Chapter Forty-Nine

In which our heroine makes her exit from the CCSA.

Stimpy could see them out the side window, two old Kamov helicopters — painted bright yellow, with the CCSA trademark visible in several places on their unwieldy bodies — approaching the convoy. “They found us,” he said. But before the choppers could get uncomfortably close and low, he saw something else: a dark, smoky wind blowing toward them, fast, from the direction of Georgia. It rocked the choppers sideways, almost causing them to crash.

As Lorinda leaned over next to him and peered up, another wave of the dark wind forced the helicopters to veer off and head away from the Zone Z convoy. “What the hell was that?” said Lorinda. “A micro-tornado? I really don’t need another midair collision. One a day is pretty much my limit.”

Before Stimpy could venture an opinion, Hudson rolled down the window and said: “Looks like we’ll be a little delayed. We’re stuck behind a bunch of car transports heading to Georgia. That’s what all this smoke is.” The limousine, and the entire convoy, came to a halt.

Through the windshield and off to the left, Stimpy and Lorinda made out a heavy chain-link fence behind which appeared to be a big parking lot full of automobile transporters pumping black exhaust fumes through vertical chrome stacks into the sky. But the fumes weren’t going straight up; they seemed to be heading toward the convoy. “Fans,” said Stimpy.

“Yup,” said Hudson. “Fans.”

“What?” said Lorinda. For a second she thought, Fans of who?

“See those towers?” Stimpy pointed over the tops of the transporters.

It took Lorinda a moment, but then she saw the three tall, thin, white towers and the blurs of their enormous rotating blades. “Oh. So, like, electricity windmills?”

“The opposite,” Stimpy said. “They’re not catching wind. They’re making wind.”

Hudson nodded. “Blowing that smoke back into the CCSA, sons of bitches.”

“But what are all these trucks doing here?” Lorinda asked. Just then a queue of automobile transporters spewing black smoke passed them on the left, packed bumper-to-bumper with high-end German and Japanese all-wheel-drivers manufactured in the CCSA: two trailers full of Mercedes SUVs, a trailer of Gelandwagens, two trailers’ worth of BMW wagons, a trailerful of Audis, a trailer of Lexus pickup trucks.

“I’ve never seen any of these cars before,” Lorinda said. “Except for those G-buggies or whatever they’re called.”

“You can’t buy any of them in the CCSA,” said Stimpy, “even though they’re made here. I mean, except for the G-Wagen — if you’re the government.” He tried to see beyond the front line of transporters in the parking lot, but the air wasn’t clear enough. “You can’t see from here, but what they do is, they take the trailers off these filthy diesel trucks and hook them onto clean ones before they enter the USA.” His face suddenly went grim. “Oh, shit. They’re back.”

They heard the helicopters again, a relentless drone getting louder and higher in pitch, as if from giant mosquitoes. Then they heard new sounds: several permutations of mechanical whining, some heavy mechanism squealing up and around and into position.

“Oh boy,” Hudson said, more or less to himself. “Look out now.”

“What’s that?” Stimpy asked.

“That’s the missile launchers taking aim.”

A moment later a rocket spewing flames and smoke roared deafeningly into the sky from the flatbed a few cars ahead of the limo. It flew just to the left of the Kamovs, missing by a dozen yards. Then from the rear of the convoy came another one, this one zooming just to the right of the helicopters. As if frozen in fear, the helicopters hovered in place for a couple of seconds before lowering their noses and hightailing toward the horizon. A couple of miles off, easily visible across the scrubby terrain, the two missiles hit the ground at almost the same time and exploded, throwing up two bursts of orange flame and small mushroom clouds of dirt and vegetation. The helicopters wavered in their low trajectory, then landed not far from the convoy behind a mound with a big hand-painted sign in front stating “Toxic Refuse Garbage Dump.”

“Those were warning shots,” said Hudson soberly. “They missed on purpose. If they wanted to hit ‘em, they would have hit ‘em.” His CB radio crackled. It was Sheriff Flint telling Hudson to swing around the other Zone Z vehicles and meet him in front.

Hudson drove carefully along the margin of the road. When he’d passed all the other Zone Z vehicles, he was surprised to see that his cousin’s truck was no longer where he expected it to be, at the front of the convoy, but up ahead inside the area defined by the multi-layer chain-link fence.

“It’s my job to protect the citizens of Zone Z, even if they’re not our citizens. I mean even if they’re just visiting. We want to protect all people whose hearts are in the right place, and who acknowledge that ‘Z’s Rulez Rule,’ as we say. ‘Rulez’ spelled with a ‘Z.’ R-U-L-E-Z. That’s important.” Sheriff Flint, leaning casually against a USA Customs Service truck, gazed earnestly into the lens of the tiny camera attached to the shoulder of a uniformed USA Customs Service officer. “I took an oath to my enclave — and to Z,” he continued. “And I always stand by it. Even when it means fighting the evil forces of the CCSA billionaires. They don’t scare us.”

As Flint spoke, two USA Customs Service officers waved Hudson’s limo past signs reading “International Zone Co-Administered by CCSA and USA” and through a gate in the fence that, it was clear from this angle, defined a vast rectangular area that was no more than fifty yards deep but, from Hudson’s perspective, an unknowable distance wide. The tall white pylons with their rotating blades stood behind the fencing on the side across from the gate; between two of the pylons stood a tall flagpole with a giant, 25-star USA flag flapping in the wind produced by the fans. Flint’s truck was nuzzled up to five red, white, and blue SUVs labeled “USA Customs Service.” Several yards away stood a lone red, white, and blue Gelandwagen labeled “Domestic Security Administration Mercedes Gelandwagen Proudly Made in Alabama CCSA,” next to which stood two forlorn-looking uniformed CCSA Domestic Security officers. Off in the distance to the left, and still within the International Zone, a big crew unhitched smoke-spewing front-end tractors from car trailers and waved them away. As they roared and rumbled off, USA tractors pulled in to replace them. These trucks — newer, cleaner, quieter, elaborately decorated in bright, shiny colors — were then hitched to the trailers for the trip into Georgia and north into the rest of the USA. Spaced throughout the area were USA armored military vehicles and groups of USA soldiers, on full alert. As the limousine entered the International Zone, the gate slid closed behind it.

Flint approached the rear of the driver’s side of the Cadillac, followed by the officer with the camera. Lorinda found the button and lowered her window as the sheriff bent over to look in. “You two doing okay?” he asked.

“We’re good, thanks,” said Lorinda. Stimpy noticed the officer with the camera, and quickly turned to show only the back of his head. Indicating the cameraman, Lorinda asked, “What’s going on here?”

“Oh,” said the sheriff, “they make movies of everything. The USA is weird. You okay, Mr. —” he stopped himself before he uttered the famous last name. “You okay, sir?” Stimpy nodded without turning around and held up a hand in greeting. “Gotcha,” said the sheriff. “You two should just set here until they say you should come out.” Then, turning to the officer with the camera: “C’mon, let’s leave them be.” He grabbed one of the officer’s shoulders and started pushing him back to where they’d started. After a few steps he paused, then quickly returned to the limo, leaned in, and said quietly, “Your prophet was telling the truth. You got a good prophet. These people, they were expecting y’all. Don’t ask me how, but they were. It was an honor meeting you two. I hope you’ll remember what Zone Z did for you when you … you know. And make sure your child knows all about it.”

“Oh, we will,” said Lorinda. “It will be inscribed in all our holy books.”

“That’s what I want to hear,” the sheriff said. Then, louder: “Great work, Hudson.” He returned to the cameraman and continued herding him away from the limousine.

From the near corner of the USA side of the International Zone, another gate opened and two khaki-green unmarked sedans silently approached, the first one stopping inches from the massive front bumper of the Cadillac. One of the rear doors opened and out stepped a dark-skinned woman in shiny hiking boots, black pants, and a black bomber jacket with a small embroidered USA flag on the left side over the inscription “Serena Ndiaye, Secretary of Health & Border Integrity.” She gazed intently through the windshield of the limo.

“Serena!” Stimpy exclaimed, opening his door and jumping out. The woman grinned and opened her arms as Stimpy jogged over to her. They exchanged a big, warm embrace.

“It’s so good to see you,” she said. “It’s been a long, long time.”

“Too long,” Stimpy said.

“I’m so sorry about —” here she whispered, “Roger.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to whisper.”

The woman glanced over his shoulder at Lorinda, who was heading toward them. “Does she know your name?”

“Not yet,” Stimpy whispered.

“Aha! The famous Lorinda Moon!” the woman said as Lorinda approached. “I’m Serena Ndiaye, and I’d like to be the first to welcome you to the United States of America. Well, not exactly the USA yet, but the International Zone. The main thing is, you’re out of the CCSA. Hug?”

It took a moment for the last word to penetrate Lorinda’s brain. Before she had a chance to initiate a hug, Serena’s arms were enveloping her. “Have you ever been hugged by a Black woman before?”

“Just once,” Lorinda said, stepping back from the hug. “But … I’m famous? In the USA? How is that possible?”

“Oh, yeah! I mean, you weren’t last week. But you are now. ‘We are all Lorinda Moon.’ My daughter has that tee-shirt!”

“What?” Lorinda was stunned. “How?”

“Oh, we follow the daily insanities of the CCSA pretty closely. It’s like a depraved sitcom.”

Lorinda wasn’t sure what a “sitcom” was, but she let it go. “So, wait,” she said. “You two know each other?”

“Oh, we go way back,” said Serena. “Stew … Stimpy’s a gem. I know how difficult it was for him to get you here, but he didn’t waver —”

The conversation was halted by the sound of a small — but loud — combustion engine, accompanied by a range of mechanical groans, getting closer. “Well, look who’s back,” Sheriff Flint yelled.

Across the scrubland beyond the fence came a little all-terrain vehicle. On the back of the seat, holding on for dear life and looking ludicrous, sat Janelle Stark. In front of her, grasping the handlebars, his massive bulk dwarfing the ATV, sat Skippy. A dozen USA soldiers instantly converged on the gate, their weapons hoisted; four of the armored vehicles moved quickly and almost silently into position behind them. The all-terrain vehicle groaned to a halt and Stark slid off sideways. After regaining her balance, and some of her dignity, she strutted toward the gate. She found a sheet of folded and crumpled paper in one of her pockets, waved it in the air, and shouted: “In the name of the government of the Confederation of Conservative States of America, I insist that you remand Lorinda Moon to my custody immediately.”

No one reacted in any way until Sheriff Flint called: “Maybe you have to ask nice.”

“Goddammit,” she yelled, “give her to me! She’s mine!”

Serena walked slowly to the gate, gave Stark the once over, and said, “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Serena Ndiaye. I’m in charge here. And you are?”

“Janelle Stark, Confederation Security.”

 “Show me,” Serena said. Stark rolled up the sheet of paper and thrust it through the chain-link. Serena took it, read it slowly, and said, “Well, my dear, I’m afraid this is nothing,” tore it in half, and handed the pieces back to her. Stark furiously snatched them and Serena turned and walked back toward Stimpy and Lorinda. Skippy huffed toward the gate, threw himself against it, and was about to start bellowing, when two of the soldiers jammed the tips of their rifles, hard, though the mesh and into his midsection. “Shoot them if they don’t leave at once,” Serena called over her shoulder. “This is a hostile act, and they’ve been warned.” Reluctantly, Stark and Skippy turned and, grumbling to each other, stalked back to their ATV.

“Scat! Go home! Git!” the sheriff called after them.

‘“Let’s get you out of here,” Serena said, putting her arms around Lorinda’s and Stimpy’s shoulders and walking them to the car that followed hers in. “We’re blocking all these trucks that need to get in here.”

“Where are we going?” Lorinda asked. “And what is that guy doing?” She indicated the Customs Service officer with the camera, who was closely following them.

“Oh, don’t mind him. He’s with me. We like to document everything for the legal record.” 

Stimpy abruptly stopped and turned toward Serena. “My face could get people killed in the CCSA,” he said grimly.

She held up a hand in reassurance. “We know. Don’t worry. No one will see your face unless you give us the green light.”

She patted his back and turned to Lorinda. “We have a compound about five miles from here, away from all this noise and pollution. We’ll do a debriefing, you’ll spend the night, and tomorrow we’ll bring you up north.”

That was a little vague for Lorinda. “Up north where?”

The driver, a Black woman in a military uniform who stood by the car, opened the door for them. “Honestly,” said Serena, “we’re not sure where — it’s one of the things we’ll figure out in the debrief. I’ll see you guys there,” she said as they slid into the back seat. “I’ve got a bunch of calls I need to make, which I’ll do in there —” pointing to her car, “so I don’t bother you.” The driver closed the door behind them.

No sooner had their car driven through the open gate to Georgia than the driver turned and said, “Welcome to the United States of America.” She turned back to face the road ahead. “I’m Michelle, by the way. I usually work with Secretary Ndiaye when she’s here. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

For the first time in a week, Lorinda felt herself begin to relax. “I can’t believe I’m here.” Stimpy was looking intently at her. She smiled at him. “What?”

“You were fantastic,” Stimpy said, not caring if their driver could hear him.

Lorinda was puzzled but happy. “At what?”

“You made this happen. You figured it out. Ten-dimensional chess. Pushing all their buttons. JFK Junior! You were … you are just … amazing.”

 Lorinda felt her cheeks starting to glow. “It’s about time you recognized that …Johnny.” She took a breath. “But, I mean, it wasn’t just me. You were right there. We did it together.”

“It was your plan. I just followed your lead.” He shook his head in amazement and looked away. “‘Soulmates.’ I loved that.” He turned back toward her. “Remember when you said th—"

And then she was kissing him, and he was kissing her back. Michelle caught a glimpse of them in the rear-view mirror, then scrupulously kept her eyes on the road ahead.

NEXT! In which our heroine meets a USA cabinet official and takes a short trip up The Corridor.

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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.

Chapter Forty-Eight. In which our heroine continues her journey in a Cadillac limousine.

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