Fanatics: Zero Tolerance

by Ferguson, David J.

  He closed the Bible with a snap, stood up, and began to pace the room. He tried to approach the thing from the start again. He was sure the Rapture hadn’t happened. It couldn’t have; he would have been taken. So, this was obviously the wrong time for it. He had been wrong to attach it to a particular secular event - why should World War Three kick everything off? Why not World War Four, or Five, or even Six? He had been guilty of ignoring his Bible: ...wars and rumours of wars... but the end is not yet.

  He fell to his knees again, crying to God for help. Concerning how many other things could he have been utterly wrong? He had spent his life painstakingly assembling the hardest jigsaw puzzle of all, and had finished up with a picture that was nothing like what was unfolding just now. What was the point of it all? Never mind trying to sift through the details; perhaps the very notion of trying to discern the outline of events - some sort of timetable of the end days - was a mistake. Yet why had God strewn so much information about the topic throughout the Bible if people weren’t meant to study it? Why would He couch His words in such a way as to obstruct any clear understanding of them? It made no sense!

  He opened his Bible again and his eye fell on the verse which spoke of how the Holy Spirit would “bring all things to remembrance”; and suddenly, in a flash of inspiration, it came to him.

  A passage in one of Paul’s letters indicated that, in the end times, there would come what seemed like indisputable proof that Christianity - in fact, all the old religions - were frauds all along. A new, apparently rock-solid source of authority would refute all the old authorities with incontrovertible proofs, and “deceive, if possible, the very Elect.”

  At that point, Believers would begin to remember (as if God had whispered a reminder in their ears) that they had been warned about these things; they would recall the obscure parts of the Bible and say to themselves, “So that’s what it means!"

  But - and here is the crux, thought Page - those things will not become clear until then.

  Now, Page thought with a thrill of excitement, if only there was a leader, a voice that could explain all of this to the people...

  His spirits fell again as quickly as they has risen. He had already tried to fill that role, and failed. There was no way he could recover from having been discredited so completely. By now, thousands had bitterly discovered how wrongly he had taught them; they would not believe him if he told them that snow was white and crows were black.

  It took him another hour to summon up the courage to do what he believed must be done.

  He hung himself.

  *****

  Carson did not see the body until it was too late to back away discreetly. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to approach the old house by dandering along the broad curve of its driveway instead of obliquely, through the abundant cover of the trees and shrubs choking everything else in the garden; now he was completely exposed to the view of whoever had killed the fellow in front of him.

  His heart racing, he scanned the windows of the house, trying to see whether anyone was watching, then glanced around at ground level, every sense alert for the least hint of any threatening movement.

  Holding his breath, he heard something he had not been aware of a moment before: the laboured respiration of the person lying before him.

  The man lay in a vague approximation of the recovery position, in an amazingly large puddle of blood; Carson had not imagined there could be so much in one person. There was a wound in his back that did not seem big enough to account for the virtual swamping of his body, and from it little red bubbles were being sluggishly pumped. There was clearly no point, though, in trying to administer first aid; he would not be alive for very much longer.

  Carson moved forward to where the edge of the puddle seeped away into the gravel of the drive, and crouched down, trying to see whether there was any awareness left in his eyes. He almost knelt on fingers which, by the look of them, had been run over by a car’s wheels. The man’s eyes were rolled right back in their sockets; it was evident that Carson would get no helpful hints about who or what he should watch out for.

  He looked again at the wound in the fellow’s back. He was no expert, but it looked to him like a bullet hole. The massive blood loss was presumably from an exit wound much bigger and more ragged, but Carson could not manage to see one, and felt little inclination to step into the pool to examine the dying man more closely.

  There was definitely something wrong with this picture, though; there was far too much blood. Think, he told himself, think. One body, but enough blood for two... Yes; whoever had done this was still around, and would shortly be back to dispose of the remaining body.

  Carson stood again, and was suddenly aware that the gravel under his feet was crunching all too audibly. He crept on tiptoes towards the open front door, unable to avoid stepping in a half-congealed pool of red, and the reaction of his unruly stomach to this almost caused him to miss the footprints inside the doorway.

  The sensible thing to do at this point would surely have been to turn and retreat into the nearest bank of shrubbery, since the killer was bound to be in the house; but a shockingly indiscreet rustling of leaves like someone brushing carelessly against a hedge somewhere nearby made Carson freeze for a moment. Walking as if on eggshells, he went into the house, trying to look in every direction at once.

  It was a lot dimmer inside; though even before his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he could make out a little of the detail around him, as slim wedges of light were breaking through the open doorways to his left and right. He could hear no movement except his own, and holding his breath, squinted through the gap at the hinges of every door he passed.

  The last door was the kitchen. He pushed the door open very gently, flooding the hallway behind him with light, and leant forward just far enough to satisfy himself that it was empty. A rather stale-looking loaf and a block of butter on a saucer caught his attention, reminding him he had not eaten since before the Big One; but his stomach rolled unpleasantly at the thought, and he had to lean back against the doorpost with his eyes closed until the queasiness eased off. He didn’t really need food, he thought; what he really needed was to lie down for half an hour. He was sure he’d feel better after a bit of kip. He hadn’t rested properly since... Since...

  A muffled noise snapped him back to alertness. What on Earth was he thinking of? How could he have forgotten that his life might be in danger?

  He moved carefully back to the foot of the stairs and took the first step, thinking uneasily about what had happened to the detective Arbogast in Norman Bates’s house and wondering why he was being stupid enough to follow suit. After a moment, he remembered: he couldn’t properly avoid the murderer if he didn’t know where he was. He had to find out, didn’t he?

  Almost halfway up, it occurred to him that the stairs in the middle always squeaked. The only houses where middle stairs don’t squeak are bungalows; no matter how young or how old the house, everyone knows that if you come home very late and don’t want to disturb anybody, you either sleep on the sofa or step over the middle of the staircase. So, balancing himself carefully, Carson took a very long step over the next three stairs. He took hold of the banister and pulled himself up. The tread bowed perceptibly and gave a horrendous creak.

  For an instant, Carson considered running for it, but something made him hesitate instead, and in the end he just froze and waited to be caught.

  To his surprise and relief, no-one emerged from the shadows at the top of the stairs. For a moment he could have sworn he had heard the smallest of thuds coming from somewhere upstairs; then he decided that it - and the first sound, too - must have been birds or rats moving in the roofspace. If someone was going to attack him they’d surely have done it by now.

  Upstairs, the same gloom prevailed as below: doors were shut and the landing curtains were drawn. Carson tried the nearest door and found the box-room, undecorated and filled with all kinds of clutter. The next was the bathroom.
The one after that was a nursery; it seemed to be pristine, so clearly the Happy Event had yet to transpire when the mother-to-be had vacated the house. Carson wondered whether she had made it to some safe haven before chaos descended; a heavily pregnant woman on the road just now would be in a pretty pickle.

  The next door opened onto a room that was nearly as characterless as a hotel room; it was obviously the spare. Carson shuffled in and tumbled onto the bed. The springs squawked and twanged. I’ll have to complain to the management about this when I wake up, he thought, and knew no more.

  *****

  Tony Bannister picked up the shotgun, trying not to get blood on his hands. He didn’t know much about guns, and wouldn’t really have felt comfortable with this one, even if it hadn’t been fouled by dollops of blood; but he knew that many people out there would be itching to acquire something like this just now, so even if he had no use for it himself, it could still earn him a tidy profit, or at least favours. Tony was a man who kept his ear to the ground, and a sharp eye out for opportunities; every instinct told him that there were some big battles looming. Even if he was wrong, though, there were still any number of folks taking a belated interest in survivalism; anybody selling weapons would have queues of customers.

  He was rummaging through the dead man’s pockets for shotgun shells when he heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel. He briefly considered waiting to see who was approaching, then thought better of it, and hopped over the body into the house. He realised that he might be walking straight into the killer by doing this, but it didn’t trouble him; he was the one with the gun. That it might or might not be loaded didn’t matter. He had a talent for bluffing. He ran up the stairs, taking them three at a time, and without hesitating, headed for the furthest bedroom.

  It was occupied by a sleeping pregnant woman.

  Holding the gun with one hand, he approached her slowly. When he was by her head, he clamped his hand over her mouth firmly enough and suddenly enough to wake her up. “Don’t move,” he said in a low voice as he watched the door. “I’m not going to harm you.” She didn’t budge.

  He was just about to shake her when he realised that her face felt very cool and damp. He looked at her again. Her eyes were still shut. He could not feel her breath against his palm. He snatched his hand away, exhaling sharply, stumbling back against the nearest wall, his composure momentarily cracking to the point where he was a whisker away from screaming. His knees felt as if they were made of rubber. He wiped his hand on the leg of his jeans, trying not to retch.

  A sound from downstairs, near the front door, brought him to himself once again. He was not together enough yet to talk his way out of difficulty; he realised he would simply have to hide until whoever it was had gone. His options were extremely limited: either in the old wardrobe on the other side of the room, or under the bed. He dismissed the wardrobe instantly; it could become his coffin if it’s door snapped shut too firmly. He lowered himself to the floor as quietly as he could and wriggled under the bed, trying not to churn up the little knots of fluff more than he could avoid.

  Just then, the stairs groaned loudly; he lay still, holding his breath and listening for the sound of footsteps. Finally he had to breathe in. The musty smell of the mattress and the dusty vinyl flooring was very strong; Tony felt he must sneeze at any moment.

  He became morbidly aware again of the dead body lying only inches above him, and he remembered how as a child, lying in bed with only the faint light from the streetlamp outside his window to illuminate his room, he used to imagine there was a monster under his bed. Now the positions were reversed; at any moment a hook-fingered hand might be slowly lowered over the edge of the bed, then suddenly clutch at his foot, digging its claw-like nails into his ankle...

  He pinched his nose and convulsed in a silent sneeze; his ears popped painfully, and high-pitched tinnitus whined unpleasantly. He could not tell whether he had made any noise himself, and lay still again, trying to hear whether anyone was moving towards the room.

  Suddenly, a noise like a bagful of cats being sat on came from the other side of the wall that the wardrobe stood in front of. If the mattress had not been immediately above him, Tony would have sat up straight.

  He decided he’d had enough of waiting. He got to his feet, and holding the shotgun like a club, crept out of the room. The doorway to the next room was slightly ajar; standing well back, he pushed it fully open with the handle of the gun. The action was greeted with no pistol or rifle shot; no-one armed with knives leapt out ferociously and attacked him. He leant forward slowly and peered in.

  The young man sprawled on the bed was not dead, but if Tony was any judge of such matters, it would not be very long before he was. He looked as if he’d been left in the Sahara to bake for three or four days. Tony guessed he’d had a pretty strong dose of radiation; he must have been quite close to Ground Zero.

  Tony relaxed, letting his makeshift club fall and even managing to smile at himself. He took a deep breath and donned his ultra-cool personality again like a garment. There was no threat here that he could not handle. He brushed the dust off his clothes while he considered what to do next.

  Shells, of course. That was it. He had to find the shotgun shells; not to mention whatever else might possibly turn a nice profit. He stopped brushing his jeans and frowned. A suit of decent clothes might not go amiss; he made a mental note to keep an eye out for something suitably suave. It would help his image as a fixer, somebody who could get things, and get things done. Even if you’re a natural (and he was convinced he was), image is everything; when they’re deciding whether to trust you, customers don’t have anything to go on but what you look like. If he didn’t find a good suit here, he would get it somewhere else. A real Mr Fixit could hardly fail to fix it for himself, now could he?

  *****

  Anyone who felt inclined to turn on their television set at this time (provided it was still in one piece, and provided they still had a power supply) would have been greeted by words across their screen which read as follows: “We apologise for the interruption to normal services, which are suspended until further notice. News bulletins every hour on the hour (sound only).”

  The subtext, of course, was plain enough to everyone: Who would want to watch TV at a time like this, anyway? And we couldn’t go on the air even if we wanted to - most of our staff are too busy trying to find out if their relatives and friends are alive or dead or somewhere in between.

  And apart from that, we’re having technical problems, ha-ha. Virtually all of our studios unfortunately seem to have been demolished - apart from this one, of course. We’re afraid your licence fee will probably go up substantially next year.

  *****

  The radio is a different matter. Keep pressing the search button; you never know what you’ll find...

  - Current affairs (what else?) “Well of course it was the Libyans! And I’m not bigoted, it’s just that everyone else is wrong.”

  - A deejay who’s just announced his intention to commit suicide on the air. (As if the prevailing atmosphere of nuclear destruction wasn’t bad enough, his wife has left him for another man.) He’s chosen, as a sort of epitaph, an album track from a very noisy group called Nuclear Assault.

  - A phone-in on the topic: “In the light of recent events, do we believe the bomb should be banned?” Surprisingly, considering the general state of things, particularly the telephone network, a fairly large number of people have responded. The last caller’s opinion was that the bomb should be kept in reserve “for the producers of stupid programmes like this one”.

  - A continuous high-pitched whine which means All broadcasts suspended until further notice.

  Wait, turn the dial the other way again -

  - The suicide deejay has apparently lost his nerve. On hearing him still around to introduce the next song, rather a lot of listeners become incensed and the station’s switchboard is flooded with complaints about a joke that was in very bad taste. “Isn’t an
yone glad to hear I’ve changed my mind?"

  - Let’s try the phone-in again. The producers here seem to have made quite a scoop, for well-known local author John Andrews has contacted the station with word of something which, in other circumstances, would certainly jump straight to the top of the news agenda.

  “Are you certain? Are you serious?” the talk show host asks. “The Government are actually paying people bounty money to kill Lemmings?”

  “Excellent idea if you ask me,” says the show’s resident pundit before John Andrews can reply. “If only it was true -”

  “Look,” says John, “this is far too important to make jokes about -”

  “Who says I’m joking?” says the pundit. “It’s all their fault - all of this. Well, I say let them rush towards the cliff edge, and if the fall doesn’t kill them, let them try again if they like. But they’re not dragging the rest of us down with them. I don’t want to be a Lemming, tearing headlong towards the world’s end. I frankly don’t care what happens to them, and I don’t think many other people do, either. We’ve all lost too much to care what happens to some suicidal bunch of hate-filled fanatics.”

  “Some pretty strong words there,” says the host, wondering if a lawsuit is imminent. “What do you say to that, John? John? Can you hear me? Well, we seem to have lost contact with John Andrews for the moment, but if -”

  “John isn’t well,” says a new voice on the telephone line. “He can’t talk any more.”

  “Sorry, who’s this?”

  “There’s been a seizure.” In the background, there is a muffled noise like someone choking back laughter.

  “He’s had a seizure? Wow, dreadful. Well, we’re all very sorry to hear that. Let’s all hope it’s not serious and that John gets better soon. Um, is an ambulance on the way? Perhaps you should hang up now and ring for one.”