Fanatics: Zero Tolerance (10 page)

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
anyone
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.”

“I’ll look after him.”

“Ah.
right. Who are you, by the way? We didn’t catch your name.”

“I’m his neighbour.”

“Right. Right. Okay, then. Isn’t that a marvellous example of how people are pulling together in these difficult times? Wouldn’t things be so much worse if we couldn’t depend on others for help? If you’ve come across what you reckon are outstanding acts of heroism, get on the phone and let us know about them. We’d love to hear
your
story. Remember, this is
your
programme...”

*****

Well, is the world wide web any more use as a source of information? Nah. If anything, it’s even less useful than the TV. Those parts of the internet which are not “down” (on account of computers or telephone lines having been physically blown off the map) are chockablock with lies, speculation, hysterical rubbish, or postings that are shockingly irrelevant or trivial in content; many websites have not been updated since before the first bombs were detonated. See for yourself:

www.belfastmirror.co.uk

The last strands of Lewis McDonald’s solution to the Ulster problem (called by insiders “The Solution”) are set to be revealed later this evening at a press conference in Paris following anticipated good news from the only remaining paramilitary groups not to declare the war officially over. McDonald has delayed the full implementation of The Solution because of these minor players; he wants it to be completely inclusive. The Christian Democrat leader, S.D. Christie, has labelled McDonald “a traitor to the people of Ulster” and claims that his Solution is on a moral par with the Nazis’ Final Solution. “McDonald is a fool if he really believes in the goodwill of terrorists,” said Christie yesterday. “These people will see Ulster destroyed before they’ll give an inch to each other.”

www.thebiz.co.uk
/BigPex

When Lewis McDonald has finished solving the world’s problems, he might address himself to persuading hunky boy band
BigPex to do a concert in Belfast. Everybody else can find time to come here - so what about it, lads? Aren’t Belfast girls good-looking enough for you?

www.basicrights.org.uk/card

The whole notion of an ID card doubling as a
cashcard is a superficially attractive one, but we believe it is deeply flawed. You just can’t do away with cash; the notion is preposterous. The potential for abuse of this system by governments with totalitarian inclinations is horrifying. In any case, swipe cards are far too easily duplicated with the right technology, and the only logical alternative, having barcode markings of some kind on your skin - perhaps on the back of your hand - is deeply objectionable. What happens if your barcode gets obliterated by scars in an accident? Do you lose your life savings? What about people with no hands at all? Are they supposed to put up with an ugly tattoo on their forehead, perhaps?

www.naturalruler.co.uk/ulster

This is just what we’ve been waiting for. This is the big one. Go out and get them! The Army and the Police won’t stop you; they have other fish to fry. Load up your guns! Take the battle onto the streets! Our dead will at last be avenged!

www.32complete.org

The word is that martial law will be imposed shortly - in a matter of hours. Crown forces have been anticipating this, and we have reliable reports that they have been firing on civilians openly, and even carrying out summary executions of innocent Catholics on trumped-up charges of looting and rioting. Be alert. The war has provided them with the perfect excuse for ignoring the letter of the law and bypassing the usual procedures; they are out to get us, and if they catch you, you’re dead.

But don’t despair! Reinforcements are coming. Our day has almost arrived.

*****

As for the telephone network: well, obviously some of it still works, or there couldn’t have been a radio phone-in
... but unfortunately it’s mostly the old-fashioned, non-digital parts; which is to say, hardly any of it. The message
no signal
is as depressingly familiar on mobile phones as the graffiti message
zero tolerance
will shortly become on walls and fences everywhere.

*****

Cahal O’Neill walked steadily towards the border. He expected to be among the first of those who crossed into the haven of the Irish Republic; he was young and fit, unhindered by any slow companions, and had not started from very far away.

He passed lines of cars that were going nowhere; drivers quietly fuming, passengers looking anxious, children fidgeting, screaming, bored, or just asleep; and he gave himself a mental pat on the back for anticipating that taking his car would have been a mistake.

The length of the tailback did not worry him; it meant that the authorities down South were on the ball. Refugees were obviously being stopped and processed - details were being taken, and so forth. Cahal hoped that as a pedestrian he would get to the top of the queue that much more quickly.

He stopped for a moment and took a bottle of cola from his rucksack, rubbing his shoulders where the straps had chafed a little. He guessed he had only half a mile or so to go. He allowed himself a minute’s breather,
then forged ahead at a brisker pace than before.

When at last he came within sight of the border crossing, he discovered
he had been beaten to the finishing post by a substantial crowd. No-one seemed to be moving forward, though; Cahal pressed on, ignoring bad-tempered mutterings about queue-bunkers, hoping for a clearer view of whatever might be causing the hold-up.

Ahead of him, the Irish Army seemed to be present in force; and behind them, and in fields to the left and right, an amazing amount of
materiél was on show: there were landrovers, personnel carriers, armoured cars, and even a handful of articulated lorries carrying tanks on trailers.

A row of soldiers was the thing immediately preventing civilians from moving forward. There appeared to
be negotiations of some kind taking place, however; Cahal braved more curses and threats and shoved ahead until he could hear some of what was going on.