Chapter Forty-One

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

The entourage trundled past a small, New Englandy clapboard church. A sign on the lawn read “Our Lady of the Greens Church & Casino.”

A small animated billboard on the building rotated through a litany of phrases:

LET JESUS SHRINK YOUR HANDICAP

GOLF IS PRAYER

MAKE PAR WITH CHRIST

BE A SWINGER. PLAY GOLF EVERY DAY.

MAY EACH OF YOUR HOLES BE BLESSED

GOD IS IN EVERY ROLL OF THE DICE

WWDJTD?

“We have fourteen beautiful churches in our enclave,” Jared said. “Wherever you live, you’re never more than a three-minute golf-cart ride away from a church.” Just past the church stood an anomalous industrial-looking little brick building that appeared to be some kind of guardhouse, beside which was a sign pointing to a service entrance that passed through the enclave’s brick wall. Chuffing up beside the building was an old yellow school bus — the word “school” obscured by a sloppy black paint stripe — blasting a murky column of smoke from a tall chrome stack. The bus stopped, the door flew open, and passengers immediately started filing out: men of various ages in casual or work clothes, young women, some in work clothes, most in heels and glittering tight dresses.

Jared said not a word. In response to Lorinda’s puzzled look, Stimpy whispered, “That’s the servant class. They’re not allowed to live here, and they couldn’t afford it anyway. They have their own town five miles away.”

“The women are what …” She groped for a guess. “Dancers? Blackjack dealers?”

“A billionaire gets very lonely playing golf and making evil plans all day long.” As their cart-train moved along, Lorinda saw three long — stretched — golf carts arriving at the guardhouse. The bus’s former passengers clambered aboard.

“Of course I’m very excited about the next attraction,” Jared gushed. “It’s my high school, Trump Memorial High. I’m a graduate! You know, one of the things we’re proudest of is the way we saved the taxpayers money by eliminating useless school programs, starting with music and art.” The guests in the carts ahead of Lorinda’s and Stimpy’s chuckled knowingly. “Then, of course, came English …” the guide allowed a moment for his audience to boo. “Math.” Another boo. “Languages, history and science!” A big boo, followed by cheers. “Which means we had much more of a budget for the golf and football programs. I’m super-proud that it was my school that invented the curriculum that was adopted throughout the CCSA!”

“That’s not the way my high school worked,” Lorinda whispered. “We had actual classes.”

“No one adopted that curriculum,” Stimpy whispered back. “He’s just making that up.”

“And here we are,” Jared said, slowing down his cart.

Lorinda expected, at minimum, a stolid, Perfecton High-sized cinderblock school building, possibly with four or five pretentious columns guarding the entrance. Instead, what she saw was a cluster of doublewide mobile-homes with a sign in front proclaiming

DONALD J. TRUMP MEMORIAL HIGH SCHOOL

HOME OF THE TRUMP SWINGERS GOLF AND FOOTBALL TEAMS

Jared’s cart stopped and, in sync, so did the other carts. But before the guide had a chance to speak, one of the carts in the middle of the pack emitted a grating mechanical howl, spun its rear wheels, clanked into the cart in front of it, wobbled, and took off, fast, toward the school. As Jared and his charges looked on in horror, the runaway cart gained speed, veered into a big tree, and violently tossed its four shrieking male passengers in four directions. Then it toppled onto its side and, with a muffled roar, erupted in flames.

Jared, so agitated that his orange wig flew off, grabbed his com from an interior pocket of his suit jacket and yelled into it: “Mayday! Mayday! Autopilot failure on the tour! Autopilot failure! By the high school! Autopilot failure! ...”

On the slow, uneasy procession back to the hotel, Jared apologized profusely, explained that this was only the fifth Autopilot breakdown he’d ever witnessed, and reiterated that there would be authorized, friendly real estate agents waiting in the lobby for the group should anyone have an interest in purchasing a villa, condo, or club membership.

Lorinda and Stimpy avoided the real estate scrum in the lobby and headed straight to the PumpJack's in the hotel mall. A waitress, wearing the Western fringe outfit Lorinda knew so well, ushered them to a table and asked if they were ready for drinks. Stimpy ordered a Johnny Reb beer. Lorinda, declining to explain why that made her shudder, ordered a Nineteen-Twenty Pick-Me-Up Cocktail.

“A what?” The waitress gamely gave it a try: “A ninety-something pickup?”

“Tell you what. I’ll just go up and talk to the bartender.”

“I don’t know …” the waitress said warily.

“It’s okay,” Lorinda said. She dropped her sunglasses on the table, stood, breezily said, “I’m a PumpJack's bartender too,” and made a beeline for the bartender.

The bar was almost identical to Lorinda’s. It was bracketed by two big screens, the left one showing a golf tournament, the right one football. The bartender was around thirty, a hunky dude in a regulation PumpJack's cowboy uniform, right down to the toy six-shooter strapped to his waist. “Hey,” said Lorinda, plumping down on one of the barstools, “can you make me a Nineteen-Twenty Pick-Me-Up Cocktail?”

“Never heard of that one,” the bartender said. “You want to give me the formula? I’m Chris, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Lor … I’m…” Why couldn’t she remember her new name? “Just call me Emmie. I’m also a PumpJack's bartender. In … in Austin.”

“Super. So what’s this fabulous drink, Emmie?”

“So,” she said, “you need a bottle of Pernod, some gin, Angostura bitters, orange bitters —”

“I’m out of that one. Or maybe we never had it.”

“Okay, I guess we can live without it. Or just add a little orange juice. Then some sugar syrup and —” She was interrupted by a pair of hands on her waist. She spun on her stool. It was Stimpy. “What’s up?”

“Don’t look now,” he whispered in her ear, “but you’re on TV. Finish up with him. We need to go.”

Straining to avoid looking at one of the screens, she said, “and soda.”

“Sounds a little strange,” said the bartender, nodding hello to Stimpy, “but, okay, let’s try it.” As he started gathering ingredients, Lorinda looked at the left-hand screen and stifled a gasp when she saw a bigger-than-life closeup of her face, undisguised, taken at the Revelation entrance booth. Below it a caption scrolled:

LORINDA MOON

DESPERATE FUGITIVE

ABORTION SEEKER AVOIDS JUSTICE!

Without giving Lorinda a chance to say a word, Stimpy firmly guided her off the stool. “Sorry,” he said to the bartender. “We just remembered something.”

“What’s that?” the bartender said, grabbing a gin bottle off the back bar.

Relieved to see that Lorinda’s picture was no longer on the screen, replaced by an ad for the reality-suicide show Top of the Heap, Stimpy said, “We have an important meeting.” He handed Lorinda her jumbo sunglasses. “Gotta run now.”

“We’ll be back,” Lorinda said, putting the glasses on, lowering the long brim of her plaid hat, lowering her head, and briskly following Stimpy past the confused waitress and out the door.

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

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.

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