Chapter Thirty-Four

In which our heroine trades arms for freedom.

Lorinda drove as fast as she dared on old, pitted, badly maintained back roads, keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror to see if they were being followed. Stimpy navigated and messaged. Their ears were still ringing from the explosions and gunshots.

Finally, after a particularly long, involved message, Stimpy looked at her and said, “You play golf?”

Lorinda wasn’t sure she heard him right. “What?”

“Golf. Do you play?”

She laughed. “Do I look like I play golf?”

“At the moment? You look like you barely play shuffleboard. But —"

“Why are you asking me that?”

“I just want to get to know you better, that’s all.”

“Fuck you.”

They both laughed.

“You’ll see,” said Stimpy. “It’ll be a surprise.”

“Let me guess. It’s my next fake identity: professional golfer.” Then she pointed to a crappy-looking billboard ahead of them. All it said was “1000 YEARS REICH” above a big faded-red swastika in a black circle. “What the hell?”

“We must be close to the Nazi place.” He hesitated before asking, “You know about Nazis, right?”

She briefly glared at him. “I’ve heard of them.”

“I don’t know if those jerks can even afford to be Nazis anymore,” Stimpy said, ignoring her sarcasm. “You need serious money to actually start an enclave.”

“From billionaires. Right?”

“Exactly.” He laughed. “’Job creators.’” He sighed. “Turned out the financial degenerates — that’s what Roger called the billionaire class — couldn’t see a way to monetize a bunch of dumb anti-Semite fascists. Not that they didn’t think about it. So instead of an actual enclave, they ended up with just a few dozen shacks in the middle of nowhere. All these clowns had was a pile of fake Nazi uniforms and some flags. I’ve seen videos of them practicing goose-stepping. It’s hilarious. Like the world’s worst marching band. Without instruments. They —”

“Wait a minute. They walked around stepping over geese?” It seemed improbable, but so did everything these days.

“HAH! No. Sorry. You know the way a goose literally walks?” He marched two stiff fingers along the dashboard. “With those little straight legs? And no knees? That’s how the original Nazis marched. The German ones. With stiff legs. God knows why. I mean, if there actually was a God. Anyway, these idiots practiced marching like Nazis while they waited for their Hitler to arrive and tell them how to own the world for a thousand years.” He laughed again.

“I know about Hitler, too,” Lorinda said. “So they were sort of waiting for their messiah?”

“Very good, Lorinda Moon from Perfecton! But of course their messiah never showed up. At one point they thought it might be Donald Trump Junior. But you saw how that turned out. So their dreams of a thousand-year Reich died. Now all they do is hustle their Nazi schtick in whatever ways they can think of. And they’re not too good at thinking.” His amusement suddenly disappeared as the Zhiguli rounded a curve. “Fuck.”

“Uh oh,” Lorinda said. Ahead was  a line of motionless vehicles, at the far end of which, a hundred yards off,  a geyser of black smoke spewed heavenward. “Gotta be police up there.” Lorinda slowed the car. She peered at the rear-view mirror. “Maybe  I can turn around —"

“Forget it.” Stimpy shook his head. “Too late. They’ll see us and they’ll come after us for sure. Shitfuck.”

As, one by one, the cars ahead of them were released to resume their journeys, Lorinda eased the Zhiguli forward. Soon enough, they saw sitting athwart the road a black and white police pickup truck — with flashing blue lights, a big red swastika sloppily hand-painted on its door, and enormous vertical chrome exhaust pipes projecting well above the roof of the cab. In the bed of the pickup, visible when the black smoke wasn’t drifting down and obscuring it, was a makeshift easel supporting a crudely painted sign:

GUN CHECK!!!!!!!

$2,500 FINE IF YOUR NOT CARRYING!!!!!!!

They sat in silence as the minutes ticked by. Finally, Lorinda rolled the Zhiguli up to the front of the queue and stopped level with a paunchy police officer in a threadbare, generic “official” police-uniform costume, with swastika patches on the shoulders and, on his breast, a couple of obviously fake plastic badges that might well have said OFFICIAL BIKINI INSPECTOR and BEER TASTERS OF CCSA. He leaned over to conduct an interrogation through Lorinda’s open window. “Loyalty oath,” the cop growled, eyes darting suspiciously back and forth between her and her passenger.

“I re-pledge my loyalty to Jesus Christ … or, wait, is it the sacred memory of Donald J. Trump? Darn. I always switch those around. Can I start over?”

“Sure,” the cop said. “After you pay me a five hundred dollar fine and give me your Citizen Cards.”

“I bet we pass the gun check, though,” Lorinda said, flashing her best PumpJack’s smile and indicating with a toss of her head that he should look behind her.

The cop’s eyes went wide as they focused on the treasure trove behind the front seat. He slid to his right and flattened his face against the rear driver’s-side window. Lorinda gave Stimpy a quick wink, then stuck her head out her window. “You can take a closer look if you like, sir. Mind if I jump out?”

“Sure, okay,” the cop muttered, opening the back door.

Lorinda got out, glided over, and pressed herself lightly against him. “You can touch them if you like.”

“Y’all sure have a lot of nice firearms,” the cop said. He bent over and ran his hands over the guns on the floor.

“We love our guns. They keep us safe. You can hold them. Go on! Pick ‘em up.”

The cop picked two handguns, one a vintage revolver, the other a gleaming, streamlined North Korean job. He straightened up and held the guns lovingly, one in each hand, hefting their weight, his eyes darting hungrily from one to the other. “They’re beauties,” he said.

“We really have more than we need,” Lorinda said. “We were thinking of donating a couple to your police department. If you want to take them and save us the trip, that would be great.”

“What about one of them big doggies?” he asked, now seeming more like a child in a toy store than a police officer with swastikas on his shoulders. “I’ve always wanted one of them.”

“Of course, sir” said Lorinda. “I’m sure your department can make good use of it.”

“Right,” said the cop. “My department.” He gently set the two handguns on the roof of the car, bent back down, and came up with two automatic long guns. Like a kid asking for cookies, he said, “How about these two? Can I have two? We could really use these two.”

 In the cutest voice she could manage, Lorinda chirped, “Sure thing! As long as we’re free to go.”

He snugged the long guns under his left arm, carefully took the handguns off the roof with his right hand, and started toward his truck.

“We can go now, sir?”

He nodded and grunted without looking back at her.

“Thank you, officer,” Lorinda called after him. “Have a blessed day, now. Sir.”

She closed the back door, slipped into the driver’s seat, shut her door, and slowly drove around the pickup truck. She flashed a big smile and waved at the cop, who was carefully setting his new arms collection on the truck’s passenger-side floor. He took no notice of Lorinda.

“Fucker took four of our guns!” Stimpy said once they were out of range. “How do we even know he’s a real cop? I doubt that those fake Nazis have their own police force. I mean, did you see his uniform? Or his truck?”

Lorinda laughed. “First,” she said, “I wouldn’t exactly say they’re our guns. Second, did he check our credentials? Did he take us to fake-Nazi jail? Are we driving to … wherever we’re supposed to be driving to? And third, you’re welcome.”

Stimpy nodded in apology. “Thank you. You were great,” he conceded. “You’re getting good at this.”

“I better be. I’ll be needing a new career.”

“And you’re an excellent driver.”

“Stop. You’ll make me blush. So where are we heading?”

“We stay on this road for another …” he checked his device. “Maybe twenty minutes. Then we change cars again — at Wonders of the Old South.”

“Another enclave?”

“Nah. It’s just … a place.”

“Wait. Don’t tell me. Is it a golf course?”

“That comes later. This one’s just a place. A fucked-up place.”

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

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.

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