A Pagan's Nightmare

by Ray Blackston

  “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.

  9

  THE 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, per
haps 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?”

  Ned pulled his headset back over his ear and checked his altitude. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  They didn’t see me but I saw them. On a Midtown Atlanta sidewalk—Larry and a younger woman.

  They walked side by side, not holding hands but nevertheless very together, each tuned to the other and striding with purpose, as if they were either late for a lunch reservation or out walking for their health. Complementing strides, you might say. I used to walk like that with Angie.

  On this hot clear Thursday, the young woman with the long auburn hair wore a beige skirt just above her knees, and it swayed as she strode and it swayed when she paused and it swayed when she pointed skyward. Something had caught her eye, and Larry stopped beside her and gazed skyward too, as over-interested as any guy trying to impress a girl.

  I was seated across the street at a meat ‘n three, a diner that was the antithesis of hip cafés and coffeehouses, yet had become a gathering spot for artsy types, simply because the food was good. Baked chicken instead of fried. Tenderloin instead of meatloaf. Nine vegetables from which to choose, and mason jars filled with exquisite sweet tea.

  Across the booth from me sat a client. Alec was a mystery writer whose mysteries weren’t mysterious enough. At least not for me to be able to sell one. Though I wanted to end our meeting quickly, I tried to offer appropriate consolation as we discussed the rejections from the seven publishers to whom I had submitted his work.

  “Perhaps it needs just one more thorough rewrite,” I explained. “But keep working. My wife thinks you have talent.” Angie, for reasons unknown to me, believed the guy was gifted.

  Alec left frustrated and downcast, as so many wannabe authors are apt to do, and my parting words were of little consolation. Honesty was my strong suit. No way could I support my family by selling non-mysterious mysteries.

  Alone in the booth now, I craned my neck to see Larry and the young woman in front of an office tower, both in date mode, both peering over the edge of a bricked fountain while trying to avoid the spray. One could not help but wonder how Larry managed the social life he did—if she was indeed his Miran
da, he must have talked a good game.

  I failed to see how a guy could take a girl riding on MARTA for a second date and then manage to arrange a third. But there he went, beside her in his pinstripe slacks and loud pink shirt, the two of them striding like an A-list couple en route to a Broadway premiere.

  We had no appointment for today, but I did have Larry’s cell number. And with Angie giving me the cold shoulder over my representing Larry’s work, I needed to convince myself that I was doing the right thing. With no hesitation at all I dialed Larry’s number and looked out the window. He stopped at the corner of 10th and Juniper, and took the woman by the hand. This time her skirt swayed more violently as she tried to tug him across the intersection. But Larry remained planted on the curb and pressed his phone to his ear.

  “Larry?”

  “That you, Ned?”

  “Yeah. I got some news. You sitting down?”

  “No, Ned. I’m with, you know… the girl.” Larry turned and looked at the sign above the intersection. “We’re, lemme see, we’re at the corner of 10th and Juniper, on our way to dance lessons.”

  “Waltz or Samba?”

  “Swing dance. It’s the greatest. I get to wear 1940s gangster garb. Pinstripe slacks and my pink shirt. You should see me.”

  “Yeah,” I said, peering at him from behind a napkin holder, “wish I could see you.”

  The young woman tried a gentler tug, but Larry remained planted, as if walking and talking were too difficult for him. “So, why ya calling? Hollywood sending numbers? Is that it? I’ll cancel swing if I need to.”

  “No, don’t cancel your dance lessons. I just heard from a studio guy in L.A. And while he hasn’t committed to anything yet, he hinted at my coming out there to talk.”

  “No kiddin’?”

  “No kidding.” I watched him pump his fist in the air, then reach out and hug the young woman. I decided now was a good time to press Larry for answers. “So, Larry, when do I get to meet this girl? You told me she was a brunette and was kinda slender. Sounds like she’d look good in beige.”