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Authors: Ray Blackston
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continental U.S.”
Lanny had no time to chew on such a premise. “Possibly. So, you’ll fly us to Abaco?”
Ned considered the hurricane coming from the west, the zealots overrunning both Florida and his talk show, and now the growing
sound of sirens. “Yeah… I’ll fly us there. But do you even know where to look?”
Lanny cocked his head to the side as if a glimmer of hope had ridden in on Ned’s offer. “I know that her parents’ beach bungalow
is near a lagoon on the east side of the island. Miranda wanted me to visit it this fall.” Lanny jerked open the Mercedes’
passenger door. “How far is the airport?”
Ned was still breathing heavily as he yanked his keys from hispocket. “My plane… It’s in Melbourne… just ten minutes from here.”
They were on the tarmac in eight.
DJ Ned’s plane was a six-passenger Baron, and he revved its twin engines and waited for the runway to clear. Through his radio
he made his first attempt at being a poser—he told Air Traffic Control he was flying a Reverend Hoocher to the Caribbean for
revival services. Air Traffic Control spoke into Ned’s headset, offering to play some special music for him and the Reverend
before granting permission to take off.
Ned declined.
Strapped into the copilot seat, Lanny tried to imagine Abaco on a normal day, Miranda and her parents docking their boat,
perhaps having a drink on the deck. He would not allow himself to think anything but positive thoughts, and he felt proud
to have a girlfriend smart enough to flee zealots.
Ned felt proud of his plane, more proud of his ability to fly it, and prouder still of its sparkling clean interior. While
they sat idling on the runway, he informed Lanny that no carbonated drinks were allowed in the front seats.
Lanny set his plastic bottle of Dr. Pepper in back and sat up straight. Confident that he could now fool zealots, Ned turned
the Baron onto a long straightaway and checked his gauges. Lanny watched limber weeds swaying alongside the tarmac and wondered
if he was doing the right thing. He fought his fear of flying by focusing on his desire to find Miranda.
“I hardly know you, Ned. You a good pilot?”
Ned adjusted his headset and grinned at his passenger. “Relax, man. Don’t you know where the best place to be is when the
zealots take over America?”
“Where?”
Ned pressed the throttle and shouted over the engine noise. “The Bahamas, mon.”
Ned appeared to know what he was doing, and suddenly they were rolling very fast.
Lanny watched the weeds whiz by, then the airport terminal.
The Baron took off and soared over a thicket of palms. Ned banked right and motioned for Lanny to look down out his window.
Along the coastal highway a crew was installing a new billboard for a fast-food chain, one quite famous for its chicken.
KFP: We Do Pagans Right
Lanny’s jaw dropped. “Ned!… They’re wanting to fry us extra-crispy.”
Ned shook his head. “Wrong, Lann-o. They don’t wanna
cook
us. They wanna get us into their store so they can
capture
us.”
Lanny peered down at blue waters for a long while. “Nah, I think they really wanna cook us.”
8
B Y THE TIME NED and Lanny arrived at the entrance to Abaco Marina, neither had spoken another word. They were as quiet and cautious as marines
patrolling a Vietnamese delta.
Before leaving the sidewalk to descend the stairs to the docks, Lanny stepped up on a bench and borrowed Ned’s binoculars.
He scanned first for Miranda, second for
The Miranda.
“I see a billboard advertising Red Stripe beer,” he whispered “That means—”
“Means we’re safe,” Ned replied, stepping aside on the sidewalk to let two bicyclists pass. “But what about the boat you wanted
to find?”
“Can’t tell.” Lanny jumped down from the bench and they hurried down the steps to the entrance.
A kind of calm overcame both men as they walked. Both knew this was largely due to location—the island
Lanny had no time to chew on such a premise. “Possibly. So, you’ll fly us to Abaco?”
Ned considered the hurricane coming from the west, the zealots overrunning both Florida and his talk show, and now the growing
sound of sirens. “Yeah… I’ll fly us there. But do you even know where to look?”
Lanny cocked his head to the side as if a glimmer of hope had ridden in on Ned’s offer. “I know that her parents’ beach bungalow
is near a lagoon on the east side of the island. Miranda wanted me to visit it this fall.” Lanny jerked open the Mercedes’
passenger door. “How far is the airport?”
Ned was still breathing heavily as he yanked his keys from hispocket. “My plane… It’s in Melbourne… just ten minutes from here.”
They were on the tarmac in eight.
DJ Ned’s plane was a six-passenger Baron, and he revved its twin engines and waited for the runway to clear. Through his radio
he made his first attempt at being a poser—he told Air Traffic Control he was flying a Reverend Hoocher to the Caribbean for
revival services. Air Traffic Control spoke into Ned’s headset, offering to play some special music for him and the Reverend
before granting permission to take off.
Ned declined.
Strapped into the copilot seat, Lanny tried to imagine Abaco on a normal day, Miranda and her parents docking their boat,
perhaps having a drink on the deck. He would not allow himself to think anything but positive thoughts, and he felt proud
to have a girlfriend smart enough to flee zealots.
Ned felt proud of his plane, more proud of his ability to fly it, and prouder still of its sparkling clean interior. While
they sat idling on the runway, he informed Lanny that no carbonated drinks were allowed in the front seats.
Lanny set his plastic bottle of Dr. Pepper in back and sat up straight. Confident that he could now fool zealots, Ned turned
the Baron onto a long straightaway and checked his gauges. Lanny watched limber weeds swaying alongside the tarmac and wondered
if he was doing the right thing. He fought his fear of flying by focusing on his desire to find Miranda.
“I hardly know you, Ned. You a good pilot?”
Ned adjusted his headset and grinned at his passenger. “Relax, man. Don’t you know where the best place to be is when the
zealots take over America?”
“Where?”
Ned pressed the throttle and shouted over the engine noise. “The Bahamas, mon.”
Ned appeared to know what he was doing, and suddenly they were rolling very fast.
Lanny watched the weeds whiz by, then the airport terminal.
The Baron took off and soared over a thicket of palms. Ned banked right and motioned for Lanny to look down out his window.
Along the coastal highway a crew was installing a new billboard for a fast-food chain, one quite famous for its chicken.
KFP: We Do Pagans Right
Lanny’s jaw dropped. “Ned!… They’re wanting to fry us extra-crispy.”
Ned shook his head. “Wrong, Lann-o. They don’t wanna
cook
us. They wanna get us into their store so they can
capture
us.”
Lanny peered down at blue waters for a long while. “Nah, I think they really wanna cook us.”
8
B Y THE TIME NED and Lanny arrived at the entrance to Abaco Marina, neither had spoken another word. They were as quiet and cautious as marines
patrolling a Vietnamese delta.
Before leaving the sidewalk to descend the stairs to the docks, Lanny stepped up on a bench and borrowed Ned’s binoculars.
He scanned first for Miranda, second for
The Miranda.
“I see a billboard advertising Red Stripe beer,” he whispered “That means—”
“Means we’re safe,” Ned replied, stepping aside on the sidewalk to let two bicyclists pass. “But what about the boat you wanted
to find?”
“Can’t tell.” Lanny jumped down from the bench and they hurried down the steps to the entrance.
A kind of calm overcame both men as they walked. Both knew this was largely due to location—the island
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