Chapter Twenty-One

In which our heroine learns about the enclaves of the CCSA.

As bad as the Lada looked, it was more solid and comfortable than the Zhiguli. It seemed faster and smoother, too, at least to Lorinda. Maybe it was just that she’d had a good night’s sleep, a shower, a big breakfast, and had clean clothes that, surprisingly, fit her. “So what’s our next stop?” she asked cheerily after they’d been on the road for a few minutes.

“Our last stop,” Stimpy said, emphasizing “last.”

Good-cop Ren immediately chimed in with: “We’re almost there.”

A few minutes later they came upon a billboard asserting itself in consecutive white-type-on-black-background messages:

SOCIALISM

CAUSES

CANCER DEATH

VOTE WALDRIP

THE CANDIDATE FOR THESE END TIMES!

It lingered on the last panel before launching its next ad. The image was of a curving road leading to the horizon, as if to Oz, where a radiant capital L glowed with promise. Then came the text:

CONGRATULATIONS!

YOU’RE ON THE ROAD TO FREEDOM!

LIBERTYVILLE!

“Libertyville?” Lorinda asked. “What is that? Like, a resort?”

“That,” said Ren, “is our destination.”

“What is it?”

“It’s possibly the stupidest place on the planet,” said Stimpy.

“And how come we’re not hearing the billboard in here?” Lorinda asked.

“Bill must have hacked the car,” Ren laughed. “Did the impossible and turned off the SRBC.”

Another billboard appeared. The first image was a gigantic closeup of the usual CCSA version of Jesus: white, gaunt, benign, Nordic-handsome. The caption read:

JESUS SAYS, “I’M COMING BACK SO I CAN

VOTE FOR OLIVER WALDRIP!”

Then Christ’s face dissolved and was replaced by the pugnacious, bully-boy face of the candidate, silently mouthing the caption:

“CAN’T WAIT! THANKS, LORD!”

That ad faded, to be followed by another one for Libertyville: A white family of four (Dad, Mom, two kids) beamed up at the shining L that loomed over them. Then the words:

VISIT LIBERTYVILLE

AND BE

FREE

FREE

FREE AT LAST!

“It’s the libertarian enclave,” Ren said. “Founded by a bunch of asshole billionaires right after The Split.”

“I know you think I’m stupid —”

“Ignorant, not stupid,” Stimpy reminded her. “It’s not your fault.”

“All right,” she said, “ignorant. What do you mean by ‘enclave’?”

“What do they teach in Perfecton?” Stimpy mumbled.

The next billboard appeared: The family of four now stood, hand in hand, on a pretty town square, smiling as happy townspeople greeted them with merry waves of hello.

 NO GOVERNMENT

NO TAXES

NO PROBLEM!

PURE FREEDOM

LIBERTYVILLE!

“Technically,” Stimpy said, “it’s ‘self-governing enclave.’ Some people say ‘autonomous enclave.’ There are maybe fifty of them, all over the country.”

“You live in one,” said Ren.

“Perfecton? We just call it a town. Or maybe a small city.”

“Are there monthly homeowners’ association dues?” Ren asked.

“Yeah. My parents pay them. They go up every year. Everyone complains about how expensive they are. But they do cover the church dues, too.”

“So it’s privately owned,” Ren said. “Which means that legally it’s a self-governing enclave. It’s part of the CCSA, obviously, but it’s also independent. Austin can’t tell Perfecton what to do …”

“Unless they really want to,” Stimpy snorted.

“Right,” said Ren. “The CCSA federal government, if they really want to step in, they will. It almost never happens, but it can.”

Lorinda found herself groping for an explanation. “I mean, why …”

“One of the purposes of The Split, at least from the CCSA point of view,” Ren said, “was to privatize everything not nailed down. So the enclaves represent the privatization of the idea of a municipality. Of a town.”

“After The Split,” Stimpy said, “the brand new CCSA government had no money. Especially after they decided that the most important thing they needed to do was build their fucking walls. So they raised billions by selling off huge chunks of land to billionaires and their private companies and allowing them to act like separate entities — almost like separate countries — with their own governments, and police, and everything else.”

“Except armies,” Ren said. “And don’t forget insurance.”

“Right,” said Stimpy, “that’s huge. It’s against the demented religion of our libertarian government to build a social-safety net, so how do you protect citizens from old age and tornadoes and life in general? Private insurance, of course! But the State isn’t about to pay for private insurance, no no no: We don’t help losers. So voila! Enclaves! Private corporations that can buy private insurance for their citizens!”

“Paid for by the citizens, of course,” added Ren. “Through their homeowners association or some other sleazy invention. So if you don’t live in an enclave and your house is destroyed by one of our regularly scheduled tornadoes —”

“Welcome to life on the street,” said Stimpy. “And by the way, who started those insurance companies and who makes billions on them? Some of the same dicks who started the place we’re headed to.”

Lorinda, stunned, could only offer a weak, “Really?”

Stimpy snickered. “You never heard of this?”

Lorinda shook her head.

“Yeah,” Stimpy said. “Really. Cause the government doesn’t like to talk about not having any money after The Split. So that’s why the little children of Perfecton don’t know about it.” He snorted. “Or the little children anywhere else in this fucked-up country.”

Ren jerked his head toward Stimpy. “He was just starting on his PhD in history at UT Austin,” he said. “Then came The Split.”

“And suddenly teaching the humanities was illegal. And I went underground,” Stimpy said softly.

“We both did,” said Ren. “I was going to enter the same program. I never quite got there.”

They reached another billboard: The family, each now wearing a bright orange life vest, stood at the railing of some kind of boat, their hair gently blown back by a pleasant off-shore breeze as they gazed expectantly across a placid body of water.

EXPERIENCE THE ULTIMATE FREEDOM!

SEASETTLING

AT LIBERTYVILLE

“I’ve heard of that!” Lorinda said. “Seasettling! You live on a big boat somewhere in the middle of the ocean, and it’s like your own country. I didn’t know that was real.”

“It’s not,” Stimpy said. “And it’s not a boat. It’s like a giant platform. On pilings.”

“Who’s behind it?” Lorinda asked.

“The same Libertyville pricks,” said Ren, as another billboard came into view. Here is where the promo people for the enclave, tasked with the challenge of illustrating “a family happily gazing at other people being happy,” surpassed themselves. Now the image was of the family seated at an outdoor eatery, enjoying a pleasant lunch as, all around them, citizens of the enclave went about their happy everyday routine in work clothes, business suits, or exercise sweats, waving to each other, shaking hands, or pausing to chat.

YOU’LL COME FOR THE FREEDOM

YOU’LL STAY FOR THE PROSPERITY

YOU’RE 15 MINUTES AWAY FROM

LIBERTYVILLE!

“I don’t understand,” Lorinda said. “Do people actually live in these enclaves? I mean other than Perfecton?”

“If they can stand it,” said Stimpy.

“So why are we going to Libertyville?”

“You’ll see,” said Ren.

Lorinda shook her head. “You two. So …” she stopped to think of a word. “Enigmatic! Okay, tell me about some other enclaves?”

“Well,” said Ren, “you’ve got the recreational-vehicle people at R-V-Ville—”

“Is that really an enclave?” Stimpy asked. “It’s more like a big parking lot.”

“They registered as an enclave last year. With Alabama’s approval.”

“RVs? Big campers?” Lorinda was confused. “Enclaves can drive around?”

Ren laughed. “These people haven’t driven anywhere for a long time. They’re always threatening to go somewhere but they never do.”

“They’re lunatics,” said Stimpy. “And their colony or enclave or whatever the fuck they call their parking lot, is growing. I just saw that there are about thirty-thousand of them now. They call themselves dissidents. To the right of the government.” He smirked. “As if there’s any room to the right.”

“They make room,” Ren said. “Remember, they accuse McWeeny and Waldrip of being communists —”

“They call everyone a commie,” said Stimpy. “Except themselves.”

“I don’t even know what a communist is,” said Lorinda. “It’s not like I’ve ever met one.”

“They don’t know what a commie is, either. Because commies don’t exist,” Stimpy said.

"Well, except in China,” Ren said.

 “Sure. But ever see one of them over here? It’s a mythical creature that these fools conjure up from the depths of their poisoned souls.”

Lorinda looked at him, slightly stunned by his unexpected eloquence.

“And they want to kill all the commies,” said Ren, “which makes them insanely paranoid, thinking the commies must want to kill them. That’s why they live in RVs. They want to be able to escape. When? When the commies finally attack, which will be never. Where to? They have no idea.”

Stimpy laughed, a single, sharp “Hah!” “Still,” he said, “when the time comes? When they think the commies are closing in? There’ll be thirty thousand RV’s trying to leave at once. I’d like to watch that from a helicopter.”

Lorinda’s face crumpled in on itself in disbelief. “But that’s crazy!” Staring out the windshield, she muttered, “And now I bet you’re going to tell me about more enclaves that are even weirder.”

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

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.

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