was born again. He couldn’t have been left behind.
Well, then: why hadn’t the Rapture happened? Could the half-heretical opinions of the likes of John Andrews be correct, after all? Maybe there were another seven years to wait - or perhaps three and a half - or...
He took his Bible off the bedside table and thumbed through it desperately, hoping some verse would leap off the page at him. But it was no good; they all had something to say, and it was a serious mistake to ignore any of them. He should know; he had preached on this very subject recently.
Fanatics: Zero Tolerance Page 7
