Chapter Forty-Five

In which our heroine unexpectedly encounters her nemesis.

It was an unusually bright, clear day. Lorinda and Stimpy, looking refreshed and considerably younger than they’d looked twelve hours earlier, bounced out of the Clothing Zone and onto what the street signs identified as Commerze Ztreet.

Lorinda wore new white high-top sneakers, a faux-suede mini-dress, and the long-brimmed plaid baseball cap she’d bought — was it just yesterday? — at the Trump Memorial Golf Shoppe; Stimpy sported a red-, white-, and blue-checked cowboy shirt, tight acid-washed jeans, black high-tops, and a black trucker cap with a Zone Z skull-and-crossbones logo on the front panel. Each had an automatic weapon dangling jauntily from a shoulder. Lorinda reached in her bag for her oversized sunglasses, but Stimpy stopped her. “You have the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen,” he said.

“You’ve never seen my eyes before?”

“I guess not,” he said. “They’re amazing. Pure emerald. Maybe it’s just this light.”

Lorinda put on her sunglasses, saying, “The beautiful, pure sunlight of Zone Z.”

Stimpy put on a new pair of mirrored wraparounds, moved his weapon to the other shoulder, and took Lorinda by her weaponless arm, saying, “We need a great big breakfast.” Before they could take more than a couple of steps, he felt his com device vibrate in his pocket. He slipped it out, quickly read the screen, and said, “Confirmation about the car this afternoon. Georgia, here we come.”

A family of six walked past them, a mom, a dad, and four kids ranging in age from about twelve down to about three. The parents were both carrying long guns, as were the three older kids. The little one had a toy automatic weapon, modeled after Stimpy’s and Lorinda’s real ones. They all, except the youngest, wore bulky bulletproof tunics over their military-inflected street clothes.

“Hi,” said Lorinda pleasantly.

“Hail,” all six of them said in unison as they continued on their way.

As soon as they were out of range, Lorinda whispered, “What was that?”

“Welcome to Zone Z,” Stimpy said. “Now, which way should we go?”

 “I think I’ve found our breakfast,” Lorinda said, pointing a few blocks down Commerze Ztreet to what appeared to be several tables sheltered by jolly, brightly colored umbrellas.

“Wow,” said Stimpy, “it looks like an actual restaurant.”

“We’ve earned a little good luck.”

“’Sluggo’ and ‘Nancy’?” Janelle Stark slammed her hand down on her desk and glared at her screen. “Don’t screw around with me, agent.”

“N-n-no, ma’am. Those are the names they gave us.” The agent, a short, plump, sweaty young man, seemed like he was about to burst into tears.

“Hold your device steady, agent! You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, attempting to steady himself. “We, we didn’t get anything else out of them yet. But after the fugitive’s picture went up, a civilian saw it and told us —”

“Yes, yes,” barked Stark, way ahead of her subordinate. “The civilian saw Lorinda Moon with this Nancy and whatsishame. Where did this civilian see them?”

“At —” He checked his notes. “— at the, umm, Psychedelia disco dancing place. The witness thought Lorinda Moon was accompanied by a man.”

“Disco?” Stark looked disgusted. “The little whore went dancing?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s where our witness saw her with them.”

“And how did you locate these collaborators of hers?”

“There was a firearms incident at the Psychedelia and this witness ran out the door at the same time as Sluggo and Nancy and saw them get into a car —” checking his notes again “— a black late-model sedan, a … I’m never sure how to pronounce these words, ma’am … Pyeonghwa Satrap?”

“And you tracked them down because of their car?”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, I didn’t personally do it, but —”

“And where are these collaborators now?”

“They’re right here, ma’am.” He shakily turned his device to reveal a small shabby room in which Nancy and Sluggo, he in pajamas, she in a nightgown, both looking pretty roughed-up, were tied with ropes to metal chairs.

“We demand to see our lawyer,” Sluggo yelled hoarsely.

“Very funny,” Stark snapped. “No lawyers for garbage like you.” Then, as the agent pointed the device back at himself, she asked, “How do you intend to get them to talk?”

At that moment, the sound of a door creaking open came through Stark’s speaker. The agent aimed his device at the door just as a stooped older man with sparse gray hair, wearing a soiled white lab coat and brandishing an oversized hypodermic syringe, entered the room. “The doctor here is going to give them something that’ll make them talk,” he said.

“Perfect,” said Stark. “I’ll let the good doctor do his job, and you’ll call me back as soon as you have some results. Won’t you, agent?”

“Yes I will, boss, ma’am. I sure will.”

“We need our lawyer!” Sluggo shouted off-camera.

“I’ll expect your call within a half-hour. This doesn’t need to be a full interrogation. You might not need anything more from them than the kind of car Lorinda Moon got into. If you get more, fine.”

“Never! We’ll never talk!” This time Nancy was shouting.

“Sure thing, boss. And I’ll keep these two locked up —”

“Only until we apprehend the fugitive,” Stark said. “After that they’re disposable.”

Once the gun-toting family was out of range, it was uncannily quiet on the street. On one side stood a row of two-story buildings of the type known as “taxpayers” in places where taxes were levied: commercial space downstairs, residential upstairs. About a quarter of the storefronts had “For Rent” signs in their windows. They noted that each displayed a sign — commercially printed, identically designed, like election campaign posters — with one of four messages: Z IZ HERE; ALL IZ WELL; Z SEZ: “TRUST THE SCHEME”; and THE SCHEME IZ SUPREME.

“Is there any place outside of Perfecton that isn’t weird?” Lorinda said.

Stimpy gave a loud, “Hah!” and said, “It’s cute that you think Perfecton isn’t weird.” After passing a bulletproof-clothing boutique, two gun-and-ammunition stores, a home-protection-equipment store, three real estate businesses trying to outdo each other in the size of their banners touting the availability of fully furnished family bunkers, a contractor who built both conventional homes and bunkers, a spy-equipment store, and a grocery store specializing in food guaranteed to last a hundred years, Stimpy muttered, “We must be in the accessories-for-the-paranoid district.” In addition to the apparently official posters, most of these stores featured homemade signs and flags as well, including: Z’S STORM IS COMING; WHEREVER WE GO, WHATEVER WE DO, WE’RE GONNA GO THROUGH IT TOGETHER (or its abbreviation WWGWWDWGGTIT); NOTHING CAN STOP WHAT HAS ALREADY HAPPENED.

The other side of the street consisted mainly of dusty, paved vacant lots, punctuated by the occasional small house or tiny concrete shed located toward the back of its lot. “What’s going on here?” Lorinda whispered. “Where is everyone?”

“I’ve heard about this,” Stimpy said, his eyes sweeping the desolate landscape. “The underground bunkers of Zone Z. A lot of people here don’t live in houses. They live underground.”

“Because?”

“Fear.”

“Of what?”

“Everything, I guess.” Stimpy attempted, unsuccessfully, to laugh. “And I guess they spend a lot of time down there. Which would explain why there’s no one here on the scary street.”

As they approached the end of the block, Lorinda said, “Am I imagining that?” An impeccably white wooden church steeple rose from the dusty hard surface. There was no church. Just the steeple, its sharp point a good twenty feet above the ground.

They stopped when they reached it. Next to the steeple was a white concrete shed with a bombproof steel door in front and a rear that angled down to the ground, obviously housing a staircase. A sign on the door read “Church Entrance During Worship Hours.” On the lower façade of the steeple, a big electronic sign said “First Christian Church of Zone Z,” followed by the words “Daily Homily,” beneath which flashed:

“CRAZY” IS IN THE MIND OF THE BEHOLDER

While attempting to digest that, Lorinda and Stimpy were startled by the sound of a vehicle approaching from the next side street and turning the corner. At first glance it looked like a jumbo toy car made of plywood, but they quickly realized that it was an actual car, a small one covered with thick, heavy sheets of rusting metal that clanged against the underlying bodywork and compressed the tires and suspension so the poor thing was nearly dragging on the pavement. “A homemade bulletproof car,” Stimpy marveled as it lumbered past. “You wouldn’t even have to shoot it. Just yell at it and it’ll fall apart.”

“Zone Z,” Lorinda laughed. “It’s all about the paranoia!”

The next two blocks consisted of more of the same, with storefronts on one side (their favorite: a place called End Times Financial Services) and dreary vacant lots — or bunker roofs — on the other, until they homed in on the restaurant at the end of Commerze.

Compared to everything they’d passed so far, Mimzy’s Zeecrit Gourmet Café looked friendly and welcoming. Without needing to confer about it, they made a beeline for the terrace and sat across from each other on yellow plastic chairs at a blue table under a yellow umbrella. Almost immediately, a large middle-aged woman in a yellow dress wheezed out to the terrace, dropped two menus on the table, and said, “Mornin’, y’all. Welcome to Mimzy’s. I’m Mimzy. Need a couple of chemical-free cappuccinos?”

“That’d be great,” said Lorinda.

“Just give me a minute,” Mimzy said, shuffling back into the restaurant. Before she reemerged, the armored car loudly announced its return and grated to a stop in front of the restaurant. The two front doors and the near-side rear door opened simultaneously and disgorged their occupants: a thirty-ish couple in front, a pre-teen boy in back. All three wore military-adjacent outfits, bullet-studded bandolier belts across their shoulders, and shiny black hip-belted holsters cradling gleaming handguns. In a well-practiced move, they each faced a different direction and, in sync, slowly swiveled their heads until they had, with considerable overlap, scanned all 360 degrees of the horizon.

“Clear,” said the man.

“Clear,” said the woman.

“Clear,” said the child.

At which point they relaxed and headed for a table as far away from Lorinda and Stimpy as possible. Since the terrace had room for only five tables, they weren’t very far away.

“Good job getting those idiots Nancy and Sluggo to talk,” said Janelle Stark to her subordinate on the screen. “Our satellite located Moon’s vehicle in about ten minutes. She’s in Zone Z.”

“I’m an hour and a half from there,” the agent said.

“I’m going to order a chopper right now. Gather as many agents as you can and meet me at the entrance to the enclave in ninety minutes. We can’t bring the chopper right in there — they’ll shoot us down, they have a few missiles. So bring an extra vehicle for me and my people.”

“Just one extra vehicle?”

“I’m just bringing a skeleton crew. Plus your people is all we’ll need,” Stark said. “There’s only two of them. They’ll be easy to take down.”

The nervous agent hesitated. “Ma’am, I only have a few agents I can grab that fast —”

“Three or four should do it. This operation’s going to be a piece of cake.”

“A, um … huh? What does that mean, ma’am?”

Stimpy and Lorinda lingered at their table, the remnants of their Cheeze Omelet Zpecials (“Z’s Favorite!”) before them. They were nursing their third chemical-free cappuccinos, which, after her first sip of the first one, Lorinda pronounced “weak coffee with whipped cream on top.” Now sitting close together on the side nearest the family at the next table, she and Stimpy leaned on each other, and held hands, and sat in blissful silence, feigning romantic rapture so they could unobtrusively eavesdrop on the family’s conversation.

BOY: But Mom!  How can JFK Jr. be about to reappear now? I thought he died a long time ago.

WOMAN: That’s just what they want you to believe, Clay.

MAN: Of course he didn’t die.

BOY: But why do they lie about it? Why do they say he died when he didn’t? Why does he lie about it?

WOMAN: First of all, Clay, it’s not a lie. Z calls it a strategic fiction. There’s a big difference. Second, JFK Jr. needed to go underground to accomplish all that he needed to do. Out of reach of the so-called media.

MAN: Just like Z.

BOY: Is that why Z lives in a bunker?

MAN: Not just one. He has lots of bunkers.

BOY: Did you ever see him?

MAN: No, but we know people who have. Jeanine and Cord.

BOY: Really? They’ve seen Z?!

MAN: I think so. Either that, or they know someone.

WOMAN: Z and JFK Jr. are best friends. Along with President Trump.

BOY: But he’s dead, too. Right?

The man and the woman exchanged meaningful glances.

WOMAN: We’ve talked about this. Where did you hear that?

BOY: I don’t know! From Duane.

WOMAN: Maybe think twice before believing Duane, sweetie.

MAN: President Trump also had to go underground, son.

BOY: But … wouldn’t he be like a million years old?

MAN: Not with our doctors. And their special treatments.

WOMAN. This is why Zone Z is so important. One day you’ll understand.

BOY: You always say that. [Crudely mimicking the woman] “Zone Z is the only safe place in the country.” Is that why they live here? Z and JFK Jr. and President Trump?

WOMAN: Yes, but not just because it’s safe. Because they need to be left alone to make their plans. Pretty soon Z is going to straighten everything out.

BOY: With JFK Jr. and President Trump?

MAN: That’s right, Clay. “Nothing can stop what has already happened.”

BOY: But what are they going to straighten out?

WOMAN: Lots of things. Like the Lizard People who run the USA. They’re going to stop them from invading us.

MAN: The Jew bankers who bought up all the satellites to distribute … certain things.

BOY: You mean CHILD PORN?

WOMAN: Shh!

MAN: Who told you that?

BOY: I guess Duane.

MAN: Well —

BOY: But he didn’t know what it was. What is child porn?

MAN: We’ll talk about it later. [To his wife, pointing to the menu.] Check it out. The whole-wheat pancakes have gone up. Again.

 WOMAN: And isn’t it interesting that corn and wheat are expensive because of the drought, but beef is also expensive? I mean, coincidence? [Laughs.] If you believe that, I have some waterfront property in Galveston to sell you.

BOY: But don’t the cows eat corn and wheat? So —

MAN: It’s not that simple, Clay.

WOMAN: There are a lot of things they want you to believe. But Z’s going to get them all. They’re all going down. That’s why it’s time for JF —

“Can I get you anything else?” Lorinda and Stimpy hadn’t noticed that Mimzy was back at their table. “A couple more cappuccinos?”

“Oh, no thanks,” said Lorinda. “Any more coffee and I’ll ...” She made a “head exploding” gesture.

“We’d love to stay,” Stimpy said, “but we don’t want to take up your valuable table all day.” Lorinda stifled a laugh: Other than the family at the next table, no one else had come anywhere near Mimzy’s since they’d been there.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Mimzy said. “I like having y’all sit here. Makes it look like we’re busy. Business attracts business, they say.”

“Where is everybody?” Lorinda asked.

“I see y’alls not from around here. People are worried about things, so they don’t come out much. At night is when they usually come out. If they come out at all.”

“What are they worried about?” Lorinda asked.

“Oh,” said Mimzy, lazily starting to stack their dishes, “Where to begin? The usual things, I guess. Newcular war. Pandemics. Communism. Socialism. Airplane crashes. Car crashes. Stray bullets. Immigrants. Muggers —”

“There are muggers in Zone Z?” Stimpy asked.

“Well, I’ve never seen one,” Mimzy said, musing. “I heard of one once. I mean, it’s possible, right?”

“Earthquakes,” chimed in the boy at the next table, who was staring at the strangers. His father grabbed his arm, but the kid just kept staring.

“Can a bunker really protect you from an earthquake?” Lorinda kindly asked him. Both parents looked at Lorinda and subtly shook their heads. She couldn’t tell whether they were signaling, “No, it can’t” or “Don’t encourage him.”

“We do have two big parades every year,” Mimzy said cheerily. “One on Christmas and one on Our Independence Day. That’s when we all get to see each other out in the sunlight. I mean, unless there’s a tornado or something. Or a public event, like a hanging.”

“I love parades!” the boy said. “Last year we drove our car in the parade!”

“It’s sad that it was interrupted,” his mother said.

Lorinda’s eyebrows went up. “Oh?”

“Tornado,” the father said.

Two unmarked black G-Wagens stopped just short of the “Welcome to Zone Z” road sign. A minute later an ancient Kamov Ka-62 helicopter, devoid of military or civilian identification and painted incongruously in jungle camo, roared into view. Then, blowing dirt and trash in every direction, it set down dangerously close to the vehicles.

“That was insane,” Lorinda said as they walked back along Commerze Ztreet.

“I know,” Stimpy said. “‘We all live underground and come out twice a year. And at night.’ I’m not saying they’re all vampires. But I’m not saying they’re not.”

Lorinda laughed. “Really. Meanwhile, how can anyone believe that stuff?”

 “There’s a lot of weird stuff that you believed. Maybe you still believe some of it.”

Lorinda paused. “Not so much anymore.” Then, changing the subject slightly, “I have to say, those people were nice for not correcting their son about the earthquakes.”

Stimpy considered that before saying, “Maybe. Or maybe they should be criticized for enabling his ignorance. Not to mention the antisemitism. Maybe one day he’ll look back and think, ‘My parents let me believe a lie about earthquakes. And bunkers.’” He paused. “‘And bankers.’” He suddenly stopped walking, struck by a thought. “Although they don’t think it’s a lie. They think it’s the truth. About the Lizard People and the Jews. Which makes it worse.”

She took his arm and they resumed walking. “You can think that if you like,” Lorinda said with a smile, “but I’m going with ‘nice parents.’”

Stimpy grew melodramatic. “No! Bad parents!”

“Oh —"

“And then maybe that’ll drive him to devote his life to overthrowing the fascist rulers of the CCSA. If the country still even exists.” Lorinda gave him a look and rolled her eyes. “Ya gotta dream,” he said with a grin. “Should we go back to the motel? Or do some more sightseeing first?”

“I don’t think there are any sights to see,” she said. “But I don’t mind walking for a bit. I can get in some more fresh air before — you know, the bedspread.”

The only interesting sight they came upon was the Zone Z Sheriff’s Office And Jailhouse, a freestanding building in the middle of a dusty stretch of bunker roofs. The Sheriff’s Office, with its name in an old-timey font on a wooden sign, a little boardwalk along its front, and vertical bars across its small window, looked like something out of an old cowboy movie. “That’s not an old building,” Stimpy said as they walked past it. “This enclave isn’t old enough for that building to be real. They built it to look old. It’s, like, art directed. Very weird in the middle of all ...” He gestured at the dusty bunker flatlands.

“Oh my God!” Lorinda pointed across the street from the sheriff’s office. Instead of houses or stores, there was a small park or plaza in the middle of the block, in the center of which sat a wooden stage or platform, with two substantial uprights connected by a horizontal crosspiece about ten feet above the floor of the platform. A man wearing a tan uniform and a cowboy hat was standing on a ladder, meticulously attaching a heavy rope to the middle of the crosspiece.

“It's a gallows,” Stimpy said huskily.

Lorinda shuddered. “I hope it’s not for us.”

“I might take a nap before we head for Georgia,” Lorinda said as they entered the Zotel parking lot.

“Good plan,” said Stimpy. “I’ll try to figure out where to grab a few sandwiches before we leave. Maybe just go back to Mimzy’s.”

“Where’s Regis when we need him?”

They had just turned the corner of the cabins to head for their room in back, when a pair of people emerged from the shadows. It was Janelle Stark and the enormous Skippy. Their weapons were raised. “Stop.” Janelle commanded. “Drop your weapons and get down on the ground. Do it!”

Lorinda and Stimpy spun around to flee just as four agents closed in on them from behind.

“Drop your weapons now! Or we start shooting!”

“Fuck,” said Stimpy. He slowly removed the rifle from his shoulder and set it gently on the ground. Lorinda, following his lead, did the same.

We didn’t pay the authors: You do. Make us look good, if you like it. Hit up the authors with a one-time or recurring donation!

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

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.

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