Chapter Twenty-Three

In which our heroine experiences liberty run amok.

There weren’t too many cars in the lot. Stimpy pulled up close to the gate and found a spot. They got out of the car, Ren grabbed the weapon from the floor in back, and they headed for the admissions gate. Somewhere beyond the gate a plume of thick black smoke rose to a bruise-colored sky. Stimpy paid at the turnstile with a Patriot Card in the name, Lorinda noticed, of Patrick Buchanan. The fee was $750-per-person, for a total of $2,250. She was surprised it wasn’t more. They entered past a sign reading GUNS LOADED? WALLETS LOADED?

Ahead of them, Lorinda saw what looked like a midway. She hadn’t expected that. It was as though Libertyville was trying to present itself as an amusement park. Or was it a theme park? Or a county fair? Just beyond the entrance, they passed a small vacant lot full of old people sitting around a fire, just like the ones Lorinda had seen in Austin. “Welcome to Libertyville,” said Ren.

“All you have to know about this place,” Stimpy said, leaning toward Lorinda and speaking quietly, as though confiding a secret, “is that it was started as a community by people who didn’t believe in community. These billionaires looked at CCSA — which is supposed to be like a huge fucking Wild West boom town — and decided, ‘This place is too regimented.’ So they started an enclave with no taxes — okay, ridiculously low taxes — no regulations, and no laws.” He gave her an obviously phony smile. “Brace yourself.”

Beyond the vacant lot, the midway consisted of stores large and small, makeshift stands, and sketchy-looking people behind tables covered with junk. The larger establishments employed carney barkers out front — fast-talking young men or sexily clad young women all yakking into bullhorns and desperately trying to drum up business. There were storefronts for lawyers, stockbrokers, astrologers, betting parlors, game parlors, casinos, toy stores, brothels, cinemas, virtual-reality dens, fast-food restaurants, restaurants proudly touting their use of tablecloths and napkins, bars, liquor stores, pharmacies (ALL OPIATES ON SALE!), gun stores, shooting ranges, hotels, and an entranceway for a stadium, with an unpunctuated sign reading WELCOME TO LIBERTYVILLE HIGH SCHOOL STADIUM HOME OF THE LIBERTYVILLE SEASETTLERS FOOTBALL TEAM INC.   

There were several crashed cars strewn about, and the more the trio walked, the more wrecked cars they saw. Lorinda was about to ask how cars had ended up in what was obviously a pedestrian mall, when she noticed a sudden sharp increase in the acrid smoke as well as many people wearing filtration masks or holding tissues or handkerchiefs up to their mouths, but seeming otherwise unperturbed. Then they came upon the source of the murk overhead and the haze they’d seen in the parking lot: A store was on fire. A few tourists gawked, but only an uncoordinated bucket brigade of neighboring shopkeepers and their employees attempted to extinguish the blaze. There were no fire hydrants visible; the sight of men in various states of athletic incompetence huffing into and out of a nearby pizza shop, bearing buckets and cookpots, indicated that that was the source of the water.

As Lorinda coughed and tried to fan away the fumes with her hand, she noticed two of the bucket brigadiers suddenly square off against each other. Both were enormous. One wore an old, ragged black T-shirt the size of a pup tent featuring the faded image of a muscular, buff Donald Trump bearing a superhero shield and costume. The other’s T-shirt displayed what looked like a photograph of the man himself, with his tiny wife and baffled-looking child standing on a lawn while, at their feet, upward of fifty hand guns, automatics, semi-automatics, and long-guns lay in a meticulously arranged pattern.

Trump Shirt said, “Stop pushing me! You’re getting me all wet!”

Gun Shirt replied, “Then keep up! You’re moving too slow!”

“This water is HEAVY, Fuckface!”

“Then get out of the line!”

“YOU get out of the line!”

They went back and forth like this a few more times, until suddenly Trump Shirt dropped his pot of water, grabbed the sloshing bucket from the other man and flung it to the ground. Gun Shirt balled up a meaty fist but, rather than actually punching his enemy with it, smacked him as though wielding a fly-swatter. Trump Shirt responded by putting up his dukes and swatting back. Someone yelled, “Take it out of here, assholes!” and shoved Trump Shirt out of the line. Gun Shirt stepped aside, panting.

Then out came the guns.

Stimpy and Ren instinctively put their arms around Lorinda’s shoulders and whisked her away from the fracas just before two gun blasts sounded simultaneously. Lorinda looked back to see both men lying in the street, bleeding, twitching, and moaning, ignored by the other pedestrians and bucket wielders.

With the fire raging behind them, the trio squeezed their way around two mammoth tow trucks and an ambulance inexplicably straddling the pavement, with engines thrumming and exhaust pipes spewing. At the intersection where the pedestrian promenade ended, they could go no farther, stopped by the relentless traffic on the cross street. With no stoplight or stop sign or crossing guard, there were at least a dozen other pedestrians at each of the crossing points of the intersection, gauging the odds of surviving if they attempted to dodge the fast-moving trucks and cars. Fortunately for them, a car dared to turn left across traffic. The car — a tiny Pyeonghwa Peon— was instantly T-boned and accordioned by a bulky Shuanghuan Executive Suite coming the other way.

A predictable chain reaction of progressively less distressful crashes followed. Once the sounds of metal twisting, plastic snapping, and glass shattering had ceased, the impatient pedestrians bolted, some of them sliding right across the hoods of the mangled vehicles, ignoring the cries of those involved. Some drivers and passengers from lightly damaged vehicles, several car-lengths from the main impact site, jumped out and waved their guns, searching for someone to punish for this rude disruption.

Stimpy led the way across the street and past a luxury apartment building, then past a row of four shabby tenements. No storefronts or booths or carney barkers down here, just various forms of residential structures. At the next corner he turned right, following the arrow on the sign declaring FAMOUS SEASETTLING EXPERIENCE.

“That’s where we’re going,” Ren said.

“But why?” Lorinda asked. “I mean, I’d like to see that and all, but why are we here?”

Now it was Ren’s turn to lean in and speak in a confidential murmur. “We’re going to get you to New Mexico, USA,” Ren said softly. “We shouldn’t talk about it in public, okay?”

 Lorinda couldn’t speak even if she’d wanted to. The reminder of her destination, and what she was doing — fleeing the country! Leaving her parents! Leaving her job! — hit her like a punch. That triggered a rapid and familiar emotional and intellectual loop: Maybe she should just go back and have the baby. But she couldn’t go back. She had assaulted a Confederal agent. She had to keep going.

All she could do was nod to Ren and say nothing.

They were on a street of side-by-side mansions — big, multi-story monsters in a mismatched variety of styles: Colonial, Neo-Romantic, Pioneer/Frontier, Moderne, Space Age. Each sat at the center of its broad, landscaped — or formerly landscaped — yard. The grandest of them had a large brass plaque on a slab of granite standing beside its concrete walkway entrance proclaiming: LIBERTYVILLE FOUNDER PIERRE SPIELÉ FAMOUS HOME AND MUSEUM.

“That’s one of the billionaires?” Lorinda asked

“The biggest,” said Ren. “He stuck around here just long enough to set up this shithole enclave and the Seasettling thing. As soon as regular people started moving to Libertyville he couldn’t stand it and moved out. Which is weird, since a lot of those people came here to be near him. Plus, what did he think would happen?”

“It’s great to be a libertarian,” said Stimpy, “when you’re the only person in the world.”

“Or,” Ren added, “when you’re fifteen, and think the world began the day you started reading Ayn Rand.”

After two more short blocks of mansions they arrived at the shore of a big, and plainly artificial, lake. On an island in the middle sat a hodgepodge of small buildings — a geodesic dome, some A-frames, a couple of small log cabins, a low-rise brick apartment building.

“Our guy is right there” said Stimpy, pointing at the dome.

“He’ll take me to the USA?” Lorinda asked.

“He’ll take us across the lake and hook us up with the people who’ll drive us to our secret tunnel,” Ren said. “You’ll go through the tunnel  and you’ll meet your welcoming committee in New Mexico.”

“And we go back home to save someone else,” Stimpy said.

“Your guy works there?”

“Yeah,” said Ren. “It’s the perfect cover. He’s the boss of the Seasettling showroom.”

They approached a small ticket booth whose sign stated WORLD FAMOUS SEASETTLING EXPERIENCE VISIT NOW ONLY $250. Stimpy took out his card and stepped up to the window, then stopped: There was no one in the booth. He looked around for a ticket machine, but there was none to be found. Lorinda wandered out onto a dock, where she peered down at a dinghy tied to cleats on the dock.

“I can drive it,” she said. She pointed to its outboard motor. “The key’s in it.” Stimpy gave her a skeptical look. She replied with some attitude. “I had a job the summer I was fifteen, driving one of these at Camp Perfect. We have to get over there to see your guy, so ...” She  lowered herself into the boat and expertly started the engine. “Don’t just stand there,” she said. “Undo the lines.”

Ren and Stimpy walked across the dock, loosened the knots, tossed the lines into the little boat, gingerly stepped in, and sat on narrow thwarts across from each other, Ren being careful to keep the big gun off the wet deck. Lorinda lifted the steering handle and twisted the throttle cautiously. The boat started to glide across the mirror-smooth water, and in a few minutes they were approaching the dock on the island. A smallish, trim man wearing a somewhat fanciful fake naval-officer’s outfit had come out of the dome to greet them. With his wavy white hair and beard,  Lorinda took him for a wise, middle-aged sea captain. Then he spoke, and she realized he was around thirty. “What are you guys doing here?” he called.

“Keeping our appointment,” Ren called back.

“You didn’t get my message.” It was a statement, not a question.

“What message?” Stimpy said as Lorinda feathered the boat up to the dock.

The fake naval officer caught the lines that Stimpy tossed him and secured the boat to the cleats. “Our com system must be down again,” he said. Then, to Lorinda: “Hi. You must be Margaret. I’m Snoopy.”

“Of course you are,” said Lorinda.

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 Twenty-Four. In which our heroine’s escape is disastrously derailed.

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.

Get THE SPLIT in your inbox every Sunday! Subscribe for free or $$$, either way!