Free Fanatics: Zero Tolerance by David J. Ferguson

from doing their job! You!” he added to the tough guy, “Get away from there now!”
    The bruiser took two steps forward, then hesitated as another shot was fired. The Policeman with the unholstered gun toppled slowly, his eyes rolling, and when he hit the ground someone yelled: “Tiocfaidh ár là!”
    Mark scrambled under the ambulance, his ears full of screaming and firing and shoes scuffling. Between the front wheels, he could see the body of the shot Policeman and the boots of the other one as he shuffled and dodged back and forth, obviously uncertain about where the other gunman was, or perhaps under the impression that there were two. Then another bullet ended it. The second Policeman fell with blood pouring from a chest wound; he turned his head, and for a second or two before he died, his eyes met Mark’s. What sort of moment is this for settling old scores? thought Mark, horrified.
    Then someone screamed again: “Tiocfaidh ár là! Tiocfaidh ár là!”
    Evidently they thought it was the perfect moment.
     
    *****
     
    “Look, son, don’t waste your time trying to describe her to me. Everybody’s looking for somebody, and I can’t be expected to keep track of them all, can I? If she’s alive and well, she’ll be doing the same as you are - filling in one of these.
    “ - Yes, all of it. It doesn’t matter if your address isn’t there anymore, fill that bit in anyway.
    “- When the lists are complete, all right? We can’t work miracles.
    “Thank you. Now, move on to the next desk, and give them the names and addresses of people you know are definitely deceased.
    “OK, next, please -”
     
    *****
     
    Marilyn Reeve grimaced and gasped as another contraction seized her, realising she had lost count yet again of the seconds between them. The intervals may have been getting shorter, but then again, it may just have been wishful thinking on her part; she was beginning to feel as if she had never known anything other than lying in this twilight state of continual fatigue, pain drawing her one way and sleep the other.
    She called out her husband’s name, wondering why his hand was not in hers, and turned her head to look for him. She expected to see Eric step into her view as he paced the room, or perhaps to be watching her from the wicker chair in the corner; but she was alone.
    Then she remembered: he had gone to fetch help. For probably the hundredth time, she tried to make herself believe it was for the best; he hadn’t been coping terribly well here. He didn’t even have the presence of mind to do simple things like mopping her brow, and couldn’t seem to take in any instruction she gave him.
    Well; he was doing his best. He might not be a doctor, but he was a hero. He’d gone out with the gun, and was bringing back help by hook or by crook, he’d told her. This would be quite a story to tell the little one when he grew up.
    An imaginary picture of the future which had come to be one of her favourites over the last year or so rose up before her mind: Eric and a three-year-old boy playing outside on the lawn under a friendly Summer sun, kicking a football back and forth and laughing at each other. Eric was going to be such a good daddy.
    Marilyn cried out as another wave of pain hit her. She had forgotten to keep count again.
     
    *****
     
    Barry had no idea how long he knelt over the dead body. He came to his senses again when he heard another noise like the one which had disturbed them earlier: a handful of broken concrete finally defeating the inertia of friction and sliding off some tilted surface to land with thuds and a gravelly rattle on the ground.
    Her jumped to his feet, looking for somewhere to hide. There were plenty of nooks and crannies nearby, but none of them looked safe enough; and amid his frantic casting about for a bolthole, or failing that, an excuse ( it wasn’t me, I’ve just found her, she fell and hurt her neck, oh, is she dead? I hadn’t noticed ), he found time for