Fanatics: Zero Tolerance (3 page)

*****

It was a peculiar thing (thought Mark Lindsay, the lead singer) trying to ignore the crowd of people making you nervous, and simultaneously trying to connect with them as a singer was supposed to do; and certainly unfriendly faces, like that of the woman he had only just noticed up there on the pavement, did not help him to relax. He looked towards the place where his girlfriend Ellen was sitting, and right on cue, she gave him an encouraging (and only slightly insincere) “My hero” smile. She grimaced suddenly and jabbed a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the harpy watching them; Mark grinned at the mimicry and began singing, and
found the words came to him just as they were needed:

Last night I had a vision

I saw the strangest scene

I spoke to someone near me, I said

“What’s this all mean?"

He said

“Say goodbye to your family

“Say goodbye to your friends

“Say goodbye to your lover

“This is where it ends

“Don’t you know,

“Don’t you know this i
s Judgment Day?"

*****

“
THE END OF THE WORLD - people have been predicting this for thousands of years, and even more loudly since the invention of nuclear weapons. It’ll not be a crazed megalomaniac who sets the ball rolling, though. I reckon it’ll be a religious fanatic. Don’t they look forward to the last days? Aren’t they the suicide bombers?”

- 
from “Instant Wisdom” by G.C. Campbell.

*****

“Green light,” said the Bossman.

His underlings looked at him, grey-faced. “You mean - with The Stuff?” one of them croaked.

“Yes,” said the Bossman, imitating his subordinate's timid tone of voice, “The Stuff.”

“But -” This timid-sounding underling was not actually a coward; he had done as many dangerous things for The Cause as anyone present. His real problem - the thing that made him sound rabbit-hearted - was simply that he understood better than anyone present what The Stuff could do. “How much time do we have?”

“Hard to say,” said his lion-hearted Bossman. “We don't know when they're going to use theirs.” The word was not emphasised, but everyone heard it as if it had been:
when,
not
if.

“So we have to get in there first,” said someone else. There were nods all round.

“How much time will we have to move our families?” asked Rabbit-heart.

“You can't move them,” snapped Lion-heart. “We can't afford to give the Peelers the least clue about what's going down here. Besides, you can't know that you'd be moving them somewhere safe; we're not a hundred percent
certain where they've got their thing stashed.”

One of the others chuckled, shaking his head. “It's too bad. The wife would love to hear about this. She'd want to know why we hadn't used it a lot sooner! We're finally going to give them the kicking they deserve!”

Lion-heart's grim expression relaxed until it was almost a smile. “I know how you feel. I’d love to stand on a rooftop somewhere when the big moment comes and yell
‘Slap it into ye!’
But the time to shout will be afterwards. Keep a lid on it, okay?”

*****

The Wife (and one or two other wives, as well) presently got to hear about the so-called green light, as certain people could not resist the impulse to become flap-jawed - not that they were grassing or anything, you understand; it’s just that while it’s nice to be in the know, you don’t gain any
kudos
if you can’t boast about it a bit.

In most cases, The Wife did not react with the anticipated enthusiasm, and a blazing row ensued; one or two wives had to be physically restrained from gathering up their children, hastily packing a few suitcases, and bundling the lot in the family car.

One Mister Flapjaw eventually persuaded his wife not to head for the hills after twenty minutes of cajoling, threatening, some misdirection, and a liberal sprinkling of little white lies: the green light didn’t mean anything was going to happen, it was just a threat, nobody was going to detonate anything, the other lot just had to be faced down - yes, of course they would cave in! They were cowards, weren’t they? Everybody knew what they were like - no, the bomb wasn’t kept anywhere near here, what did she take him for? Did she really think he would stand by and do nothing if his own family were in that kind of danger?

Nineteen-year-old Carson Rodden sat out of sight on the stairs straining to hear his aunt and uncle going over all of this. He did not have his aunt’s inclination to give his uncle a fair hearing, for though he could not make out every word, he could hear his uncle’s tone clearly enough, and something about it told Carson that he was h
earing white lies, and they didn’t sound particularly
little
at all.

*****

Mick Rock was within five minutes of killing the Antichrist.

At least, he was reasonably sure that he was. There was always the possibility that he might throw it all away simply by virtue of being who he was: a man of straw, who at this moment felt deeply unworthy of the privilege being accorded him. His system was flooded with adrenalin, and he had more than a creeping doubt that he would be able to keep the rifle steady enough when the crucial moment came.

He reassured himself with the thought that he had to be the right person for the job; he was chosen by God, and God does not make mistakes. God’s hand was upon him.

God’s hand was upon everything that led up to this moment: the “coincidence” that led him to book a holiday in France at the same time as the Versailles summit, the extraordinary ease with which he had acquired the rifle from a local source when he knew the language hardly at all, the amazingly lax security around the Antichrist which allowed Mick to quite easily hire a room for the day overlooking the front of the hotel where the Beast was staying - all of it was providential. Mick could not believe otherwise. But to be the one whos
e finger pulled the trigger was still a heavy weight of responsibility for an ordinary man to bear.

He relaxed from his marksman’s posture just long enough to wipe his brow with the back of one unsteady hand, then returned his eye to the rifle’s telescopic sight. A handful of anonymously dressed men with crew-cut hair were clearing people away from the steps of the hotel where the Beast was staying; he was presumably about to make an appearance. For the hundredth time, Mick began taking deep breaths to calm
himself. The moment must be very close now.

A couple of limousines pulled up at the kerb in front of the hotel. He ignored them, keeping his eye on the lobby doors.

Then, suddenly, the Antichrist was there, a sitting duck as he stood posing for the camera corps that followed him everywhere. Mick held the gun as steady as he could and, trying not to rush, took aim. Before he could shoot, though, the Beast began walking down the steps towards the cars. One of his flunkies, moving with him, obstructed Mick’s aim; Mick moved the crosshairs up from a position over the Beast’s heart to his head.

As the Antichrist reached his limousine and began bowing to get in, Mick Rock squeezed the trigger.
His target spasmed and fell into the car like a rag doll, leaving only his feet showing.

Mick grinned, mostly out of a sense of relief that he had actually done the job, but also at the dismay of the Beast’s flunkies, who began scurrying about frantically trying to figure out what they were supposed to do now. He could not resist standing up before the window and yelling: “Tomorrow belongs to us!"

Seven bullets coming from as many different directions immediately punched into him like staples through paper. The Beast’s security was not as lax as he had thought after all.

*****

The switchboard at the headquarters of the Christian Democratic Party was, naturally, jammed by calls from journalists immediately following the Paris incident. The first few interviews went like this:

“Was Michael Rock a Party member?"

“He is on our files as a member, yes.”

“What’s your reaction to the news of what he’s just done?"

“Well, we dissociate ourselves from it completely, of course.”

“Aren’t you shocked by the news?"

“We very much regret it, and we’d like to say that our thoughts are very much with Lewis McDonald’s immediate family at this time. However, we have to point out that Mr McDonald wasn’t the universally popular figure the media has consistently painted him as being. In some quarters his policies (and indeed the man himself) have been very deeply resented in a way that no-one has fully appreciated. So I have to admit that this development has seemed almost inevitable to many people.”

The junior party official who expressed these rather too-frank opinions was replaced a few phone calls later by someone with more tact and experience at handling this sort of thing; but the damage had been done. Evening editions of newspapers reported in outraged tones that according to the CD party, McDonald “had it coming”, and even a television appearance by
Big Sam - the CD leader, the grim-faced but well-respected Samuel Christie - failed to halt the tidal wave of public censure.

*****

“You really think they’re going to do it?” asked the junior minister. “People like that are always talking big and making threats, aren’t they? Surely it’s just that they have an inflated sense of their own importance. They know they’re the last piece in the Ulster jigsaw.”

“There’s no telling what they’ll do,” said the intelligence officer. “They’re all a bunch of psychos.
The peace dividend means nothing to them.”

“But the possibility they’ll use the stuff can’t be real, can it?” demanded Jun Min. “Surely this is just hot air - they’re trying to intimidate each other-”

“Sir,” said Int Off, “the bombs have been built. There’s no doubt about that. And they’re certainly capable of detonating them, in my judgment.”

“But why now?” wailed Jun Min. “Why now? Just when things were so hopeful -”

“I can’t tell you anything more,” said Int Off in a cold voice that seemed to imply disapproval of his superior’s lack of control. “Our intelligence on this is cast iron.”

Jun Min paced up and down wringing his hands, muttering what might have been prayers or oaths. “If only McDonald wasn’t out of the picture!” he said. He stopped suddenly and announced decisively: “This is too big a matter for someone of my limited authority to handle. I’ll ring Crispin - no, wait - I’ll leave it for another hour. If it all turns out to be a false alarm, it’ll make me look very bad, and if the press should get hold of it -”

“Sir!” said Int Off in a voice that was not far short of a parade-ground bawl, “We cannot afford to waste time! A decision has to be made right now! I need your permission to get a couple of teams in there and take those madmen out before something happens that will make any further consideration of your career profoundly pointless!”

Jun Min retreated before the fire in the other’s face. “Can you do it?” he asked desperately. “Can you get rid of them cleanly?”

“It might already be too late,” said Int Off. “But we’re the only hope there is now.”

“Okay,” said Jun Min. “Do it.” As his subordinate turned to the door, he added: “Wait!”

Int Off hesitated.

“What about the general public? Should I have some kind of warning issued?”

“That,” said Int Off, “is not my problem.
Sir
. If your people have been doing their jobs, there should be procedures worked out in advance for that sort of thing. Whether there are or not - well, how should I know?”

The door slammed.

“Procedures,” said Jun Min to himself. He turned to a row of filing cabinets and opened the bottom drawer of one that was hardly ever touched. He lifted out a folder near the back of the drawer, and a handful of faded leaflets entitled
Protect and Survive
fluttered to the floor.

*****

Barry McCandless went to the same pub the next evening.

The first people he saw as he walked in were the brunette and the redhead, both looking absolutely stunning and both, unfortunately, appearing to recognise him. He did not suppose he could regard their smiles as in any way encouraging.

The first thing he heard, apart from the usual background noise of the pub, was a large number of the clientele joining in a chorus struck up by Tompo of “Shot Down In Flames”.

Barry
turned around and walked straight back out.

*****

Carson Rodden lay on his back in his sleeping bag, watching wisps of cloud drifting across the stars. He had begun the night inside his tent, but a growing feeling of restlessness had driven him out to settle in a hollow in the ground next to the remains of his campfire; being able to see the night sky gave him at least some sense of connection with the rest of the world. He could neither see nor hear the city that was just over the horizon.