Chapter Forty-Eight

In which our heroine continues her journey in a Cadillac limousine.

“John Fitzgerald Kennedy Junior! That’s JFK Junior!” a female prisoner bellowed. “He’s JFK Junior! It’s him!”

The prisoners went wild, shouting “JFK Junior!” and “Johnny!” “Junior!” and “It’s really him!” Deputy Lukas’s eyes were bouncing from the prisoners to Stimpy and back. Sheriff Flint got all squinty, stared at Lorinda, stared at Stimpy, and finally opened his little packet and slapped a second THC patch on the other side of his neck. Stimpy did his best to hold himself steady and stare with a noble, self-effacing-but-proud, Man-of-Destiny look into the middle distance.

“You’re wondering why he looks so young,” Lorinda said, anticipating the sheriff’s question.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” said the sheriff. “He must be, I don’t know, sixty, seventy, eighty years old.”

“You don’t look much like JFK Junior,” the deputy ventured. “I seen your picture.”

“That’s the whole point! You all,” said Lorinda, sweeping the room with her smile, “you’re the only people in the country who know what my husband, JFK Junior, my Johnny, looks like now.”

“We have access to the greatest doctors in the world,” said Stimpy in a husky, confidential voice. “Plastic surgeons, gerontologists — that’s old-age doctors — every kind of doctor and scientist.”

“He takes a bath in nuclear-stem-cell youth serum every week,” Lorinda said. “He gets special radiation treatments. His bones are titanium and aluminum and carbon fiber. And look into his eyes.” Following her lead, Stimpy took a long, soulful look at the prisoners, then the deputy, then the sheriff. “Those are not the eyes of a young man,” said Lorinda in a hushed voice. “Those are the eyes of wisdom. I’m proud to say that he is …” And here she faltered — out of modesty? Love? Divine inspiration? Her voice broke, perhaps from sheer emotion. “… my soulmate.” 

The prisoners erupted in a cacophony of affirmation.

Waiting until they calmed down a bit, Stimpy said, “You should also know that my lungs and heart are new. They’re only two years old. The doctors and scientists tell me I can live another fifty or sixty years if … well, let’s just say, God willing.” The prisoners again burst into cheers.

“Now just hold on a minute,” the sheriff said, slapping his hand on the desk. “Y’all quiet down,” he growled at the prisoners, “or I’m gonna move you to the back cell.” They went silent. “Now,” said the sheriff, looking at Lorinda, “what about you? If he’s JFK Junior, who the hell are you?”

“I told you,” she said. “I’m Lorinda Moon. What I didn’t tell you is that I’m the daughter of —” Here she looked over at the prisoners, who were silent with anticipation. She paused, as though struggling with conflicting impulses. Should she tell the truth? Or maintain an easy, familiar deception? The truth won out. “Okay — I’m the love child of the late Donald Trump Junior and a very famous lady that I can’t talk about because it would put her life — my mother’s life — in great danger.” She patted her stomach. “The Prophet of Revelation prophesized that our baby will be the reincarnation of President Donald Trump. Only better. And Z himself will be our baby’s godfather.”

Stimpy jumped in before the others could digest all of that. “That’s why the CCSA fascists want to capture us. They know that our baby, our child, will grow up to lead the revolution that overthrows the rulers — the billionaires and trillionaires — who are destroying this nation with their corruption.” And, as an afterthought, “And their pederasty.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to remember one or two plot points from the old movie The Terminator to use in illustration of how their child would save the world.

“Why didn’t they just hang you?” the sheriff blurted. “Or shoot you? Or poison you? And why are they accusing you,” he looked at Lorinda, “of wanting an abortion?”

“Because they’re liars,” Lorinda said. “And because they want to make us look bad and make an example of me and Johnny. If they killed us right away, we’d be martyrs. So they want to put us in parades and on billboards and on CCSA broadcasts.” She paused and swept the room for eye contact. “They want to keep us alive until everyone hates us.”

“And then,” Stimpy said, “they’ll find the place in the CCSA where we’re the most hated, and they’ll release us there. They’ll say we escaped — right into a murderous mob. And they’ll make sure there are plenty of cameras around to show how much the people hated us. And they’ll have some fake footage showing how they tried to protect us and bring us to safety so we could get a fair trial or some horseshit, but, sadly, the angry mob killed us.”

The sheriff cracked up. “That’s a damn good plan,” he said as his laughter subsided. “Pure evil.” He laughed again.

For a second Lorinda thought the sheriff was going to adopt Stimpy’s fantasy on the spot, march them across the street, and hang them in front of an angry mob. “You know,” she said, hoping to change the subject, “we’ve been all over the country in the last two years. We believe people start out good, but then they’re twisted by the billionaires’ propaganda. Isn’t that right, Johnny?”

“Absolutely,” Stimpy agreed. “Propaganda is powerful.”

“And that’s why we have to get to Georgia right away,” Lorinda said emphatically. “Tomorrow if possible.” Stimpy tried to camouflage his shock with a fake cough.

“Georgia?” Sheriff Flint said. “Last I looked, that was in the USA.”

“People can’t go to the USA!” Deputy Lukas said.

“Why would you want to go to the USA?” the sheriff said. “How would you even get in? How do you know they’d let you in?”

“We have to go there,” Lorinda said. “It’s the prophecy.” She leaned toward the sheriff as if they were having an intimate conversation, but her voice was clear enough to carry to the prisoners in the cell. “The prophet said that our baby must be born in Georgia, in the USA. That’s the whole point! The baby has to be born in the most unlikely place. Like Moses in the bullrushes, and Baby Jesus in the manger. And the USA will welcome us.” She altered her voice as though reciting Scripture. “’As soon as they behold the Mother, even then will they Know.’ In fact, they won’t be able to stop us from entering and having our baby there. And with the power of our child, combined with the power of Z and the power of Jesus Christ, the USA will leave us alone until the child is strong enough to come back here with his army of crusaders to save us all. And to return Georgia to the CCSA, where it belongs!”

An awed hush fell over the assembled. Finally, the sheriff said, “Wow.” He sat back in his chair. “Just wow.”

“But we can’t do it without your help,” Lorinda said urgently. “The prophet told us we will meet a tall, strong stranger with a mustache and a badge who will take us to the promised land.”

“The prophet said that?” Sheriff Flint was now stroking his mustache thoughtfully. “And you think he meant me? I’m the one to take you to the promised land?”

“Of course it’s you!” Lorinda said. “Who else could it be? We’ve been all over this country and there’s no one else it could be. Until now. It’s you!”

“You’re the one, Sheriff,” Stimpy said. “Don’t you remember? Z himself posted something about this last year.” He raised his eyes toward the ceiling, as though trying to recall the quote. “‘And hey. Make sure the Vessel and the Father get to Georgia. Let them be helped by a Man of the Law. A man of patches.’”

“Sheriff!” the deputy cried, pointing to his boss’s neck. “Patches!”

“You are the Man of Patches,” Stimpy said.

“Oh yeah?” The Sheriff looked skeptical. “Then how come you two waited so long to tell us this?”

“Because,” Stimpy said, “we couldn’t be sure we could trust you. But now we know we can. You are … the chosen one.” He couldn’t remember what movie that was from, but it sounded right.

The prisoners cheered, called the sheriff’s name. Some of them chanted “You’re the one! You’re the one!”

The sheriff closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. For a long time he appeared to be deep in thought. When he opened his eyes there was a new look of determination on his face. He was practically yelling. “We’ll get you there! We’ll pull out of here by four in the morning! Lukas!”

“Yes, sheriff sir!”

“Get the word to everybody in the enclave. We’ll form a convoy in front of the office here at three-thirty in the morning. Anyone who doesn’t show up will be hanged when we get back.” He closed his eyes again, re-opening them in a matter of seconds. “I’ll get my cousin Hudson and his limo for these two,” he said in his normal conversational voice. “They need special conveyance. Oh, and all of you,” he said to the prisoners. “You’re free. Let ‘em out, Lukas. I hereby deputize all y’all to go tell everybody you know — your friends and relatives and everybody else — you go tell them what’s happening, and that I’ll hang ‘em if they don’t cooperate. I expect to see you back here at three-thirty, with your cars and trucks. Full tanks! Lukas, wake up Andy, tell him to open his gas station. You got that everybody? And no slacking off or …” He grabbed his neck, stuck out his tongue, and made a loud gagging sound.

Deputy Lukas promptly unlocked the cell door and the prisoners piled out, thanking the sheriff profusely. Some of them shyly touched Lorinda or Stimpy before charging out the door.

“Up and at ‘em!” the sheriff called, clanking the cell door a couple of times to make sure his message got through. But Lorinda and Stimpy were already awake. After a fitful, uncomfortable sleep on the narrow cell bench, they’d been woken up ten minutes earlier by the sounds of the first vehicles arriving out front, including the low-frequency rumbling of some big trucks.

“What time is it?” Stimpy asked.

“Three-thirty-five,” the sheriff said. “And here’s your breakfast.”

Deputy Lukas sailed into the cell with a bag of take-out containers. “I had Mimzy, from the restaurant over there, make you something. She says hi. She remembers you from yesterday. She says she knew you were JFK Junior, but I don’t believe it.”

“You better eat quick,” said the sheriff. “We want to get rolling in twenty minutes.”

“What’s that sound?” Lorinda asked. The rumbling had started again.

“Oh, that’s just a missile-launcher truck,” the sheriff said. “We got three of them. They’re getting themselves in position for the convoy.”

Two Kamov Ka-62 helicopters touched down near the WELCOME TO ZONE Z IF YOU CAN HANDLE THE TRUTH road sign, nearly blowing it over with their rotor downwash. A minute later a single file of eight gleaming, unmarked black Gelandwagens slowed down and stopped just before the first one reached the choppers. The hulking Skippy, now in a skin-tight black tee-shirt and jungle-camouflage stretch jeans, jumped out of the lead Kamov, turned around, and gave Janelle Stark — in a black jumpsuit, still with a bandage on her head — his hand to ease her leap to the ground. Out of the second helicopter poured ten uniformed CCSA Domestic Security warriors, followed by one dazed-looking civilian wearing plaid shorts, a yellow polo shirt, and a bandage on his head.

The uniformed drivers of the first three G-Wagens were already out and opening the doors for the helicopter passengers’ load-in. The other five vehicles were stuffed with Domestic Security enforcers. “Brad,” Janelle Stark called to the civilian in shorts, “get in the third car.” She and Skippy proceeded to the first G-Wagen, while the others segregated themselves into the second and third.

The procession, resembling a fancy funeral motorcade, stopped in front of the sheriff’s office. Skippy leveraged himself out of a rear door of the first vehicle just as Deputy Lukas stepped out of the building and onto the little boardwalk. “Why, look who’s back,” Lukas said cheerfully.

“Give me her,” Skippy snarled. It was like listening to a rock try to talk.

“Give you who?” said the deputy, screwing his face into what he hoped would look like confusion.

Janelle Stark emerged from the other rear door, marched over to the building, and looked up at the deputy. She pulled a folded sheet of paper out of an inner pocket, thrust it at Lukas, and said, “By order of the Domestic Security Administration of the Confederation of Conservative States of America, you are to remand Lorinda Moon to my custody at once, motherfucker!”

“No need to cuss, ma’am,” the deputy said laconically. “I’d love to hand her over to you, but she ain’t here.”

“What do you mean?”

“They all left here about two and a half, three hours ago.”

“What do you mean, they left? And who’s they?”

“They is everybody in Zone Z, pretty much. They ain’t here. They left in a big convoy. Maybe, I don’t know, fifty vehicles. Sixty? Seventy? Like a big parade, sorta, I guess …”

“Where did they go?!”

“Oh, jeez, ma’am. They didn’t tell me that. I wasn’t even awake when they left.”

“Where’s that sheriff? I need to talk to the sheriff!”

“Well, ma’am, he went with them, a-course. Yep. I guess that makes it an official Zone Z convoy.”

Lunkhead Skippy stomped his foot on the pavement, like an angry bull.

“Traveling in a car going east again,” Stimpy said dreamily.

Lorinda opened her eyes. “Hmmm? Was I asleep?” She was slumped against Stimpy, who was slumped on the seat. She tried to sit up, but it wasn’t easy. Stimpy helped with a gentle push on her shoulder.

“I think I was asleep,” Stimpy said, “and I think I said ‘Traveling in a car going east again,’ and woke myself up.” He looked out the window. “But it’s true. We are traveling in a car going east. I hope we’re going east.” He leaned forward, hit the window button, stuck his head out, and checked the whereabouts of the sun. “Yep, we’re going east. And I’m not driving. That’s the best part. And it’s still early.” He rolled the window back up and looked at the screen of his com. “Only seven-thirty.”

“In the morning?” Lorinda said.

“Wow, you were really asleep!” Stimpy laughed.

“You’re awake!” said the driver, rolling down the window that separated his compartment from theirs and looking at them in the rear-view mirror. His name was Hudson, Lorinda remembered, “Like the old car, which is maybe why I got into old cars,” he’d offered by way of introduction as he stood by his impeccable black car in front of the sheriff’s office. Lorinda had no idea what he meant, but she’d smiled anyway. Stimpy later explained that Hudson was a car from the USA that hadn’t been produced since the middle of the twentieth century.

“We’ll be to Georgia pretty soon,” Hudson said, rolling the privacy window back up.

Stimpy felt his com vibrate. He looked at it and said, softly, to Lorinda, “It’s all set.” She gave him a big, drowsy smile. He scootched forward and tapped on the window, which Hudson rolled back down. “Route 80 to 280 right to Georgia,” Stimpy said.

“Your prophet spoke to you, Mr. Kennedy?”

“Sure did,” said Stimpy cheerfully. ”Loud and clear.”

“I’ll tell the sheriff.” He was already saying “Ten-four, Jesse …” as the window slid up.

After they’d wolfed down their Mimzy’s breakfasts — scrambled eggs, Confed-fried potatoes, toast, chemical-free cappuccinos — they’d been hustled out of their cell by Deputy Lukas. The gathering convoy was impressive, starting with the three big rigs, each blasting black smoke and trailing a flatbed loaded with a vintage Iranian rocket launcher and many sharp-nosed, neatly strapped-down missiles. There were already thirty or forty cars and trucks jockeying for position, with more arriving from both directions. Some of the cars were waving hastily made flags or signs in their windows: ZONE Z TO THE RESCUE; BABY TRUMP IS OUR SAVIOR; JFK JR OUR HERO; LORINDA MOTHER OF LIBERTY. It was likely the biggest traffic jam in the history of the enclave.

And then Hudson’s car had purred into view, stopping right in front of them. Lorinda had never seen anything like it. After introducing himself, and saying what an honor it was to make their acquaintance, Hudson — who bore a striking resemblance to Sheriff Flint — had proudly explained that it was a 1960 Cadillac Fleetwood limousine, that the car was his, and that he personally had restored it and did all maintenance himself, including fabricating parts if he had to.

“Does that include polishing it?” Stimpy had asked.

“Damn right. I detail it once a month, whether or not it’s seen any use. When the sun comes up you’ll see how beautiful she shines.” A cloud had passed over his expression. “Not that there are that many special events around here lately.”

“That’s what you use it for?” Lorinda had asked. “Special events?”

“Yeah, weddings and things. It’s not much good for anything else. Too damn long to park anywhere. Course, it’s perfect for driving celebrities like yourselves to Georgia.”

Down the street, the sheriff had been showing people how to line up their vehicles for the procession. “Sheriff Flint said he was going to ask his cousin to bring out his limousine,” Stimpy said. “I guess that makes you his cousin.”

Hudson beamed. “Yes sir. My cousin, the big boss of the enclave. He wants me to ask you where we’re going. I mean, he knows you need to get to Georgia, but where? And, you know, we can’t just drive into Georgia. We’ll probably have to drop you off or something.”

“Let’s just head east the fastest way possible,” Stimpy said. “After we’re moving the prophet will tell me the details. Is this car leading the parade?”

“No way. You don’t want to put the celebrities right at the tip of the arrow, you want ‘em in the middle, so they’re protected.”

Just then the little armored car — the one they’d seen the day before — clanged up and parked in front of the limo. The family — mom, dad, Clay — emerged and called a friendly “Hail!” to Stimpy, Lorinda, and Hudson. “We’re here for you,” said the father. “And, of course, for …” He looked at Lorinda and patted his own belly.

“See?” said Hudson. “The main thing is, one of the missile launchers will be near the front, one a few cars ahead of us, one at the rear. My cousin Jesse will be up front in his patrol truck, and me and him, we can talk to each other. I got a police CB radio! So you’ll tell me the directions — you know, when you hear from the prophet — and I’ll tell him.”

“What are those things sticking up?” Lorinda asked, pointing to the rear of the Cadillac.

“That’s called tail fins,” Hudson said fondly.

Lorinda gazed out the side window at the flat, practically featureless landscape. “Do you really have a farm?” she asked.

“What?” Stimpy, who had been exchanging messages with Wilma in Revelation, looked up from his com.

“That old truck you had. When you guys picked me up in Little Harlem. With vegetables in back? And the name of a farm on the side?”

“Patriot Farm,” Stimpy said. He was smiling, but his smile instantly curdled as he pictured Ren — Roger — with him in the truck, and then the catastrophe in Libertyville. “Yeah, it’s a real farm. We’re not great farmers, but we do grow some nice stuff. It’s mainly a base camp, and an escape when we need to regroup between missions. And we’ve got some communications equipment there. And a small server farm. We’ll have a memorial service for Roger. Snoopy recovered his body. I’ll probably go there after, you know, you’re safe in the USA.”

Silence, other than the clanging of the armored car up ahead, hung heavily in the air between them. It was interrupted by a distant buzzing. Lorinda craned her neck and looked out the side window. “What the hell?”

Stimpy turned to see two ancient-looking biplanes, one red, one green, circling each other at low altitude. Trailing from the red plane was a banner reading FURIOUS FYODOR 6 WEEK CHAMPION; the banner on the green plane said ALEX THE AVENGING ANGEL. A loud air horn squawked, apparently a signal to the pilots. The planes instantly veered radically from their paths and the pilots — their heads and shoulders sticking up out of the cockpits — started shooting at each other with hand-held automatic weapons. Stimpy tapped on the window of the chauffeur’s compartment again and loudly said, “What’s going on there?”

Hudson stole a glance at the biplanes and rolled down the window. “No idea,” he said. “Maybe the End Times? Or something from the Penal Colony? There’s the exit.” He pointed to an exit ramp whose sign read PENAL COLONY ENCLAVE.

 “Thanks,” said Stimpy as the window went back up. Lorinda looked puzzled. “It’s the enclave where they produce that show, Top of the Heap,” he said. “I think we’re seeing two contestants trying to kill each other.” Just at that moment, as the green plane was heading upward at a steep angle, they saw puffs of smoke emanating from the red plane, followed immediately by the sound of its gun, followed by the starboard horizontal stabilizer and the top two-thirds of the vertical stabilizer of the green plane disintegrating. “I think we have a winner,” Stimpy said. The green plane continued its upward trajectory for a few seconds before it started a slow spin; soon it started falling tail-first. Then the nose snapped violently down and the old plane entered a spinning dive. Both wings on the starboard side were starting to detach when it crashed dead-center into the top of the red plane. There was an instant explosion. Flames enveloped both of the plummeting aircraft. The limo was suddenly bouncing. Stimpy looked through to the front compartment and saw their driver bent over and staring out the passenger-side window at the chaos in the sky. “Hudson!” he yelled.

Hudson instantly sat up and steered the car back onto the road. He lowered the window just enough to say, “Sorry, boss,” then raised it again.

The multiple concussions of the planes crashing into the ground nearby were terrifying. Lorinda was speechless.

“You think the show taught them how to fly those planes?” Stimpy asked after they’d left the raging flames behind them. “Or did they recruit two suicidal pilots?”

“What will they do next week if there’s no winner from this week?” Lorinda said. “I guess they’ll use last week’s runner-up?”

“Last week’s runner up is dead,” Stimpy said. “By definition.”

“Second runner-up?” Lorinda said. “Good thing we don’t have to run that show. And I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

They traded a look of horror and disbelief — then laughed.

That’s when they passed the first of the newly hacked billboards: MAKE WAY FOR LORINDA AND JFK JR. Followed by several more with the same message. “I guess Bill didn’t have time to get creative,” Stimpy said. Then they came upon a group of young people lined up at the side of the road, waving and holding handmade posters:

WE LOVE YOU JFK, Jr.

TAKE ME WITH YOU!!!!!!

PROTECT BABY TRUMP!

WE ARE ALL LORIDNA MOON

GO JOHNNY GO!

Several paces away from the rest of the group, two young men were kicking and trying to punch each other while still holding onto their posters, one of which said WELCOME BABY TRUMP! and the other WELCOME BABY JESUS!

Hudson rolled down the window and said, “What is wrong with people?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Stimpy said.

“Nah … But … I mean, everybody knows the baby isn’t going to be Jesus. Right?”

Lorinda and Stimpy looked at each other and nodded. They looked back at Hudson in the mirror and nodded again.

”So, yeah …” Hudson said. He shook his head at the folly of mankind. “Anyway, what I really wanted to say is that we’ll reach Georgia in, like, five or ten minutes. Hope we don’t see no lizard people coming for us.” The window flew back up.

And then they heard the helicopters.

NEXT! Chapter Forty-Nine. In which our heroine makes her exit from the CCSA.

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PREVIOUSLY in THE SPLIT!

Chapter One. In which we meet our heroine and her dainty little gun.

Chapter Two. In which Lorinda demonstrates her bartending virtuosity.

Chapter Three. In which our heroine receives a promotion and prepares to celebrate.

Chapter Four. In which our heroine proves herself an immoral citizen of the CCSA.

Chapter Five. In which our heroine goes to church.

Chapter Six. In which Lorinda contemplates her future, ignores Pastor Doug, and gets something unexpected from Emmie.

Chapter Seven. In which Lorinda learns something that threatens her big dream.

Chapter Eight. In which our heroine freaks out.

Chapter Nine. In which our heroine says the forbidden word as an unwelcome visitor arrives.

Chapter Ten. In which two unpleasant men perturb our heroine.

Chapter Eleven. In which our heroine seems to have found a solution to her problem.

Chapter Twelve. In which that black truck follows our heroine all the way to Austin.

Chapter Thirteen. In which Lorinda lashes out.

Chapter Fourteen. In which our heroine gets a taste of life in the big city.

Chapter Fifteen. In which our heroine meets a fellow bartender and has a drink.

Chapter Sixteen. In which Lorinda once again takes a swing with her little pink gun.

Chapter Seventeen. In which our heroine prepares to escape.

Chapter Eighteen. In which our heroine gets in a truck with a couple of slightly scary strangers.

Chapter Nineteen. In which our heroine learns that she’s got a long way to go.

Chapter Twenty. In which our heroine spends a night in a gas station.

Chapter Twenty-One. In which our heroine learns about the enclaves of the CCSA.

Chapter Twenty-Two. In which our heroine learns way too much about the enclaves of the CCSA.

Chapter Twenty-Three. In which our heroine experiences liberty run amok.

Chapter Twenty-Four. In which our heroine’s escape is disastrously derailed.

Chapter Twenty-Five. In which our heroine finds herself back at the gas station.

Chapter Twenty-Six. In which Stimpy, on the road to Revelation, reveals Ren’s real name.

Chapter Twenty-Seven. In which our heroine manages not to crash the car as she learns more about CCSA enclaves.

Chapter Twenty-Eight. In which Lorinda and Stimpy enter Revelation.

Chapter Twenty-Nine. In which our heroine has pizza for the first time and readies herself to be an old fogie.

Chapter Thirty. In which our heroine finally gets to experience the Rapture Ride.

Chapter Thirty-One. In which our heroine’s long-awaited Rapture Ride experience is interrupted by some unwelcome visitors.

Chapter Thirty-Two. In which our heroine triggers the Rapture…or something.

Chapter Thirty-Three. In which Lorinda and Stimpy slip out of Revelation under cover of pandemonium.

Chapter Thirty-Four. In which our heroine trades arms for freedom.

Chapter Thirty-Five. In which our heroine does a bit of tactical shooting.

Chapter Thirty-Six. In which our heroine heads for the greens in a chartreuse truck.

Chapter Thirty-Seven. In which our heroine hears a ghastly story on the way to the enclave of golf.

Chapter Thirty-Eight. In which our heroine begins a crash course in the plutocratic lifestyle.

Chapter Thirty-Nine. In which our heroine continues her crash course in the plutocratic lifestyle, then crashes.

Chapter Forty. In which Lorinda and Stimpy tour the President Donald J. Trump Memorial Christian Golf Resort and Beautiful Residences.

Chapter Forty-One. In which our heroine has to leave the Donald J. Trump Memorial Christian Golf Resort and Beautiful Residences right quick.

Chapter Forty-Two. In which our heroine hurtles toward another scary place.

Chapter Forty-Three. In which our heroine remains under a bedspread as her fame grows.

Chapter Forty-Four. In which our heroine finally emerges from under the golden bedspread.

Chapter Forty-Five. In which our heroine unexpectedly encounters her nemesis.

Chapter Forty-Six. In which our heroine is set free, then captured again.

Chapter Forty-Seven. In which our heroine has a brush with Zone Z justice and makes a shocking announcement.

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