That’s when he spotted the flashing “1” on the answering machine. He pushed the button and saw Monday, 10:22 a.m. on the LCD screen. He listened for the message to play, hoping to hear Miranda’s voice.
Instead he heard her mother.
“Miranda, we’re on our way to the marina to check on your dad’s boat. It’s 10:20 now, and we’ll be back by 10:45 to take you to the airport. There’s some turkey and Swiss cheese in the fridge if you’d like to make a sandwich to take on the plane.”
Lanny saved the message and listened again, hoping to hear something, some background noise, anything, to gain insight. But it was just a normal phone message, one that could have been left by any mother looking out for her daughter.
Hungry, Lanny opened the refrigerator and saw the package of turkey meat. He opened it, sniffed the contents, and decided it had gone bad. He unwrapped a slice of Swiss cheese and ate that instead. He washed it down with a can of Diet Sprite. Four cans of the beverage remained on the bottom shelf. Beside them sat a single bottle of Killian’s Red. Miranda’s favorite.
What now? he wondered. Where do I go next? What’s the smart move?
Lanny found a pen and notebook paper behind the answering machine. He took a sheet and began writing out a note, explaining all he knew. When he’d finished, he searched for Scotch tape and, finding none, retrieved a hammer and small nails from his truck. Before tacking the note to the front door, he added one additional line at the top:
(I want to make sure yon get this, so my apologies for nailing this to your parents’ door.)
Dear Miranda,
I have been searching for you for eight days now. As far as I can tell, the entire country, and possibly the Earth itself. has been taken over by religious zealots. I am holed up in Orlando at Fence-straddler AM Radio. The DJ there, a guy named Ned, is the only other non-religioous person I have met so far. We believe a reward is still being offered for our capture and conversion, so We’re doing the best We can to stay hidden. Sometimes we pose as two of them, but this is difficult, as the rules keep changing. Plus there are WANTED posters all over with onr pictures on them. I have looked everywhere I know to look for you. I even Went to Abaco via plane but you weren’t there. I found your parents’ boat with the name “SANITI” freshly painted on the stern. There was no sign of you. So I went on the air live to ask people to help me find you. No one responded. If yon get this message, drive into Orlando to the radio station and knock on the door. If We are relnctant to open the door, just say the code word: “ABBA.” Ned or I will open the door.
Love,
Lanny
Two minutes after Lanny left the house, the black Lincoln pulled up in the driveway. The driver got out with a tiny camera and took a closeup picture of Lanny’s note. He hurried back to the car, drove to Orlando, and parked across the street from the front door of Fence-Straddler AM.
14
LANNY DROVE ALONG the coastal highway toward Cocoa Beach. Trying again to get his mind off Miranda, he slowed further and tuned his radio to DJ Ned’s radio show.
Ned’s play list was by now to the R’s, and R.E.M.’s “It’s the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)” pulsed through the speakers. Lanny was in no mood to hum along to the chorus, though he could identify with the lyric and could still appreciate original songwriting.
He turned off the radio, however, when he passed a particularly hard hit area. Hurricane Gretchen had pounded this neighborhood, and music seemed inappropriate amid calamity. He thought of the parallels between his own misfortune and natural disasters. More people displaced. Someone else missing a loved one.
Lanny pulled his truck to the shoulder and observed workers moving in and out of a peach-colored beach house. They wore prison uniforms and appeared reluctant, mad even, that they had to repair this wind-damaged residence.
Lanny lowered his window, and the sharp scent of sawdust invaded his truck. That familiar smell! He considered his Religious Howdy T-shirt and thought of posing as a volunteer worker, just to find out why zealots got punished within their own world. But as he watched apathetic workers tote boards across the porch, he noted a sheet of plywood propped against a wall. On it was painted the rule of entry:
Anyone who enters this site must recite to the foreman
the national two-word code phrase. No exceptions!
Lanny pulled his gear shift out of park and drove away. Code phrase? They now have a secret code phrase?
He arrived back at Fence-Straddler AM just before noon, parked in the producer’s spot, climbed out, and pounded on the door. “Ned!” he shouted. “Ned, it’s me. The zealots are punishing their own people now. They even make them recite a national code phrase!”
For a full minute he heard nothing.
He pounded again. “Ned, open up.”
“What’s our own code?”
“ABBA, you moron. Now let me in. We gotta leave this place.”
The door opened, music blared, and without so much as a “hello,” Ned scrambled back to his DJ booth.
“Nope, I gotta load the next batch of songs, Lann-o,” he said over his shoulder.
Lanny practically yanked Ned from his booth—which was a difficult task, given that Ned weighed two-forty. “We need to leave, man. Right now. I just saw a black car parked across the street, and I’m sure I saw that same car following me into Pelican’s Harbor Retirement Homes earlier this morning.”
Ned tossed his headset into his chair and went to his window and peeked out. Then he turned and sized up Lanny as if he were the enemy. “You led them back here to capture me, didn’t you? You’re… you’re now one of them, aren’t you?”
Lanny frowned and shook his head. “You need me to curse again? Drink an alcoholic beverage? No, Ned, I am not one of them. But they know we’re here. And they know you’re not broadcasting from Jacksonville.”
DJ Ned was still not convinced. He folded his arms, glared at Lanny, and came up with a test question. “What music genre did the zealots hit hardest?”
“Disco.”
“Okay, but is dancing wrong?”
Lanny frowned in frustration. “No, man, I love to dance. But not right now. Right now we gotta flee this station. Is there a fire escape out the back?”
Ned peeked out again at the Lincoln two floors below. “No, but there’s a first-floor window in the supply room that faces the opposite way. And my Mercedes is parked on that side, as well.”
Lanny grabbed a couple of canned drinks from the fridge and stuffed them in a plastic grocery sack. “Where do we go… Miami? The Keys?”
Ned kicked off his loafers and quickly slipped his feet into sneakers. “What if we wear dark shades and get lost in the middle of a crowd?”
“What crowd? Where is there a big enough crowd? We should flee to Canada or Mexico.”
“How ‘bout a very large theme park?”
Ned must be deep in denial, Lanny thought. Who else, when being pursued by zealots and having lost their friends, would think of visiting a theme park?
Ned reached into his desk and waved two all-day passes at Lanny. “These were for a giveaway I was going to do on the air. But I figure now we should keep ‘em for ourselves.”
Lanny glanced blank-faced at the tickets. “I can just imagine what that place will be like.”
Ned laced up his sneakers, insisting that his plan was the right plan, that to try to flee the country would be the worse mistake.
Across the street from the front door of Fence-Straddler AM, a second black Lincoln had joined the first. Both cars sat idling, and both drivers scanned the building with binoculars. The driver of the second car spoke into a two-way radio. “When the DJ announces the last song on his list, we rush the building.”
“Ten-four.”
Ned announced over the air that he needed extra time for the W’s—who had lots of hits—and that he’d continue his show for another hour. This was of course a lie; his intention was to flee in the next sixty seconds.
Ned pulled open a second desk drawer marked Promotional Stuff, and brought out two beige T-shirts, both still wrapped in plastic.
“These are blank, Lann-o. We can mark them up any way we like. You said all we have to do to move among them is to wear religious clothing. So, we’ll pose in these.” He tucked one under his arm and tossed the second shirt over his booth.
Lanny caught it, yanked off the plastic, and slipped the shirt over his head. “What if they ask us for that national code phrase?”
“You said that was for prisoners only. Anyway, we’ll plead amnesia. Or we threaten someone until they tell us the phrase.”
Lanny tucked his shirttail into his jeans. “I dunno, man. I have this feeling we should go to Canada or Mexico, anywhere but the South.”
“We hide out in the theme park,” Ned said, pulling his own shirt overhead and leaving the tail hanging over his shorts. “I’ll drive.”
And down to the first floor and out the supply window they went—Ned first, Lanny assisting from behind with a push and a grunt.
They drove away quietly, leaving the two black Lincolns on the other side of the buildling, still watching the front door and Lanny’s Xterra, still tuned to Fence-Straddler AM and bobbing their heads to the Who’s “Who Are You?”
15
EN ROUTE TO THE THEME PARK, Ned whipped his yellow Mercedes into a convenience store parking lot.
“Be right back,” he exhaled. He climbed out before stooping to address Lanny, who had not unbuckled his seatbelt and had no plans to do so. “Just gonna grab a newspaper.”
Still skeptical of Ned’s plan, Lanny lowered his window to get some air. He pulled out his cell phone, called the marina, and asked if anyone had boarded the Saniti. He was told that the boat had not moved since the hurricane.
Lanny’s heart sank. “Thank you,” he said before ending the call.
Ned now had one foot propped on the newspaper stand and appeared to be searching the classified ads. Lanny honked the horn and motioned for him to get going, then he pulled down the sun visor and assessed his face and hair. Wow, I’m haggard! he thought. Miranda wouldn’t even recognize me! I need sleep, peace of mind. What I don’t need is to be accosted by zealots at some theme park.
Lanny honked a second time at Ned before turning his attention to the store next door—a Barnes and Noble. He scanned the store windows and read a poster advertising new books to be released in September:
COMING SOON!
Non-fiction for busy people: Mondays with Marvin
Re-release of Hemingway: A Farewell to Pagans
Lanny turned away in disgust, failing to note the foreboding in that second title. In his quest to find Miranda, he’d paid little attention to himself and his own safety. From the parking lot he saw only the signage that crowded his world. And signs—those stoic little persuaders—were on display everywhere.
“The entire country has become one giant cheeseball,” he muttered to himself.
He watched a gull soar over the bookstore and swoop down to a grassy median. Lanny wished he had some bread to throw, if only because Miranda liked to feed birds.
Ned returned with his paper, sat behind the wheel, and continued searching the ads.
“What are you looking for now,” Lanny asked, “more original music CDs?”
Ned shook his head. “Personal ads, Lann-o. I have a hunch that if any other non-religious people are left in Florida besides us, they might have placed an ad.”
Ned’s index finger slid slowly down the page, through dozens of he-zealots seeking she-zealots, and vice versa. Ned traced down a second column of ads and stopped near the bottom. “Ah, see here, I found one. It says, ‘Handsome Nissan looking for a blue VW.’”
Lanny pointed to his brain, as if urging Ned to think. “That’s my ad, you dufus. I already told you that Miranda drives a 2004 light blue Jetta, and that she and I kid each other that even our cars have a budding romance.”
“No way. You told me that?”
“Sometimes when she drives over to my house in Atlanta she’ll nudge her VW’s bumper against my Xterra’s.”
Ned looked dumbfounded, and could only repeat himself. “No way…”
“Believe me, Ned—if Miranda sees that ad, she’ll know it’s me.”
Ned scanned the rest of the personal ads but found none that weren’t obviously posted by zealots. “So much for my great idea,” he said and cranked the engine. “Let’s go get lost in a crowd, maybe ride a rollercoaster.”
Lanny gave no reply. He was watching the gull again and remembering the good times.
DJ Ned drove swiftly until traffic slowed near the theme park’s entrance. He noticed Lanny’s despondent air and tried to think of something to cheer him up.
“Ya think Senor Toad ever repented of his wild ride?”
Lanny failed to see any humor in the question.
Ned could not contain himself. He was determined to get his new friend out of his funk. “C’mon, Lann-o, it’s not like they’ve changed the name of the place to Deity World.”
“How do you know? It could be Deity World… or even Doomsday World. I just have a feeling that it’s not the world you think it is.”
Ned honked at a slow-moving Audi and motioned for them to get going. “Just be thinking of what we should write on our T-shirts.”
“This is a bad idea, Ned,” Lanny replied. He slumped in his seat, sunglasses covering closed eyes. “Maybe we should turn around.”
Ned would have none of that. He reached over and shook Lanny’s shoulder. “Wake up, man. We’ll just act like one of them, maybe get some inside info on how to survive under their rules.”
Lanny sat up and removed his sunglasses. At first he saw nothing religious other than a few bumper stickers. Perhaps theme parks are exempt, he thought, not realizing that he, too, was edging toward denial. Maybe Ned is right. Maybe this is okay. And what if Miranda is waiting for me at her all-time favorite ride? The one in the dark, inside the mountain. Yeah, that’s where she’d be.
Traffic slowed further, stalled, and began rolling again. Ned and Lanny could see only trees to each side and the long line of vehicles in front and behind.
Yet the closer they rolled, the more nervous Lanny became. Like most people, he was doomed to repeat mistakes from which he failed to learn a lesson. And his mistake—both his and Ned’s mistake, actually—was to not heed the first subtle warning that this idea was a bad one.
The warning looked so innocent at first glance. Just a roadside vendor peddling trinkets and T-shirts. Stationed on Lanny’s side of the road, the gentleman held up his wares for all to see. What Lanny didn’t notice on the shirts was the tiny print under the larger print. Under the name of the theme park were the large words FUN FOR ALL,and underneath that phrase were the teeny tiny words ALL WHO ARE FORTUNATE.
Ned pulled ahead a few feet and glanced right at the T-shirt display. He, too, missed the tiny lettering.
“Lotsa people working to make a buck any way they can,” he muttered, easing past the peddler. Ned produced a magic marker from his shorts and handed it to Lanny. While traffic stalled again, the two wrote “Fun for All” on each other’s blank beige T-shirt.
Lanny unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to check behind them. Nothing suspicious. He looked out both windows. Still nothing. But as Ned rolled forward again, Lanny began shaking. His complexion paled. His palms turned clammy.
“Turn around, Ned,” Lanny demanded. “I’m getting the shakes.”
Ned eased his Mercedes another twenty feet, then ten more, closing in on the parking ticket booth. “I can’t. Traffic has us blocked in. Plus we’re almost to the parking lot.”
“Did you ever swap out your license plates like I told you to?”
“Nah, forgot.”
Ned rolled forward to the booth and showed the ticket taker his two all-day passes.
The young man examined the tickets. “Sorry, sir, these are no longer valid.”
Ned politely disagre
ed. “But they’re not expired—they’re still good. I checked.”
“It’s not the expiration date, sir,” the youngster explained. “Ownership has changed, and Deity World is now invitation only. In fact, you’re trespassing.”
DJ Ned was so mad he could have spit, especially since he had correctly guessed the park’s new name. He shook his head, threw his gearshift into park, and glared at the clerk. “What if I refuse to leave? What if I demand admittance?”
The youngster did not reply in kind. He did not reply at all. This struck Ned as odd, and he sat there staring out his windshield, a fuming customer. What he didn’t see was the clerk pushing the red security button inside his booth.
Neither did Lanny. All Lanny did was lean across the console, meet the gaze of the clerk, and change the subject from park admittance to lost girlfriends. “Listen, man, can anyone here help me locate a Miranda Timms?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but if she’s an unfortunate one, then I have no specific information. Although I can offer a factual tidbit.”
“Go ahead. Shoot,” said Lanny, hoping for an important clue.
The ticket clerk cleared his throat, paused a moment, then spoke as if to a large gathering of geologists. “Only thirty percent of the earth’s surface is covered with land; the other seventy percent is water.”
Huh? Confused, stunned, and downright bewildered, Lanny wanted to ask the clerk to expound on his geographic factoid, but he was distracted by a marching sound from behind the car.
Ned was the first to see the guards in black fatigues. They marched up quickly, three to each side of his Mercedes. One reached to open the driver’s door, and Ned saw the patch on his shirt: EOM: Enforcers of the Movement.
The door opened. “What?!”
A hand on Ned’s arm. “Step out of the car, sir.”
A Pagan's Nightmare Page 11
