A Pagan's Nightmare Read Free Page A

to expand.”
    Neutral hit the red button. “Alrighty, Florida. Who else has limbs down in their yard? Welcome to Fence-Straddler AM.”
    “Neuuuutral! You rock, man.”
    “Thank you. What’s on your mind?”
    “My name’s John, and I called in to say that I have it worse than just limbs down in my yard.”
    “And how big is
your
house, John?”
    “I live in a trailer, man. Just a single-wide. And now it’s turned on its side and leaning up against my neighbor’s place.”
    “And is your neighbor okay?”
    “Yeah, my neighbor is Crackhead, who called in earlier. We’re about to hitch his four-wheel drive truck to my trailer and
     tump it back over.”
    “Tump
it back over? Where’re you from, John? Or should I call you John-boy?”
    “South Georgia, originally.”
    “And do you think your trailer getting
tumped
over by Tropical Storm Felix is a judgment from God?”
    “Definitely, and it ain’t got nothing to do with house size.”
    “I see. Then to what do you attribute the cause?”
    “Online gambling, Nute. I slipped up and clicked on a Web site that I shouldn’t have.”
    “And does Crackhead know about this?”
    “Crackhead told me to click on it…. It’s how he makes his living.”
    Ned considered his audience, saw that all five red lights on his phone bank were lit, and cut John off. “Next caller,” he
     said.
    “Neutral, this is H. Bernard Randolph.”
    “Welcome to the show, H. Bernard.”
    “Thanks, Neutral. I’m on my lunch break up here on Wall Street, and I just have to say that I disagree vehemently with both
     Crackhead and his neighbor John.”
    “That so?”
    “According to the blonde on the Weather Channel, the percentage of storms hitting Florida is no different today than it was
     back in the fifties… back when America still had its innocence.”
    Ned paused and considered H. Bernard’s factual tidbit. “So Fonzie and Ralph Malph were never in any danger of getting walloped
     by a tornado for lusting after Richie’s sister?”
    “No, never. But Joanie was a babe.”
    DJ Ned hesitated, wanting the caller to continue. “Is that all you had to say, H. Bernard?”
    “That’s it.”
    Just as Ned cut the call, all five red lights went dim.
    DJ Ned stared at the row of vacancies and shook his head. “That’s never happened before,” he muttered to himself. “Sorry,
     folks. All the lines just went dead. This show never has empty lines.”
    After ten minutes of waiting for the lines to light up again, Ned raised both hands, palms up, and shrugged the big shrug,
     a silent signal of give-up to his producer.
    But his producer was no longer in sight.
    Ned looked out through the glass surrounding his booth and tried to spot him. But only Ned himself was in the room.
    He figured his producer had run to the men’s room.
But while broadcasting?
He glanced back at his phone bank and saw that all five lights were still dim.
    By the time his show ended at 2:00, DJ Ned Neutral had not received a single call since H. Bernard phoned in from Wall Street.
     Ned rose slowly from his radio booth and peeked down the hall of Fence-Straddler AM.
    No one else was in sight.
    He looked into all the offices, but all were empty.
    He called out, “Hey, anyone want to join me for lunch?”
    No one answered. Just the clock, ticking off the seconds. He’d never noticed the ticks before.
    Next he retrieved his cell phone from his jacket and tried to call his own show, but the call would not go through. “Please
     check with your phone company,” it said.
    Confused and a bit freaked out, Ned rushed from the building and into bright sunlight. He tried to calm himself, took deep
     breaths. He even walked a block down the sidewalk of the business district. In seconds Orlando seemed normal again—humidity
     high, shade low. The only thing he noticed that looked odd was that fewer people were on the streets.
Maybe everyone went to the beach today.
    Food always helped Ned relax and clear his mind,