Lorinda’s left eye opened. That familiar deafening noise and vibration. Another helicopter ride! Pounding her head. Tried to look around. Couldn’t move. Disembodied deep voice said “something something hospital VIP wing.” Left eye closed.

Lorinda’s eyelids fluttered open. She was in a bed, her back slightly elevated. A woman in blue scrubs that said “Johns Hopkins Hospital” on one side and “Dr. Helen Branch” on the other, sat on the bed, gazing at Lorinda’s face.

“Lorinda, darling,” Aunt Helen said in a near-whisper.

Lorinda’s eyes pinballed in slow motion around the room. She blinked. She tried to focus. She rotated her head slightly. She broke into a big smile. “Aunt Helen!”

Helen leaned forward and gave Lorinda a gentle hug. Lorinda wrestled her arms out from under the covers, sat up, threw her arms around her aunt’s waist, and hugged her fiercely. “Stimpy! Stewart!” she said when she saw him standing behind her aunt. His head was wrapped in a big, thick bandage, but other than that he looked good. She reached one of her hands out to him and he kissed it.

She glanced around, taking stock, getting oriented. She was in a large hospital room painted a relaxing shade of blue-green and housing, in addition to the bed, a desk, a desk chair, and two thickly-upholstered visitors’ chairs next to the desk. A whiteboard with names, phone numbers, and instructions (and a smiley face) in blue marker hung on the wall next to the doorway. A rollable bed tray stood nearby, holding several plastic cups and a pitcher of water. Bright daylight came in through half-shut blinds from a large window. Electronic beeps repeated somewhere off to the side.  

 Something was covering her forehead and wrapped around her head. She felt it: a rough, stretchable bandage.

Turning to Stewart, Helen said, “You’re a true hero. Both of you. I’m so proud of you, Lorinda.”

“Do I have an appointment?”

“Oh, honey,” Helen said when she realized what Lorinda was talking about, “you don’t need that appointment. You …” Helen paused, maybe not sure how to deliver this news. “Honey, you had a miscarriage from whatever you got involved in on that boat. I’ll see that you get the follow-up care you’ll need.”

It took a moment for Lorinda to digest the news. “I just can’t …”

When she tailed off, Stewart stepped in and said, “But they say you’ll be fine. I mean, completely recovered.”

“So. They put me through all that, and this is the result.” Lorinda tried to laugh. ”It’s so … what’s the word?” She looked at Stewart.

“Ironic?” Stewart said.

“That’s it. Ironic. Thank you, Janelle Stark.” To her aunt, who looked puzzled, Lorinda said, “Fake doctor Janelle Stark, the Confederation security goon who was chasing me, trying to lock me up and force me to have a baby.” She shook her head. “Who I saw kill two people. Because she was so ‘pro-life.’”

“Oh God, those bastards!” Helen said with surprising passion.

There was a knock on the door. A nurse standing discreetly next to it opened it a crack, letting in an unexpectedly loud burst of crowd hubbub. She saw who was knocking and opened the door a little further, allowing a compact young man in his mid-thirties, in an impeccable suit and long brown hair, to enter the room. He was trailed by a younger woman toting a big com pad and a big leather bag over her shoulder. As the nurse closed the door behind them, the young man made straight for Lorinda. Circumnavigating Dr. Helen Branch on the bed, the young man stuck out his hand, saying, “Lorinda Moon! I’m thrilled to meet you! I’m Connor Feldman, President Gulden’s Chief of Staff.”

“Wow,” said Lorinda, shaking his hand.

“This is my assistant, Mindy,” he said. “The president is on her way over. I wonder if we can get a few pictures for the media before she gets here.” He looked at Stewart. “Stewart Roderick, right?”

“That’s right,” said Stewart, not looking too happy about it.

“Stewart Roderick,” Lorinda said under her breath, wondering how it was that this stranger knew Stewart’s last name and she didn’t. Well, she did now.

“What’s going on out there?” Stewart said. “I thought this was a hospital.”

“Oh, it’s just the media,” Connor said. “The hallway’s a sort of holding pen for them. It’s the VIP wing, you know.” He looked from Stewart to Lorinda. “You guys are just amazing.” He turned to Helen. “We should get you in some of the pictures too, doctor.”

“Oh,” she said, “I’m not her doctor. I mean, I’m a doctor, but I’m at Johns Hopkins, not here at Walter Reed. I’m Lorinda’s aunt, Dr. Helen Branch, and I really think you ought to let them recover a bit before you start taking pictures. Don’t you?”

“Sure,” said Connor smoothly, “in a perfect world. But the president really wants to get the news about them out right away.” He spoke directly to Lorinda. “Millions of people in the USA are following your amazing journey, and they want to know that you’re okay.”

“I feel pretty good,” Lorinda said, touching the bandage on her head. “I mean, I could live without this, and I have a little headache. They must have given me some drugs, right?” Helen nodded. “It’s a headache but it feels like someone else’s headache.” She looked at Stewart. “How are you?”

“Pretty much the same,” he said.

“All right,” said Helen affably, “I can see that I’m outgunned here. Why don’t I go and when this business is over we’ll figure everything out.”

“Hold on,” Lorinda said to Connor. “I’ll do the pictures, but first I need to talk to my parents, and my brother if you can find him. And I want Aunt Helen with me.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” Connor said with a smile and a nod to his assistant, who instantly started typing on her pad. “We anticipated this, so we already set up a secure connection. Are they ready?” Mindy nodded and tapped her pad. Most of the wall across from the bed lit up, revealing Lorinda’s nervous mother and her glowering brother, in their living room, looking straight into the camera.

“Mom! Zeke!” Lorinda cried. “I’m so happy to see you! This is so great!”

“You killed dad!” Zeke yelled.

“What are you saying?!”

“He didn’t die,” Rita said. “He had a small heart attack.”

“And it’s your fault!” Zeke was practically foaming at the mouth. On the huge screen, Lorinda could see that the tip of his nose was green. Manna.

“He’s in the hospital,” Rita said flatly. “Recovering. Maybe.”

“It’s because of you,” Zeke said heatedly. “These police coming to our house all the time, tearing it apart, pushing us around. You should see what they did to your room. It’s your fault, Lorinda! You’re the antichrist! You’re going to hell! You can’t hide in the USA! They’ll get you!” Rita put her arms around her son, who burst into tears on her shoulder.

“He had his heart attack here,” she said to the camera. “Right there in the dining room. We had to drag him to the car, me and your brother, and bring him to his office parking lot.”

“We left him there,” Zeke sobbed. “In the parking lot.”

“What?! Why, mom?”

“So it looked like he had it at work. Otherwise, no insurance. Now at least it’s covered by the business policy.” It was Rita’s turn to burst into tears, but she quickly composed herself, looked hard into the camera, and said, “Hello, Helen. Glad to see you’re alive. You, too, Lorinda.”

“You’re a whore, Lorinda!” Zeke shouted.

“You need to have him treated for manna addiction, mom,” Lorinda said as calmly as she could manage. “That stuff is deadly.”

“If your father lives, he’ll never talk to you again,” Rita said.

“Don’t come back,” Zeke said.

“It’s nice seeing you, too,” Lorinda said sadly.

“I miss you so much,” Helen said. Rita and Zeke turned away from the camera and the screen went dark. A moment later the wall was back to looking like a wall. Lorinda stared at it until Helen shrugged her shoulders, leaned in and kissed Lorinda’s cheek. “I thought that went well,” Helen said.

Lorinda cracked up and continued laughing, somewhat hysterically, until tears rolled down her cheeks. As she calmed down, Helen gave her a tissue. Lorinda daubed her cheeks, smiled wanly at Stewart, and took a deep breath. She turned to Connor, nodded definitively, and said, “Okay. Let’s do it.” Connor nodded at Mindy, who typed quickly on her pad.

A moment later the door opened, admitting both the crowd noise and a tall, thin, bald man with a goatee, in his forties, all in black, who carried a serious looking tripod on top of which was a serious looking camera. He was followed in by another man, shorter and stouter, with a full head of hair and a full beard, also dressed in black and carrying a second tripod, this one with an array of small lights on top. “Our official image team,” Connor said.

“Some stills?” the tall one said.

“Yeah,” Connor replied. “A few of Lorinda in bed, a few with her aunt, a few with Mr. Roderick —”

“No, thanks,” said Stewart. “No pictures of me. I don’t want to put the people I work with in the CCSA at risk.”

Conner gave him a quizzical look. “How —"

“There may be spy pictures of them with me. Face recognition, easy match, they might be able to track my friends down. You never know.” He walked to the corner of the room, behind where the image team had set their tripods.

“Lorinda, honey, I think I’m going to go,” Helen said. “They don’t need my picture. You’ll come stay with us as soon as they release you.” She looked across the room. “And you too, Stewart. We have plenty of room. Stay as long as you like.” She and Lorinda hugged again.

“Mindy has all your info,” Connor said to Helen as she stood up. “I think they’ll release her in a day or two.”

“I think so too,” Helen said as she waved at Lorinda and Stewart. The nurse opened the door just enough to let her out — and keep the chatter and shouting to a minimum — and she slipped away.

“I must look terrible,” Lorinda said, hoping to hear that a makeup person was about to burst through the door.

“Don’t worry,” said the camera guy. “The camera will fix you up.” To Lorinda’s skeptical look, he added, “It has excellent makeup software.”

The lighting guy studied Lorinda, then said, “Can you sit up a little straighter?” Lorinda did as he said. “That’s good. Great look. Have you modeled before?” He tweaked the lights a bit and nodded at his colleague, who took the camera off the tripod and circulated around the room for no more than fifteen seconds with the camera pointing at Lorinda.

“All right, that’s great,” he said, putting the camera back on the tripod. “When is she coming?” he asked Connor.

Connor looked to Mindy, who looked at her pad and said, “Right about now.”

“I’ll let you know when to come back in,” Connor said to the camera and light guys, who left their equipment in place and started for the door. At which point the door opened and, as the noise in the hallway somehow got even louder, two big Secret Service men in dark suits entered, took a few steps in, gave the room a gimlet-eyed once over, and followed the media crew out the door. Then the president of the USA entered. The nurse left and closed the door from the outside.

“Lorinda Moon and Stewart Roderick,” Connor said, “it is my pleasure to introduce you to the president of the United States of America, Anita Flores Gulden.”

Of course Lorinda and Stewart recognized her, but they were unprepared for her charisma, a force-field that nearly rendered them speechless. She was slim and of medium height, with long, dark hair. She wore a collarless beige blazer over a white blouse and matching beige trousers. With some effort, Lorinda managed to say, “Hello, Madam President.” Stewart echoed her.

“Please, call me Anita,” the president said.

“Madam President,” Connor said, “we thought it would look great if you were sitting right there next to the bed, so you and Lorinda are the same height —”

“That’s good,” President Gulden said. Without being told, Mindy rolled the desk chair over to the bed, then left the room, leaving only Lorinda, Stewart, Connor, and the president inside. As Gulden sat and adjusted the height of the chair, Connor said to Lorinda and Stewart, “We’ll be doing a live feed to all outlets after this. But first …”

“First,” said Gulden, “I’d like to talk to you about something important.”

“Have a seat,” Connor said to Stewart. “We’re not shooting yet.” To the president, Connor said, “He doesn’t want his picture to get out. Security concerns about his people in the CCSA.”

“Totally understood,” Gulden said as Stewart sat on the side of the bed opposite the president’s chair. “You know,” she said to Stewart, “the woman whose nom de guerre is Wilma Flintstone, she and I went to college together.”

“She told me that you were friends,” Stewart said. “It’s not the kind of thing you want to brag about in the CCSA.”

“Understood. We were roommates from sophomore year on. Besties.”

Stewart was surprised. “That she didn’t tell me.”

“We’ve stayed in touch,” Gulden continued. “It’s not so easy with her behind the Iron Curtain, but we have our ways. She’s the bravest person I know. She’s told me all about you, Stewart. She holds you in the highest regard, which means I hold you in the highest regard. I just want to say that, in my opinion, you’ve done more than your share of work in the CCSA and we welcome you to the USA with open arms. I hope you’ll stay. If there’s anything you need from me, the line to Connor will always be open. Any idea what you’d do with yourself here?”

Stewart smiled. “The first thing I need to do is…” He looked at Lorinda. “Recover from what we’ve just been through. Do a little thinking. A little sleeping. Regroup.”

“Do you ever consider finishing your PhD?”

“I’ve thought about it,” Stewart said. “That was my original path.”

“If that’s what you want, I can write a very persuasive letter of recommendation when the time comes,” the president said. “And I’m pretty close with the presidents of three Ivy League universities. Make that four. Plus Stanford.” Lorinda was almost certain she saw him blush. Gulden took a breath, and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, it was clear that she was ready to get down to business.

“So, Lorinda. And Stewart. As Connor knows, I’ve been accused of talking too much, and too fast. I’ve tried to slow myself down when I give speeches and such, but right now I’m not going to rein myself in. I’ve got a lot I want to cover and we don’t have a lot of time. So I’ll start right in.

“What I say here is between us, understand? Completely off the record. And just so you know what I mean, you may hear me say things on the record that are different, or even that contradict, what I’m about to tell you. Sometimes being in politics means you have to trick some people into doing, or believing, the right thing. I’m afraid you sometimes have to lie to get to a higher truth. But I’m not going to lie to you. Because of who you are and what you’ve been through, I think of you as being untrickable. And even if I could, I wouldn’t want to trick you. I respect you too much for that. And I want to earn your respect. I want you on my team for the right reasons. I trust you not to tell anyone what I tell you in private here. But you should know that if you slip and tell someone, and it gets out into the world, I’ll deny it — and, to be blunt about it, I’ll be the one who’s believed. But I sincerely hope it never comes to that. Are you following so far?”

Lorinda and Stewart both nodded.

“Good. All right. The first thing I want to get out of the way is this. Do you have any idea how those CCSA security forces knew you were going to be on the USS Raskin?”

“Janelle Stark,” Lorinda said, “the CCSA security person who was chasing us, she said they have the best — what did she say?”

“’The finest intelligence agencies on earth,’” Stewart said. “I told her that was ridiculous. It almost got me killed.”

“You were right,” Gulden said. “Their intelligence agencies suck. You know how they really found you? I told them.” She paused to allow that to sink in.

“You … you told them we were there?” Stewart said. “Why?” Lorinda could see on his face that he was suddenly torn between respect for Gulden and anger about what she’d done.

“Well, not me personally,” Gulden said. “But the buck stops here. I authorized the leak through a double agent, if you must know.”

“But why?!”

“You weren’t meant to be put in any danger and I’m mortified that you were. And of course I apologize. The plan was for the subs to surface before those pirates boarded the Raskin. Or, preferably, while they were climbing up their rope ladders. You ask why, Stewart? We’re making a propaganda film posing as a documentary, that’s why. Lorinda is now famous in the CCSA. And here, too. Fame doesn’t last if it’s not tended and curated. Sure, we could have put you two in an airplane and flown you here, but no one wants to watch someone boarding an airplane. We wanted something memorable, a battle scene that no one would ever forget. We wanted to show the CCSA going to ludicrous lengths to chase down one pregnant woman. And we wanted to show them being crushed by the superior and much more powerful forces of the USA.”

“Literally crushed,” Lorinda said.

“That,” said Gulden, “was not in the script. And you — I can’t stress this enough — you were not meant to be put in harm’s way. The submarines surfaced a few minutes late. I’m told there was some kind of communications snafu. Whatever it was, we’ve started an investigation and there will surely be consequences for whoever screwed up.”

“They almost killed us,” Stewart said. His voice was calm but his eyes were burning.

“But they didn’t,” Lorinda said. “I totally get it. The movie’s going to be amazing. And us getting beaten up’ll make it even more amazing.”

Stewart’s mouth fell open. He gave Lorinda a look of shocked disbelief, as though she had suddenly morphed into a bird. Or Joan of Arc.

“Again,” the president said, “I apologize. And I’ll never forget your sacrifice.” She looked at Stewart, who was quietly seething. “Stewart,” she said, “I know you’re angry. And I don’t blame you. You feel like you’ve been used, a pawn in a game you maybe didn’t even know you were playing.” To Connor she said, “Cancel my next meeting, and tell the shooting crew to hang tight — this could take a little longer than we scheduled.”

Connor, seated in one of the guest chairs, took out his com and started tapping on it. Gulden continued. “I want to give you a little background on how we got here. How I got here. You may know a lot of this, Stewart, but I especially want you, Lorinda, to understand what’s behind all this. I don’t want you to think that we put you at risk for frivolous reasons.

“To back up ... many years ago, before The Split, a group of wealthy and powerful citizens of the old USA came to the conclusion that there was no reconciling what at the time we called the red states and the blue states.” She paused, thought for a second, then continued. “Actually, I want to start a little earlier than that. I think I was triggered by a slogan the GOP started using: ‘It’s not political, it’s Biblical.’ I was disgusted, of course. And I thought about how it was like the 1600s, when they kicked the worst of the religious assholes out of Europe, because no one could stand them, and sent them to North America.”

“Excuse me,” Lorinda interrupted. “What’s the GOP?”

“The Republican Party,” Stewart gently said. “The political party of the red states. They started out conservative and became religious and fascistic.”

“And here they were, the spiritual descendants of the same people, hundreds of years later, still being intolerable reactionary assholes. But now we couldn’t just send them to another continent that they could colonize —”

“And despoil,” Stewart said.

“Exactly. Anyway, end of digression. So … before The Split, I was one of the youngest among a group of influential people who had concluded things had gone too far, that it was a waste of energy to try to patch up the cracks that had developed between red and blue.

“Many in the red states were talking about seceding — you know, the South shall rise again and all that, reliving the Civil War. Most people in the blue states were appalled by that kind of talk, but after a while we in this — I’ll use the word — elite group were surprised to find ourselves agreeing with them, that separation was the only way forward. We’d had it with them blocking legislation, screwing around with our courts, our politics, our elections, the very basis of our democracy. And we were blocked by our own Constitution from doing anything about it. Do you know about the Electoral College, Lorinda?”

Lorinda shook her head.

“Let’s just say that it gave the red states a lot more voting power than the blue states.”

“That’s crazy,” Lorinda said.

“I’m sure Stewart can tell you all about it if you’re interested. In any event, we were also sick of carrying them, financially. Money was always flowing from the blue states to the red states. And we were sick of the racism and the sexism. We’d had it with their cartel of fascist media demagogues who, for decades, had become the only source of news for thirty-five or forty percent of the country. It was a world that George Orwell could have invented —”

“If he’d had a better imagination,” Stewart interjected.

Gulden laughed. “Right. He couldn’t have imagined that there were a lot of people who wanted Big Brother to be watching them. And so, in summary, we were sick of living like that. We had so many good ideas, there was so much we could accomplish, and they were holding us back. We came to the conclusion — we, this group of powerful, influential Americans—that we were already two separate countries. We had two different and distinct ideas of what ‘America’ meant. And even if we had to give up forty percent of the population, and a whole lot of dirt and trees, and a chunk of gross national product, we’d be better off making a clean break. Parenthetically, our economic projections indicated that it would take only fifteen or twenty years to grow back to the same size economy we had before ditching the red states.

“So what did we need from this divorce? When it was time to get specific it wasn’t so easy to figure out. It was excruciating, in fact. We in this group banged heads for years. In a few cases we had to wait until some old-timer died to be able to move forward. But we finally came to a compromise we could all live with.

“During this time we were in touch with our counterparts in the red states, who had pretty much reached the same conclusion about getting a divorce. Of course, no one on either side wanted an actual war, a shooting war, aside from the most retrograde, dug-in, out-of-touch red-staters.”

“Meaning,” Steward said, “the gun nuts, and the Johnny Reb hotheads, and the idiots who think armed combat is glamorous.”

“Don’t forget the wannabe martyrs,” the president said. “The next step was in some ways the hardest: to convince a majority of our own blue-state citizens that splitting up was a good idea. We launched a massive — here’s that word again — propaganda campaign to get people to see things our way. Some of it was overt. Politicians talking about it, editorials and op-eds, straight-up advertising. Some of it was more subtle. I remember there was an old Janis Joplin song, ‘Ball and Chain,’ that you started hearing everywhere in the blue states. We pushed it out there and kept pushing it. The red states were our ball and chain, you see, and after a while everyone was singing along.”

Lorinda had no idea who Janis Joplin was, but this didn’t seem to be the time to ask.

“Finally, the majority of Americans — blue staters and red staters — had adjusted to the idea that splitting the country was not particularly crazy. The red staters came around first. Because of course they did. After all those years of Civil War talk, and secession fantasies, and ‘states’ rights,’ and Don’t Tread on Me bluster, and their desire for a ‘Christian’ nation. They were sold!

“But after a while polling showed that blue-staters had also come around. At last we were ready to start over, new Constitution and all. We finally had a couple of national referendums and there it was: a big majority for splitting up.”

Stewart and Lorinda were rapt. It wasn’t every day that you got to hear the inside story of a major world event from the lips of an actual participant. “I thought that a lot of blue-state politicians opposed The Split,” Stewart said.

“Definitely at first,” said Gulden. “But we managed to flip most of them early on. After that, a lot of the resistance was for show. They were pretending to resist, waiting for public opinion to catch up. It was all part of the plan. They loudly resisted, then gradually — and very publicly — came around, starting to say that splitting up was better than remaining in an abusive marriage. The whole thing was scripted so it wouldn’t look like a bunch of the rich and powerful jamming their ideas down everyone else’s throat.

“Things finally got real and we started negotiating with our red-state counterparts. We made huge demands at first — outrageous demands. Gradually, we started caving in, or pretending to cave. At the risk of appearing immodest, I was the loudest voice for playing it that way, and I had to argue against many powerful, and much older, men, who didn’t want our side to lose face by pretending to be weak. I said it was political jiu-jitsu: We needed to flatter them into submission, and that’s exactly what we did. The conservative media swallowed the bait, and that meant that the entire red-state population swallowed the bait. Their media couldn’t stop crowing about how strong they were and how weak we were. It was a classic ‘don’t throw me into the briar patch’ strategy.”

Once again, Lorinda looked confused. “Don’t … what?”

“Connor can talk to you about that after I leave,” Gulden said. “Their media and their politicians started saying it proved that God was on their side. Hah! So finally the hard-core negotiations began. Skipping the small stuff, we insisted that Texas had to come with us, that it was a dealbreaker, that it was a natural blue state.”

“Texas!” Lorinda was shocked to learn than anyone could ever have pictured Texas in the USA.

“I know,” Gulden said. “Of course they stood firm. After a while all they cared about was making sure they got Texas. In the media it was ‘The Great Texas Debate.’ I was at the negotiating table in Windsor and I actually managed to cry a few times when we talked about Texas. I should get an Oscar for that.”

“Windsor?”

“Windsor, Ontario, Canada,” Stewart said. “The famous Windsor Conference where they negotiated The Split.”

“In reality, we wanted nothing to do with Texas. When we finally threw in the towel on Texas, and hung our heads in make-believe shame, they were so exuberant they didn’t notice that we’d walked away with everything we actually wanted, like the trade deals for manufacturing in the CCSA. And the floating exchange rate. We argued against that, you know. We insisted on a locked exchange rate, so that the USA dollar and the CCSA dollar were permanently linked: one US dollar equals one CCSA dollar, forever. The harder we argued, the more they were convinced that they needed to beat us, that their dollar would soon be much more valuable than ours. It was almost sad. They didn’t have a single economist who could look at the big picture honestly and model the future movement of the two currencies.”

“All you had to do to get what you wanted was argue against it?” Stewart said.

“Pretty much. One day the history of all this will be written. Maybe,” she said conspiratorially, “you’ll be the one to write it. Well, PS, within the first year after the Moratorium, the US dollar was worth around three CCSA dollars. A year later it was over six. Today it’s much higher than we dared dream.”

“You guys are not very nice to the poor old CCSA,” Lorinda said mischievously.

“I guess we’re not. You want to hear something brutal? We’re secretly supporting McWeeny in the upcoming CCSA election. He’s, excuse my language, out of his fucking mind. If you think the CCSA’s in bad shape now, wait until you see what it’ll be like under a McWeeny administration. We’ve done the economic modeling, and it’s not a pretty picture. But whether or not he wins, we have exactly what we wanted: a Third World autocracy on our border churning out excellent, low-cost manufactured goods for us. It’s very selfish, right? Realpolitik. Stewart knows what I mean.

“In the grand scheme of things, our never-ending skirmishes with the CCSA are minor annoyances. The real battle for us and our allies is the fight against fascism, all around the world. Can we crush it, once and for all? I don’t know. There seems to be a permanent subset of humanity that consists of, to call it by its technical name, authoritarian personality types. They crave an authority figure — the more absurd the better — telling them what to do. For some reason, they need Big Daddy. I’m just glad that we have a captive supplier of excellent low-cost consumer goods, which keeps our citizens happy and helps our overall economy to focus on big issues like climate, peace, and dismantling global fascism.

“Does this mean we like having the CCSA as a neighbor? No! It’s a terrible neighbor. Aside from its insane politics, there’s the pollution. The annoyance attacks — like what you just experienced in The Corridor. The pandemics that flourish in a place where science is considered unpatriotic. And, of course, the fact that the continental USA is no longer a contiguous nation — you can’t drive from Maine to California without going through Canada. The Canadians have been wonderfully cooperative, but still … Here’s a secret for you. You’ve heard about the proposed North Dakota Purchase?”

“I saw CEO Waldrip and McWeeny debating about it,” Lorinda said.

“The secret is — now don’t tell anyone or we’ll have to charge you with treason.” She winked, just in case Lorinda didn’t get that she was joking. “In a couple of weeks you’ll hear that it’s a done deal. North Dakota will become our twenty-sixth state.”

“And the CCSA will be down to twenty-four,” Stewart said.

“Wait,” Lorinda said. “You mean you’re buying a state from us? From them, I mean.”

“Why not?” Gulden said. “Thomas Jefferson bought Louisiana from the French. But yeah. It’s wild, isn’t it? Then again, it’s business! We need the land, they need the money. And we’re pretty far along in the negotiation to buy strips along the top borders of Montana and Idaho.”

“Another Corridor,” Stewart marveled.

“Bingo!” she said, then cast a quick glance at Connor, who left his seat, scurried to the rolling bed tray, poured a cup of water, and handed it to Gulden. As she sipped it, he returned to his chair.

Lorinda took the opportunity to jump in. “Okay, but hold it,” she said. “There’s something I don’t get. The Split happened a long time ago. It’s a done deal. There’s no need to sell people on it any more. Right?”

“Basically, yes,” Gulden said.

“So why do you need to keep doing propaganda? Why are you doing this movie about me? Who are you going to show it to? Will you hack it into the CCSA to show how bad their government is? Or maybe you’re going to show it to your own people here, to show them how good you are.”

The President put her cup down, shut her eyes for a moment and nodded. “That’s a good question. I’ll tell you why,” she said, opening her eyes. “Many years ago, long before The Split, politics was boring. The Left and the Right met somewhere in a reasonable middle, and stuff got done. The Left got progress, but slowly. The Right hated progress, but it was slow enough to be tolerable.

“The problem with the Left was that it was too nice. And self-satisfied. They grew complacent with the slow pace of progress. It was as if they didn’t want to upset the people on the Right by pushing too hard. And they were so convinced that they were correct, they just assumed that sooner or later everyone else would see the light and come around to their world-view. In the meantime, the people on the Right, the conservatives, they weren’t complacent. They felt … aggrieved. And they made up their minds that they were going to win, at any cost, and at every level. They became fanatics as the Left became lazy. Their work was practically invisible at first. They took over local school boards, state legislatures, the kinds of political races that had zero national media coverage. After a while, policies and platforms and ideas became irrelevant to them. All that mattered was winning. They won by injecting fear into the discourse. This wasn’t new, but the scale of it was, especially once they’d built their own media ecosystem, independent of the existing media: TV, radio, newspapers, websites, even churches. Its job was to scare people about … well, about anything and everything. Especially about “the other”: foreigners, strangers, people who looked different and who maybe didn’t speak English. It turned out that it wasn’t hard to do in low-population-density areas, where people didn’t get around much and had minimal contact with anyone who wasn’t a mirror image of themselves. And — surprise! — it was exactly those places that got an extra voting boost from the Constitution.

“It took the Left forever to realize that the Right was winning. That a big chunk of the overall population had been propagandized to ignore the conditions of their actual lives, to vote not in their own interest but according their supposed identity. By the time the Left woke up, the Right was well on its way to owning the Supreme Court and Congress and the whole goddamn country. And, again, this was in the service of a political party that was confident enough to come right out and say that they had no ideas and no policies — that all they wanted was power and money, money and power.

“That’s why The Split was such a triumph. It was a huge relief to be rid of them. No more ball and chain. But we don’t — I certainly don’t — want to squander what we gained with The Split. We can’t be complacent. I thank them for teaching us how this has to work. I’m committed to a constant, permanent campaign to remind people in both countries that the USA has the right ideas and the CCSA is a fucking nightmare.” She sighed and gave Lorinda a little smile. “Well. You asked.”

“I know there are people in the CCSA who secretly like the idea of re-uniting,” Stewart finally said. “And McWeeny talks about it. I mean, he says that you talk about it, but I assume he’s projecting.”

President Gulden shrugged. “It could happen. Over time. But not until everyone — okay, let’s say ninety-five percent of the population — in the CCSA realizes that it was founded on stupid premises by corrupt imbeciles who were intent on subjecting and stealing from their own citizens. Just like every other authoritarian regime. We need to crush them. Or should I say, we need to help the citizens of the CCSA crush the corrupt imbeciles who run the place. The battle doesn’t end until we know the imbeciles are too far gone to rise from the dead.” She took a deep breath. “That was quite a download, wasn’t it. Sorry I’ve gone on for so long, but I needed you to see what the stakes are here. So! Lorinda Moon! Are you with me?”

“I think I am,” Lorinda said. She was inclined to give a more positive answer, but something inside told her to hold back a bit, leave a little room for negotiation.

“Stewart?”

“Madam President … Anita … you’ve made certain things very clear,” he said, “and I appreciate that. Maybe I’m just not cut out to be a politician, but, to be honest, some of what you’ve said …”

“Makes you feel ill?” Gulden said with a smile.

Stewart laughed. “I don’t know if I’d go that far. I’ll just say that it makes me a little nervous.”

“I advise you to get that PhD,” she said. “Once a year I’ll even come and give a guest lecture in your class. If you and your students can handle it.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Yes. I’m with you.”

“Good. I have three more years in my administration. I want you two to be with me for those years. I want you to be available to tell your stories about your life in the CCSA. I want to have our people hack your media appearances into CCSA media when we have a message we want to send them. If there’s anyone you want us to extract from there — parents, family, friends — we can often arrange that. You’ll be my special envoys, not just to people here and people in the CCSA but around the world. You’ve never been to Paris? Rome? London? Tokyo? I’ll give you some good luggage recommendations. We’ll send you to spread the message that I think you already want to spread.

“Let me be clear about why you’re perfect for our needs. First, we want to always be undermining the confidence that citizens of the CCSA have in their politicians, their government, their country. All you need to do is tell your true stories.

“Second, we need to keep the pressure on our own allies to maintain their boycotts of the CCSA — other than their manufacturing deals, which are similar to ours. Hearing from you, Lorinda, how you were brainwashed and persecuted, and from you, Stewart, about what you suffered — I know your story — and how you channeled your anger and sorrow into saving other women from … your wife’s fate, hearing from you will keep reminding people around the world that the CCSA is a poisonous state. You are proof that the human spirit can outlive and outsmart fascism. But we can’t just say it once and walk away. We have to say it every day until we win. I want you to be with me, with us, saying it every day.”

“I’m afraid Lorinda will have to do all this without me,” Stewart said. “If I don’t keep a low profile I’m afraid I’ll get people like Wilma into deep trouble.”

“Of course,” Gulden said. “It’s just so easy for me to picture you next to Lorinda barnstorming the USA. But we can’t put anyone in danger.”

“Thank you,” Stewart said. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to argue with you about it. I can’t imagine winning an argument with you.”

“I appreciate that,” she said. She nodded at her Chief of Staff.

“Ready for the camera?” Connor asked.

“I’d better be,” she said. As Connor went to the door to signal the media crew to come back in, and Stewart retreated to his post behind the tripods, Gulden quickly explained to Lorinda that they were going to speak on camera for a little while, to be broadcast live around the USA — and even onto some billboards in the CCSA.

The two media guys entered, practically on the run. The first guy got behind his camera and fiddled with it, then put on a set of headphones. The other one approached Gulden and Lorinda with a couple of tiny microphones, which he stuck to the president’s blazer and to Lorinda’s hospital gown before returning to his station and slipping on his headphones. Connor and Mindy, who’d come in with the media guys, joined Stewart behind the camera. The president slid her chair a little closer to Lorinda, who raised the top part of the bed until it was almost vertical and she was sitting up straight. The cameraman cocked his head as he listened to directions coming through his headphones, then did a countdown with his fingers — five, four, three, two, one — and nodded at the president.

It was as if Anita Flores Gulden had been tapped by a magic wand, as if she were a cartoon everywoman who’d just swallowed the potion that turned her into a superhero, as if she were suddenly lit from within. Lorinda saw it. She felt it. And, somehow, she instantly incorporated whatever it was — a jolt of energy? a contact high from a charismatic leader? — until she, too, felt transformed. Suddenly she was calm and strong and, despite her banged-up head, feeling very smart.

 “Good evening,” President Gulden began, gazing warmly into the camera. “I’m here at the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland, with a very special person. Her name is Lorinda Moon, and just yesterday, with the help of the USA Navy, she escaped from the CCSA, pursued by a gang of heavily armed CCSA security hoodlums in a fleet of stolen speedboats. There were camera crews on the scene, and you’ll soon be able to see how it played out. The good news: Lorinda survived! Hello, Lorinda Moon.”

“Hello, Madam President.” Lorinda was beaming.

“How does your head feel?”

Lorinda patted her bandage, saying, “It’s been better, but I’ll live.”

The president returned her smile. “Why were they chasing her? What was Lorinda’s crime? All she wanted was a simple medical procedure, an abortion. As you know, that’s illegal in the CCSA because, not to put too fine a point on it, it’s a religious-authoritarian-misogynist state.” She paused to give her words time to land. “Women there are second-class citizens who aren’t trusted — aren’t allowed — to make their own health decisions.” Lorinda made eye contact with the camera and nodded knowingly. “And their war against women isn’t the only thing that’s wrong there. Their population is shrinking at an alarming rate, a result of poverty, terrible health care, and the stupidity of their enforced anti-science bias. And let’s not forget the constant flow of people escaping the CCSA and seeking asylum here in the USA.” She leaned forward and gave Lorinda a hug, then sat back and turned to the camera. “Welcome, Lorinda.”

“It’s so great to be in the USA,” Lorinda said.

“You should know that when those CCSA zealots attacked her — physically attacked her — Lorinda suffered a miscarriage. That’s right. In the course of trying to capture and force her to have a baby in one of their prisons for pregnant women, they injured her and caused a miscarriage. They could have killed her. The cruel stupidity of it!” She patted Lorinda’s shoulder. Lorinda considered doing the same to the president, but thought better of it. “Once Lorinda fully recovers here at Walter Reed, we’re going to help her get settled.” She turned to Lorinda, making sure to hold a flattering three-quarter view for the camera. “When you’re ready, if you’re willing, I’d like to offer you a job.”

“I’ll need a job,” Lorinda said enthusiastically. “What kind of job?”

“I’d like to send you on an extended tour of the USA, to tell your amazing story, answer questions about life behind the wall in the CCSA, and —”

“I can show that documentary you were talking about!” Lorinda exclaimed.  

“I think that was a yes,” Gulden said to the camera.

“Yes,” Lorinda said. “Definitely. It’s a yes.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” the president said. She was about to launch into a little wrap-up speech, but Lorinda spoke first.

“You know, Madam President,” she said, “my family moved to the CCSA during the Great Moratorium, when I was about seven, and after that we hardly went anywhere. Most people in the CCSA never travel. I can tell you just from this last week, when I was on the run from Texas all the way to Georgia, that travel is an eye-opening experience.”

“Your enthusiasm is contagious,” Gulden said.

“But, Madam President … Anita?” Lorinda started, before Gulden could get in another word, “I’ve thought of something else I can do after that tour of the USA. What if I become the host of a show where, every day, there are different guests, and they talk with me about all kinds of interesting things.”

“A … talk show?” the president ventured.

“Yes! What a good thing to call it,” said Lorinda. “Here’s how it can work.” She was obviously figuring it out as she spoke. “Every week I’ll go to a different place around the USA, and each day of that week I’ll host my show at a different bar or restaurant in that town. I could be standing or sitting behind the bar, and my guests could be, like, sitting on barstools across from me. There’d be no limit to what we could talk about.”

She glanced over at Stewart, who was staring at her in amazement.

“Well —"

“I think at first the guests would mainly be educating me about their town or city — remember, I grew up in a place that doesn’t really believe in education, and we were given a very distorted view of this country. I mean, we were taught that everyone in the United States is on the verge of starving to death because of all the poverty. That’s obviously not true, so what else am I misinformed about? We’ll find out on the show. And sometimes maybe I’d get a celebrity guest who grew up in that town, or has a house there, or always wanted to go there, and we’d talk about that. And maybe I can end every show with an interview of a local bartender who has a special cocktail recipe that no one’s ever heard of before.” She had a quick afterthought. “Or I can show them one!”

The president, who had marshaled all her will power to keep herself from making Lorinda stop talking, said, “That’s a good idea for a show, Lorinda. Now —”

“So I spend a week in one town, and then the next week we’d go to a different town and set up shop there. You know, now that I think about it, Anita, maybe I don’t even have to start out on that tour you were talking about.”

“You’re saying —”

“I can just start, on day one, with the talk show. I mean, we can run the documentary right there on a screen at the bar, and I can talk about it with the customers. We can keep doing the show for as long as people want to watch. Or until I’ve been all around the USA. Maybe we can call it ‘Lorinda Moon’s Bar Tour.’”

Lorinda paused. The President, stopping herself from responding immediately, waited a beat, and then said, “You’re going to go far in this country.”

“I just have one more thing I want to say, Madam President. When the USA Navy rescued me, they also rescued a very good friend of mine.” She looked at Stewart, who was cringing. “He and the people he worked with got me all the way from Texas to Georgia while we were being chased by CCSA security people. If he wants to, he can be my co-host, and we can tell his story along with mine. I mean, as soon as it’s safe for him to talk about it.”

“That’s all really great, Lorinda,” Gulden said, desperate to regain control of the narrative. “We’ll seriously consider helping you launch your show.”

“Thank you, Madam President,” Lorinda said. “Will you really be able to? Help me?”

“I think you have an excellent idea, and I’ll certainly use whatever influence I have to help you get it off the ground. You really need to get some rest now. Thank you so much for inviting me to speak to you despite the pain you must be in. And on behalf of my fellow Americans, thank you for honoring us with your presence here. You’re an extraordinary human being, Lorinda. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of you in the coming months.” She finished up with that warm gaze into the camera, saying, “Thanks for watching, everyone.”  

“And … out,” said the cameraman. “Good work.”

The instant the camera was off, so was Lorinda. It was as if she’d been disconnected from a power source. She was ready for a nice, long nap.

President Gulden stood up, straightened her suit, shook Lorinda’s hand, and said, “Lorinda Moon, you’re a real piece of work.” Lorinda was puzzled by the expression, and Gulden picked up on it. “It means you’re a lot more formidable than you look. In the best possible sense. You’ll go far. And you’ll have me as a fan.”

“Thank you,” said Lorinda. “I think.”

As the sound-and-light guy inconspicuously scooped up the two microphones from the two women’s clothes, Connor approached the president. “A word?” he said. As Stewart sat down on the bed, shaking his head in wonder at Lorinda’s performance, Connor and Gulden moved as far as possible from everyone else. Connor held up his com so she could see the screen.

“What am I looking at?” Gulden whispered.

“It’s the real-time ratings of the segment you just did, minute by minute.”

“If I’m reading this right, they start out down around two-fifty K, then start to go —”

“They start rising two minutes in. Then they go through the roof. Twenty-five million, fifty-million … Lots of people recording it too. And here’s the best part. In the InstaPoll after it was over? Yes or no to the statement ‘Lorinda Moon should have her own talk show.’ Close to a hundred percent said yes. I’ve never seen one-hundred percent before.”

“Can’t argue with numbers like that,” Gulden whispered. “Looks like she’ll be getting her show.” Then, out loud, she said, “It was good to meet you, Stewart. We’ll have you two over to the White House after you’ve recovered. I hope to see you very soon.” Connor nodded to Mindy, who tapped on her pad. Two seconds later the door opened and the wave of hubbub rolled in, followed by the same two Secret Service men. They stood by the door, waited for President Gulden to exit, and followed her out. Those in the room heard the roar of “Madam President! Madam President!” even after the door closed.

“I’ve never seen anyone do that to her,” Connor said to Lorinda.

“Do what?” Lorinda asked.

“Say so much before she interrupts. Talk before she does. Force her to do your bidding.”

“What?! What did I force her to do?” Lorinda was truly puzzled.

“You’re going to get your show,” said Connor. “She supported you in a live feed. Now she has no choice. Polling shows that millions of people saw it and voted for you to have a show. She can’t back out of it — she has to stand behind you. If she’s behind you, it’ll happen. And why would she even want to back out? It’s a brilliant idea, and she’ll get some credit for it. Remind me to buy stock in your production company.” He reached for the doorknob, then remembered something. “‘Please don’t throw me into the briar patch.’ It’s from a folk tale passed down by slaves in the Old South. It’s probably illegal to talk about it in the CCSA.”

“Uncle Remus,” said Stewart. “Book by Joel Chandler Harris, around 1880. A major piece of cultural appropriation. Arguably. And you’re right: banned in the CCSA.”

Connor smiled. “You two are full of surprises. I’ll see you soon in the White House.”

He opened the door and stepped into the fray. 

THE END

Thank you for reading the serialized novel The Split, now concluded.

Tip your bartenders we mean authors!

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.

Chapter Forty-Nine. In which our heroine makes her exit from the CCSA.

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

Chapter Fifty-One. In which our heroine participates in a battle at sea.

The small room was starting to glow from the early-morning light leaking in around the window shades. Lorinda, on her back, opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling, trying to remember where in the world she could possibly be. As her memory returned, a smile bloomed on her face. With her eyes still fixed on the ceiling, she reached out and found what she’d hoped she would find: Stewart, or at least his bare shoulder.

“You’re awake,” he said.

“More or less.”

“And here we are.”

“And here we are,” she echoed. “I have an idea. What if I take a quick shower and put on the nice new clothes they got me. Then I can go next door and get the nice new clothes out of your room while you take a shower. Then we can have some breakfast —”

“And go to that nice meeting they promised us,” he said sarcastically.

“I like them, and I like their country, I think. And I like what they’re doing for me. Look,” she said, abruptly sitting up. “I’m here!”

“I’m looking,” he said, with no remaining traces of sarcasm.

“Remind me what it was that we were working on last night,” she said, flopping on top of him.

“We’d like to propose an interesting new plan,” said Serena Ndiaye. It was an hour and a half later, and Lorinda, Stewart, Serena, and Jonathan were once again seated at the table in the elegant little conference room.

“Uh oh,” Stewart muttered.

Flashing him a smile, Serena continued. “I’d spell it out for you, but there’s someone else who can do it better than I.” Jonathan tapped a button on the pad in front of him and the wall of beauty shots of the USA dissolved to a bright, wall-sized representation of the seal of the President of the USA. Then, to Lorinda’s and Stewart’s surprise, upbeat martial music started pouring out of the opposite wall — the blank, wood-paneled wall facing the one with the glowing Presidential Seal — and the paneling turned out to be (as Lorinda suspected) a huge screen, now displaying a shot of the Oval Office of the White House, in Washington DC, with President Anita Flores Gulden seated majestically behind the Resolute Desk. She wore a crisp white suit which perfectly set off her long black hair, and Lorinda’s immediate thought was that President Gulden looked a lot better here than she did in any images she’d ever seen before. For what seemed like the millionth time since this wild adventure began, Lorinda had a type of thought that would have been unimaginable before: Maybe the CCSA lies to its citizens; maybe the images of the USA President you get in the CCSA are designed to make her look bad on purpose.

“Good morning, Lorinda! Stewart — excellent work. Serena, Jonathan, nice to see you. Lorinda and Stewart, I’m Anita. I especially want to welcome you, Lorinda, to the USA. Or should I say, back to the USA — I know you were born here, and of course you never lost your citizenship. Same with you, of course, Stewart — we never wanted to punish people who migrated to the other side during the Moratorium, especially if they were children at the time. But in any case, Lorinda, you probably know that over the course of this week the CCSA has turned you into the poster-girl for everything that, in their opinion, is wrong with the world.”

“It’s crazy,” Lorinda said. “But why? I’m just one little person.”

“Oh, I don’t know about ‘little,’” the President said. “From what I’ve seen, you’ve been remarkably brave, resourceful, and clever. Why do they do it? To create a distraction. The CCSA demonizes a woman who needs an abortion to keep its citizens from noticing that the country is falling apart because its leaders are corrupt and incompetent. But you’ve also become a hero to many in the CCSA. We have a couple of clips …” She nodded to someone off camera and the image of her in the Oval Office was replaced by a shot in which a McWeeny campaign pitch on an electronic billboard suddenly blinked off and was replaced by the words WE ARE ALL LORINDA MOON, followed by shots of young people rallying in the street, chanting and carrying posters defending Lorinda Moon. The picture switched back to the Oval Office.

“I’ve seen the billboards,” Lorinda said, glancing at Stewart, “and we saw some people with signs on the way here, but I had no idea …”

“Oh, it’s all over the CCSA,” Gulden said. “But of course it will be suppressed in a day or two, and in a couple of weeks — down the memory hole! You’ll go from Public Enemy Number One to Lorinda Who? Unless …” Here she seemed to look directly at Lorinda. “Unless we play this right. And unless you’re willing to help us.”

“What can I do?” Lorinda asked. “Please don’t tell me I have to go back there.”

President Gulden laughed. “No, no, that would be cruel and unusual punishment. What I’m asking you to do, Lorinda, is to let us bring you up to Maryland by water.” 

Lorinda frowned. Until that moment she had assumed that, after the failure of their attempt to drive her north through the Corridor, they would just fly her to Baltimore and be done with it. Now …

“Excuse me, Madame President,” Stewart said, “but are you saying you intend to bring her north on a boat?”

“A ship, to be precise,” Gulden said. “One of the excellent vessels of the USA Navy. And we’ll continue making the documentary we started in the car on the way up The Corridor. Only it’ll be more … interesting now.” She paused. “How did one of my speechwriters put it? ‘More compelling visually.’”

“A ship? Meaning, like, on the ocean?” Lorinda said.

The President laughed. The question took her by surprise. “Exactly. The world-famous Atlantic Ocean itself.”

“I’ve never seen the ocean,” Lorinda said, as much to herself as to the others. Stewart was about to interject but Lorinda said, “I’ll do it —” here she put her hand on Stewart’s arm “— but only if he comes with me.” She faced Stewart. “If he wants to.”

“To the shipyard?” Serena asked.

“To Baltimore,” Lorinda said.

Stewart couldn’t help but grin.

No one objected.

“Kings Bay, on the east coast of Georgia, is one of the most outstanding naval bases in the world,” their handler said. Although Lorinda and Stewart were wearing military-spec noise-suppressing headphones, it was still oppressively loud inside the big, almost empty helicopter, which contained only the two of them, their handler — a handsome navy commander in an impeccable white dress uniform, with a constellation of medals and a plaque with the name Charles Trout pinned to his chest — plus the two pilots up front. Trout was clearly in his element, and completely unfazed by the background din. “Specifically,” he continued, “it’s acknowledged to be the finest submarine base on the planet. Well, maybe the CCSA doesn’t acknowledge it, but that’s to be expected.”

“We’re going in a submarine?” Stewart asked, looking worried.

“No, no,” Commander Trout chuckled. “That would defeat the purpose of the whole mission. We’ll be transporting you in a Tornado-class patrol craft, the USS Jamie Raskin. She’s one-hundred-eighty-some-odd feet long. Cruising speed is classified, but I can tell you it’s well over 30 knots. She carries a crew of twenty-five and a suite of classified weapons. You’ll be to the port of Baltimore around this time tomorrow.”

Lorinda frowned. “Overnight?”

“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll have your own bunkrooms for when you want to catch some Zs,” he said, “but you might just want to stay up. Looks like glorious weather, and if you haven’t seen the sea-sky on a clear night, you haven’t lived.”

“And what’s the story with the documentary?” Lorinda asked.

“Right. Operation Damsel —”

“Noooo!” Stewart said, slapping his own forehead.

“It’s just the working title,” Trout said. “The ship is being outfitted with cameras to shoot everything that happens on deck and at least some of what happens below. There’ll be a small video crew onboard following you around. They’re also pulling together a crew to shoot from a small boat that I believe will be accompanying you all the way to Baltimore, and they’ll have a drone or two following up above. Like sea gulls tailing a fishing boat. It’s quite a production.”

Lorinda was thrilled to see an ocean for the first time, even if — since she was a mile-and-a-half up in the air — she wasn’t able to stick her toe in it. She’d seen lakes, but somehow this seemed more … profound. Stewart, meanwhile, was impressed by the vastness of the naval base below and, as they reduced altitude, the sight of dozens of submarines, as well as other types of military vessels, resting in their docks.

The helicopter dropped them off and flew away, leaving behind the blessing of lower-decibel rumbling and clattering of a busy shipyard. Commander Trout led them away from the helipad and toward the dock where their ship awaited, explaining that they’d be leaving on their voyage as soon as the provisioning — which in this case mainly meant setting up the video arrangements — was complete.

As they approached the dock, Stewart took Lorinda’s arm, leaned close to her, and said, “To answer your question: Yes, once upon a time I was married. She died. Killed by the CCSA.”

She already knew this, from Hillary back at the gas station. But it was different hearing it from him. Lorinda stopped walking. Her eyes filled with tears. This triggered a matching response in Stewart. “I’m so, so sorry,” she said.

“Yeah,” was all he could say. They hugged. Then, arms around each other, they hurried to catch up to Trout.

He stood before the sparkling white vessel that awaited them. But it wasn’t just the ship that awaited them. A woman on the dock in a tan jump suit with lots of zippers and pockets was aiming a camera at them. She was accompanied by a man in a tartan flannel shirt and baggy jeans, holding a long boom with a microphone at the end of it, pointed in their direction, and another man wearing a dark green athletic suit, with a large pack strapped to his back and a big com-pad in his hands. “Oh, shit,” Stewart whispered. “Here we go.” Without quite knowing why, they quickly detached from each other and put businesslike expressions on their faces.

“I fully expect this to be a routine trip up the coast,” said Captain Frank Molina, the officer in charge of the Raskin. “A particularly pleasant one, with terrific weather and a nice flat sea.”

Lorinda and Stewart, standing with the captain on the deck of the ship, had been guided into their positions by Commander Trout, who was now standing behind the three-person documentary crew. Like Trout, Captain Molina was a good-looking specimen. Lorinda wondered if the two men hadn’t been assigned to this duty so much as cast for roles in the documentary. But was Trout even in the documentary? In any event, it felt unnatural to her to be having a conversation while lined up side-by-side, and even more unnatural to know that what they said was going to end up in a movie, but she supposed the USA government knew what it was doing. “We’ll be accompanied by a small vessel with another documentary crew onboard — you’ll see it once we’re out of the harbor,” the captain continued. “We’ll be navigating out to international waters as we approach the latitude of the southern edge of South Carolina, and we’ll stay out until we hit the southern latitude of Virginia, USA. Are either of you susceptible to seasickness?”

“I should be fine,” Stewart said.

“I’ve never been on a big boat on an ocean before,” Lorinda said, “but I’m good in little boats on lakes and things.”

“Well,” the captain smiled, “if you feel even the slightest twinge just grab the nearest crewmember. We have a medic onboard who’ll give you something that’ll settle you right down. Besides, like I said, we’re expecting smooth sailing. We’ll be launching in a couple of minutes, so I suggest you two make your way up to the bow and enjoy the view. This trip is all about you, so if there’s anything you need just give a holler. And just pretend these people —” indicating the film crew “— aren’t here.”

Commander Trout wished them good luck, saluted them and the captain, and took his leave.

The classified cruising speed of the USS Jamie Raskin was fast enough to cause the wind to burn and water droplets to sting. After twenty minutes on the bow, Lorinda and Stimpy decided they’d had enough and made their way into the cabin — followed by the video crew — which gave them the same majestic view but from behind the shelter of large panes of safety glass. They continued gazing, in a near-hypnotic state, at the vast, empty sea, ignoring the three documentarians hovering around them and the much smaller boat, containing the other documentary crew, that was buzzing around the Raskin. Eventually Stewart started speaking quietly — practically whispering — to avoid having his conversation recorded. In an uncharacteristic autobiographical mood, he told the sad story of his wife’s completely preventable death, which resulted directly from the CCSA’s ironclad commitment to withhold healthcare from pregnant women in distress (with the exception, as Lorinda had learned in the golf enclave, of women who happen to be “attached” to members of the oligarchy). They both managed to suppress their tears, if only to avoid the possibility of having to explain themselves to the camera at some point.

A couple of hours in, a crew member — perfectly okay looking, but not Trout- or Molina-handsome — entered with a tray containing a thermos of coffee, two mugs, and a plate of fresh fruit and cheese, which he set on a folding shelf he pulled down from the wall opposite the forward-facing windows. “Something for you two,” he said. “By the way, we’re about to enter international waters.” He saluted them and exited.

Lorinda had just bitten into the best pear she had ever tasted, when something caught her eye. “What’s that?” she said, pointing out the port-side window. Stewart and the utility guy from the film crew stepped up to look.

“Oh, shit,” the utility guy said. They were watching a motley flotilla of about ten mismatched speedboats rapidly bouncing across the water toward the Raskin.

“Who are they?” Stewart asked.

“Damned if I know,” said the utility guy, “but they’re coming from the direction of South Carolina. Fucking CCSA. I think you want to get this,” he called to his colleagues.

The camerawoman and the sound man stepped out of the compact cabin and onto the port-side deck to record whatever it was that was happening. The camera-boat crew obviously had the same idea — the little boat zipped around the stern of the Raskin and positioned itself between the Raskin and the approaching speedboats as its camera person clambered into a good shooting position. Two camera drones, which up to that point had kept their distance from the Raskin, swooped over to the camera boat and hovered.

The speedboats didn’t slow down, veering to either side of the camera boat and almost swamping it with their wakes. As they approached the Raskin, Lorinda gasped. She couldn’t make out the features of the face, but there was unmistakably a bandage on the head of the person sitting next to the enormous creature at the wheel of the lead boat. “It’s Janelle Stark!” Lorinda cried.

In a moment the boats were close enough that they had to slow down — and close enough for Lorinda to see that it was indeed Janelle Stark and her monstrous sidekick in the front seat, with two CCSA Domestic Security enforcers in the back seat, flanking a petrified-looking Brad. The other boats each contained four or five additional Domestic Security thugs. Everyone except Brad, who wore a baby-bib-like orange life jacket over his street clothes, was in a shiny black jumpsuit — or were they wetsuits? And everyone except Stark, Skippy, and Brad had an automatic weapon strapped on.

“This isn’t possible,” Stewart said. “How do they even know you’re here?”

The first four boats, including Stark’s, moved so close to the hull of the Raskin that Lorinda and Stewart lost sight of them. The camerawoman was now hanging over the rail to shoot straight down at them. Stark’s voice, loud and distorted through a powerful bull-horn, boomed: “Stop your forward motion or we’ll blast a hole in your hull.” A speedboat that had been hanging back moved out from the pack. A crewman in the back seat opened the lid of the hold behind him, removed a rocket-propelled-grenade launcher, rested it on his shoulder, and aimed it at the Raskin’s bow. “Stop your forward motion immediately,” Stark said.

“This is insane,” Stewart muttered.

Lorinda could feel and hear the ship powering down. Then she heard Captain Molina, his voice loud and sharp from a P.A. horn atop the bridge. “This is Captain Molina of the USS Jamie Raskin. Identify yourself and state your intention.”

It sounded like Janelle Stark gave a little laugh. “We are a duly authorized law enforcement contingent from the CCSA.”

“We are in international waters. You are in violation of maritime law.”

“Tough shit,” Stark said. “Prepare to be boarded. Or sunk.”

Both drones were now visible about ten yards off the port side of the Raskin, shooting down at the action below. There was suddenly a loud clanking sound, followed by two more, then a fourth that sent the camerawoman reeling backward, crying in pain, and banging her head, and her camera, into the shatterproof side window of the cabin. One tentacle of a grappling hook was now wrapped around the rail the camerawoman had been leaning on. A moment later the first wave of CCSA goons was scrambling up the rope ladders attached to the grappling hooks, over the rail, and onto the deck.

Two of them fired ammo-bursts into the air just to make some noise; the others fanned out on the deck. Janelle Stark jumped athletically over the rail, followed by Brad, who was shoved over the rail and tumbled onto his back. Next came Skippy, with a big grin on his face and Stark’s megaphone clipped to his waist.

Lorinda and Stewart looked to the starboard side as a possible escape route, but by then Stark’s flunkies were coming over that rail as well. Skippy spotted the couple through the window, charged into the cabin, grabbed an arm of each, and hauled them out onto the deck, just next to the fallen camerawoman. Stark reached out to Skippy’s belt, unclipped the megaphone, and announced: “Do what we say and no one will get hurt. We’re just here to talk with the escaped fugitive.”

One of the Raskin crewmembers, having broken through a CCSA contingent on the deck, came rushing toward Stark. Skippy let go of Lorinda’s arm and, in one smooth move, grabbed the crewmember’s neck and tossed him overboard. Lorinda instinctively kicked Skippy in the groin. He winced, let go of Stewart, and grabbed Lorinda by the throat with both hands.

“Skippy! No!” Stark yelled at deafening volume through the megaphone. He glared menacingly at Lorinda but reluctantly let her go. Stewart took a swing at his jaw. He connected, solidly. It rocked the beast for a moment, but before Stewart could follow up he found himself levitating: Skippy had hoisted him by the front of his shirt. “Drop him!” Stark honked through the megaphone. Skippy again complied.

A scuffle erupted in the cabin as three of Stark’s squad, who had come up the starboard side, grabbed a Raskin crewmember as he emerged through a hatch in the cabin floor, yanked him onto his feet, and started smashing him with the butts of their automatic weapons.

“How did you find us?” Stewart shouted at Stark, who had momentarily turned to gaze approvingly through the glass and into the cabin behind him.

Turning back to her immediate problem, Stark said, “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”

“And we won’t be,” Stewart snarled.

Stark considered slapping him, but decided he wasn’t worth it. “We have the finest intelligence agencies on earth,” she sniffed.

“That’s fucking ridiculous,” Stewart said. With his baseball-glove-sized hand, Skippy grabbed Stewart’s head and shoved it into the window, cracking the shatterproof glass. Stewart crumpled to the deck. Lorinda gasped and dropped to her knees to … do what? See if he was all right? Comfort him? Kiss him? But Skippy was having none of it, and yanked her right back up by her shoulder. She yowled in pain as her bag, which she was still gripping, flew up and hit Skippy in the face. Her hands followed the bag’s trajectory and she clawed furiously at his cheeks. He snapped his bald pumpkin head back and smashed it into a steel bracket sticking out of the cabin above the top of the window. Infuriated, with blood pouring down his face, he grabbed both of Lorinda’s wrists with both of his hands, consolidated them into his left hand, gently felt his cheek, then his head, with his right hand, and examined his bloody fingers. Wiping them on her bag, glaring at her, he reached behind his back, grabbed his pistol from his waistband, and pointed it at her.

“No, Skippy,” Stark purred in a low, ominous voice. “Put it away.”

Skippy turned to face her and shook his head. Fresh drops of blood flew off his head and his gouged cheeks.

“Put it away, Edgar! You will not kill anyone here. Especially her.”

Skippy grunted fiercely. Turning his back to Stark in defiance, he jerked the pistol up, scratching Lorinda’s chin with the muzzle, and pushed it against her forehead. A thunderclap of a gunshot briefly filled the universe; blood gushed from both sides of Skippy’s massive neck; his gun hit the deck but he remained standing for another five seconds, during which he bloodily burbled, “But … Janelle … love … Skippy,” then sank slowly to the deck and collapsed on top of his gun.

“That’s beside the point,” Stark lectured the big corpse at her feet. “You’re not allowed to ruin my work.” She turned to Lorinda, who was covered with blood and screaming. “Stop it!” Stark yelled. She started to re-holster her gun behind her back, but something else caught her attention. She looked over her shoulder at Brad who, still on his back on the deck nearby, was blubbering loudly and uncontrollably. She pointed her still-smoking pistol at him, saying, “Stop that right now or I’ll kill you.” He stopped it. She put her gun away.

“All right,” Stark said to Lorinda. “You and I and all my men, we’re going to calmly climb down to my boats and get the hell back to South Carolina. Do you still have that cute little pink gun of yours in there?”

“What do you think?” Lorinda said, taking a couple of small steps toward Stark, who unconsciously, just to keep her distance, backed up a couple of small steps until she was almost against the rail.

“Hand it over,” Stark said.

Lorinda reached into her bag.

“Hold the barrel,” said Stark, quickly reaching behind and fetching her own gun again.

Lorinda took another small step forward as she took out the pink gun and started to pass it to Stark, who took another small step back and put out her hand. “Don’t get clever,” Stark said.

Lorinda set the handle of the gun onto Stark’s palm. Stark grabbed it, popped it open, and took a quick look. “Still no ammunition, you stupid cow?”

“Oh, I have ammunition,” said Lorinda in the steeliest voice she’d ever heard herself use. She reached into her bag, fished around, and came up with a rattling handful of small bullets. “Here’s one,” she said, and threw it hard right at the bandage. Stark yelped in surprise and pain. Lorinda took a small step closer and threw another bullet, this one bouncing off Stark’s nose.

“Keep going,” Stark said. “Each one is another month of confinement.”

Lorinda threw another bullet, which hit Stark’s cheek, then another to her forehead. Stark defiantly refused to defend herself. Lorinda was about to throw another when the air was filled with the loud, non-directional surf-crash sound of the Loch Ness monster emerging from the deep. Lorinda’s eyes, which had been fixed on Stark’s face, flitted to something behind Stark, then went wide. When Stark spun her head to see what it was, Lorinda took a big step forward and kicked Stark in the groin — just as she had kicked Skippy — then lowered her head, lunged forward, and rammed Stark hard, like a lineman blocking for a running back. It caused Stark to drop both guns and, arms flailing, sail backward into and over the rail. She fell between the USS Jamie Raskin and the much larger submarine that was rapidly surfacing immediately next to it. Athletic Stark managed to twist around and grab the gunwale on the way down, where she hung for perhaps a second. Lorinda had just steeled herself to stomp on the woman’s hands, when an unexpected wave in the calm sea, perhaps a forward swell caused by one of the other USA submarines that were surfacing nearby, caused the hulls of the first sub — on whose flank could now be read “USS New London” — and the Raskin to briefly meet with a plangent clang and a mighty splash. Stark’s legs were crushed by the meeting of the hulls. She lost her grip, let loose an unholy screech, and plummeted.

Another wave clanged the ships together again. Lorinda, struggling to mind her balance while still amped and panting from adrenaline, picked up the two guns, carefully approached the rail and peered over the side. She saw the crushed remains of some of Stark’s speedboats mixed in with the crushed remains of Stark herself. Lorinda threw the guns — first Stark’s and then, with a brief rush of affection, her own, down at what was left of Janelle Stark. Another wave, now from the opposite direction, lifted first the Raskin, then the sub. Lorinda was thrown painfully into the rail. Desperately she pushed herself away from it, slipped on a patch of water and blood, fell backward, and hit her head hard on the deck.

Dozens of USA Navy Seals swarmed off the submarine and onto the Raskin. They found Lorinda, unconscious and in a heap; Stewart, also out cold and bleeding from the head; the camerawoman, who was struggling to open her eyes; and Brad, who was blubbering again, on his back, his hands waving in the air in an attempt to symbolize his innocence.

The drones and the onboard cameras captured it all. The small camera boat had been swamped by the USS Groton as it surfaced behind the New London; its crew had been rescued and was drying off onboard the sub.

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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.

Chapter Forty-Nine. In which our heroine makes her exit from the CCSA.

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

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Lorinda, Stimpy, Secretary Serena Ndiaye, and a young man Serena introduced as “Jonathan, my Chief of Staff,” sat in comfortable office chairs at a round, dark-wood table in a small, elegant conference room. Lorinda faced a wall that was covered with floor-to-ceiling dark-wood cabinets and bookshelves; another wall displayed a video screen on which a series of gorgeous color pictures of scenic attractions in the USA cycled through. Below the screen was a marble-topped cabinet that, Lorinda thought, very likely housed a magnificent assortment of expensive — and unobtainable in the CCSA — wines and liquors. The third wall was paneled in dark wood with two doors cut in it, one the door they had entered through, the other, Lorinda figured, a washroom that only the occupants of the conference room could use; and the fourth wall was nothing but that same lovely dark-wood paneling, which Lorinda briefly thought could be a screen displaying a perfect image of dark-wood paneling.

On the table in front of them were china plates, each of which featured, at the twelve o’clock position, the red, white, blue, and gold seal of the Department of Health & Border Integrity. A uniformed soldier entered quietly with a rolling cart and, without fuss, served each of the participants four delicious looking small sandwiches and a frosty glass of iced tea. When the soldier left, Serena said, “You two must be starving.” She took a bite of one of her sandwiches, signaling that it was fine to dig in.

They were, Lorinda, thought, the best sandwiches she’d ever had, and she had to keep telling herself (in her mother’s voice) to slow down. “The most important question,” Serena said between sandwiches, “is whether there’s anyone in the USA you’d like to stay with for the first little while. Relatives? Close friends? We’ve done some research, and we couldn’t find anyone except —”

“My aunt Helen,” Lorinda said through a mouthful of open-faced smoked salmon (which she’d never had before) on black bread (which she’d never had before) topped with crème fraiche (ditto) and dill fronds (same).

“Yes, your aunt Helen,” Serena smiled, looking down at the pad that Jonathan had slid in front of her. “It seems that she’s —”

“She’s a doctor, at John Hopkins hospital somewhere up north. This is so delicious.”

“Johns Hopkins,” Serena gently corrected. “Johns with an S on the end, for some reason. In Baltimore, Maryland. Looks like she’s a nephrologist.”

“Kidney doctor,” Lorinda said. “She’s my mother’s younger sister. I haven’t seen her since the Great Moratorium.”

“What do you think?” asked Serena. “Would you like to visit her? Do you think she’d be willing to take you in for a while?”

“Sure, I’d love to see her,” said Lorinda. “It’s been so long. I remember her being really nice, but I was just a little girl. She has a couple of children now. My cousins, who I’ve never met. I mean, I don’t know if she wants me to come stay with her.”

“Why don’t we give her a try?” Serena quickly typed on the pad and fired off a message. Lorinda noticed that Stimpy was looking particularly glum, but she was too excited to think about it. Serena’s pad dinged almost immediately. Serena read the message and smiled. “Your aunt needs proof that I’m who I say I am and that you’re really with me. Smart woman.”

She tapped a button. They heard some electronic beeps and boops. A woman in a white lab coat, at a desk, in front of a board covered with scribbles and stick-on notes, appeared on the screen. She said, “Hello?”

 Jonathan reached over, lifted the edge of the pad off the table, and popped open the easel so Serena didn’t have to hold it up. “Hello,” said Serena.

“Oh, my gosh! It’s really you,” the woman said. “Good afternoon, or good morning, Madame Secretary. I’m Dr. Helen Branch.”

“Hello, Dr. Branch,” Serena said. “It’s so good to meet you. I’m here in Georgia with your niece Lorinda.”

Dr. Branch squinted in doubt. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I … I … um …” said Dr. Branch. “I mean, I saw some news about her. It was kind of amazing. But I didn’t know if I should believe it.” Serena swiveled the pad so the screen was pointing at Lorinda. “Oh my God! Lorinda! I’d recognize you anywhere.”

“Hi, Aunt Helen. It’s been so long.” Her aunt, to Lorinda, looked a good twenty years younger than her sister, Rita, Lorinda’s mother, even though she was only three years younger.

“Are you really pregnant, honey?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re all right.” Aunt Helen looked mischievous. “I understand you’ve become an enemy of the state down there.”

Lorinda laughed. “Yeah, something like that. They found out I wanted to get a …” she reflexively hesitated on the word “… an abortion.”

“Sweetie, you should come here to Baltimore. We have great doctors at Johns Hopkins, you’ll be in and out before you know it, and you can stay with us for a while. Unless you have someplace else …”

“No. We were just talking about that.” Then she laughed a little. “I’m a fugitive. I have nothing.”

“Well it’s about time you left that Margaret Atwood dystopia,” Dr. Helen Branch said.

Lorinda was puzzled. “Who’s Margaret Atwood?”

“Oh, you poor dear. We have some work to do. Listen, Lorinda, Mike and Tina, your cousins, they’d love to meet you. And Lloyd, my husband.”

“Hey — he’s my uncle!”

Helen was almost in tears. “That’s right! Oh, honey, you’ve got to come stay with us for a while. I’ve missed you so much. All of you. It’s so terrible…”

“Well, I got out,” said Lorinda. “Maybe we can figure out how to get the rest of them out. Except I don’t think they want to leave.” Serena signaled that she had something to say her aunt. “Okay, Aunt Helen. I’m so excited. I’ll see you soon. I’m not sure when, but, here’s Serena, I mean, sorry, Madame Secretary. Love you!” She turned the pad back to Serena.

“Dr. Branch, I’ll have my assistant give you our contact information,” Serena said. “We’ll be in touch very soon. We’ll be driving her up the Corridor later today or tomorrow.”

No sooner had Serena ended the call with Lorinda’s aunt than her pad bleeped with a message. “By the time we finish lunch,” she said to Lorinda, “your ride will be ready and waiting.”

“Whoa. I’m not sure if I’m ready. I mean …”

“it’s not as if you have to pack.”

“Can I ask you something, Serena?” Stimpy said. “Her ride? Why aren’t you flying her up north? It’s not as if you don’t have the entire USA Air Force at your disposal.”

Serena thought about it for a moment. “I could give you a bullshit answer, like we don’t have a plane available at the moment, or we think driving is more secure for some reason. But I’ll tell you the truth. And —” to Lorinda “— I hope you take this the right way. You’re not just another random refugee fleeing from the CCSA to the USA, Lorinda. Whether you want it or not, you’ve suddenly become a symbol to many young people, in both countries. Older people, too. We want — and, again, I’m probably being more honest than I should be — we want to make sure your story gets out there, and that it’s told properly, in the form of a little documentary. We’ve tested the alternatives with cyber-algorithmic focus panels, and it turns out the most credible way for us to represent your journey and, shall we say, your metamorphosis into a liberated citizen of the USA, is to show you riding up The Corridor in an automobile. With one of our officers at the wheel. Talking to each other. In a plane, you’re in and out. Cut to you getting on the plane, cut to you getting off the plane. This way people will see you taking in the new landscape, talking about how it feels to be in the USA with a smart, compassionate representative of our country. Gradually easing in to your new life …”

Stimpy looked dour. To Serena he said, carefully, “I take it this was your idea.”

“You know me too well,” Serena said. “Mine and President Gulden’s. Of course there were a few others involved. But not many. This obviously came together too quickly to take it to a committee.”

“I bet,” Stimpy said, reminding Lorinda of the surly Stimpy she met in the Patriot Farms pickup truck — could that have been only a week ago? “And what if she doesn’t want to be the subject of a celebrity documentary?”

“Of course, if she doesn’t want to —"

“I like it,” Lorinda said. “I want to do it. I think it’s a good idea.”

“I’m so glad to hear that. Look, Stimpy, I —”

“Stewart,” Stimpy interrupted. “We’re among friends here.”

“Stewart?” Lorinda was stunned. “That’s your real name? You’re telling me your real name?”

“With an E-W,” Stimpy said, “Not a U.” For a long moment he and Lorinda locked eyes.

“Well,” said Serena, “I guess this is it for now. “Tomorrow morning you’ll be in Maryland with your aunt.”

They stood, alongside Stimpy — Stewart! — and Serena’s Chief of Staff, Jonathan, in front of a small white building, one of many in the compound. A shiny white sedan, marked “USA Department of Health & Border Integrity,” slowed to a halt in front of them. Michelle emerged from behind the wheel, smiling. “Hey, Lorinda Moon! I didn’t realize I’d be seeing you again so soon,” she called cheerily.

“Oh, good. I was hoping it would be you,” Lorinda said. Then, turning to Stimpy-Stewart, “Maybe we …” she began. “I mean, are you going back to Texas?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably.”

She was about to say more but, instead, put her arms around him. He hugged her back, looking like he wanted to say something but thinking better of it. After an uncomfortably long time they broke the hug.

Barely able to speak, Lorinda said, “Nice meeting you, Serena, and thank you. Nice meeting you, Jonathan.”  

“Nice meeting you, too,” Jonathan said. “Just ignore the cameras in the car.”

Lorinda exchanged one last glance with Stewart and headed for the car. “I’d like to sit in front,” she said to Michelle. “Is that allowed? Or do I have to hide under a blanket?”

“That would make for a very bad video,” Michelle said.

They drove north toward the Georgia-Tennessee border. It was a nice day — bright blue sky, puffy white clouds. Everything — the trees along the highway, the very sunlight itself — seemed more vivid and colorful than the bleak CCSA landscape she had spent the last week crossing. The cars and trucks around them were clean and undented and quiet, without a black-smoke-spewing exhaust stack to be seen. All this reminded her of something, and when she spotted a little black dog in the back window of another car she realized what: a movie she saw when she was a little kid, before The Split, before she and her family moved to the CCSA. She felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, arriving at the Emerald City, wide-eyed and awed by its magnificence. “So,” she said, not bothering to wonder if it was a forbidden topic, “I guess the whole Underground Railroad thing is funded by the USA. Is that right?”

Michelle laughed. “Shh! I think they’ll have to edit that out of the video. We don’t want to cause an international incident.”

“They’re shooting … everything? Where are the cameras?”

“We’ve got three hidden cameras inside the car and a three-sixty camera outside. Really good microphones, too. Everything that happens on our way to Baltimore will be recorded. And only about three people will ever see all of it.”

“Three …” said Lorinda. “Serena, President Gulden, and … who else?”

“Whoever the editor is,” said Michelle. “Okay, maybe a couple of other people will see it. Like maybe their Chiefs of Staff.”

“So anyway, am I right?”

“About the USA secretly funding the Underground Railroad in the CCSA? Tell me why you think that.”

Lorinda laughed. “Okay, I see how this goes. I’ll tell you why I think that. Mainly, they seem to have lots of money. And as far as I know, the only ways they have of getting money back in the CCSA are a little farm and a gas station. I mean, maybe they have some huge companies or crypto mines, but I didn’t hear anything like that. They have their own satellites, for gosh sakes. They have their own com devices no one’s ever seen before. They seem to have lots of people. They can hack electronic signs all over the country. And now I learn that Stimpy — Stewart — and the Secretary of Health & Border Whatever are old friends.”

“They went to undergrad school together,” Michelle said.

“Secretary means, like, in the White House in Washington DC, or something, right?”

“Something like that.”

“Isn’t she young for that kind of job? And do they even let women have jobs like that? Oh, right — I mean if a woman is president …”

“You’re not in the CCSA anymore, Dorothy,” Michelle said.

“The Wizard of Oz!” Lorinda cried with joy.

“Very good,” Michelle beamed. “And you’re right, she’s the youngest ever. She’s a genius, in my opinion. But okay, even if those Underground Railroad people really are being funded by the USA, you’ll never get anyone to admit it. And by the way, what you and I are saying right now? Right on the cutting-room floor, as they used to say.”

“Hey, I don’t have a problem with it. I was just wondering,” Lorinda said. “Actually, I’m glad your country gives them money. It’s really important. And, I mean … here I am!” Lorinda looked out the windshield and realized that not only were the cars splendid looking, but the road itself was, too. “Big road,” she said. “It’s so nice. I’m used to roads that are falling apart.”

“It’s a miracle what a tax base can do for a country,” Michelle said.

Lorinda looked at her for a moment. “I’m not sure how to say this,” she said with a big smile, “but you seem really … smart … to be, you know, working as a driver for the government.”

Michelle laughed. “I guess that’s a compliment. I only drive by special request of Madame Secretary. She thought the two of us would have a fascinating conversation on the way up to Baltimore. You know, for the documentary. That bit, by the way, is for the cutting-room floor. Normally I’m on her team working on … other matters.” She looked briefly at Lorinda. “I guess I’m not used to bartenders being so smart.”

“Oh, they’re not,” said Lorinda. “It’s my secret weapon. I’m sure it’s why I got a promotion.” She sighed. “Or I would have gotten a promotion …”

Then she saw the monumental stainless-steel arch up ahead: huge, gleaming, with bold, electronically glowing red-white-and-blue letters spelling out

WELCOME TO THE CORRIDOR — GATEWAY TO VIRGINIA USA

“Holy …!” Lorinda muttered.

“So what do you know about The Corridor?” Michelle asked. “I expect they don’t talk about it much where you come from.”

“I mean, I’ve heard about it, and not just because Stewart and … Roger mentioned it.”

“Poor Roger,” Michelle said. They drove in silence for a minute. As they approached the arch, Lorinda saw that a high cement-block wall extended out from both sides of the arch. Maybe not as high as the wall around the Trump golf enclave, but pretty high. Two big billboards, one in front of the wall extending from the northbound side of the arch, the other next to the southbound side, repeatedly flashed the words

BEHIND THIS WALL IS BEAUTIFUL NORTH CAROLINA CCSA

In front of each billboard, partially blocking it, was an enormous white tower with a giant fan on top, just like the ones at the International Zone, blowing pollution back toward its source, the CCSA.

“What an annoying billboard,” Lorinda said.

“We’re the only ones who can see it,” Michelle said. “Citizens of the USA driving into The Corridor. Its only purpose is to annoy us.”

“Good thing you put those fans there,” said Lorinda. “So tell me what I need to know about The Corridor.”

“It’s very simple, really. Georgia’s this island of the USA in the middle of the CCSA. The Corridor is a highway that runs through North Carolina connecting Georgia with Virginia, the closest USA state, which means connecting with the whole eastern half of the USA. And of course The Corridor itself is part of the USA.”

Lorinda pondered that. “So how do people in North Carolina get from one side of The Corridor to the other without going through the USA?” As they passed under the arch, she saw high walls that seemed to be made of fancy stone rising on both sides of the highway. Between highway and wall there was a wide margin of grass that looked as nice as the grass in the golf enclave.

“See that?” Michelle pointed to an overpass about a half-mile down the highway. “There are lots of them along The Corridor. Maybe one every five miles. It’s the only way people from the CCSA can get across. There’s one thing about these overpasses. Look at it when we go under.”

Lorinda duly focused on it as they approached. The overpass had high glass walls, with a number of pedestrians gazing down at the traffic below as cars and trucks drove beneath them. “I guess it looks normal, except for the glass sides.”

“Now why would you build an overpass with glass sides?” Michelle asked.

“So the people going across it can see what’s going on down here? And we can see them?”

“You have to remember that the USA built and paid for The Corridor and all these overpasses,” Michelle explained. “It was the first major public-works project of the post-Split USA. The people who planned this knew that the USA was going to have a much better economy than the CCSA, and they also knew that the CCSA would quickly become an authoritarian shithole. They wanted to make sure there were ways that citizens of the CCSA could peek into the USA and see what they were missing.”

“That sounds mean,” Lorinda said. “But kind of funny. What’s the big deal? They’re just looking down at a lot of cars driving by.”

“Nice cars, though. Right? And, like you said, a nice road.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Anyway, give it a few minutes,” Michelle said.

Beyond the overpass they came upon an elegant little road sign stating “Corridor Luxury Outlet Mall in 1 Mile.” The mall, which they soon could see, was wedged in between the highway and the wall, which meant it was only as deep as a single store. It made up for its shallowness with its length. It was like — in fact, it was — an upscale strip mall a couple of miles long. Lorinda was dazzled by the stores, all of which were of necessity facing the highway, and equally dazzled when she realized there was an identical mall on the southbound side of The Corridor. She recognized only twenty- or thirty-percent of the brand names, but it didn’t matter. It was clear that they all carried super-high-quality merchandise, much of it from Europe and Japan. The mall was busy; its numerous entrance and exit ramps to the highway were packed with shiny vehicles.

“I don’t suppose we could …” Lorinda stopped herself before finishing the sentence.

“Not this time, honey. I’ve got to get you up north. But look. Here’s what I’m talking about.” They were approaching a second overpass. It was just like the first one, but because it passed over the twin malls on each side of the highway, there were pedestrians lined up all across its expanse, noses pressed against the glass, gazing eagerly down into a world as glittery and dreamlike to them as Oz was to Dorothy.

“So mean!” Lorinda laughed.

“All’s fair in love and war,” Michelle said.

They’d had to slow down while passing the mall, to allow traffic to exit or enter the highway, but once past it, the car returned automatically to cruise speed. After a few miles, Lorinda was about to ask if there were any more malls to look forward to when they heard a far-off explosion. All the brake lights ahead of them came on at once as satellite traffic control slowed down the cars, soon bringing them all to a full stop. “Damn,” said Michelle. “I hoped we could get away without this happening.”

“What?”

“Probably another bridge bombing. Watch the other side.” Sure enough, after a couple of minutes a final pack of cars drove down the southbound side; behind them there was no more southbound traffic. Black smoke was rising in the distance. “So it’s the next overpass,” said Michelle, “a couple of miles ahead.”

Suddenly, with an abruptness that made Lorinda lurch in her seat, a male voice barked from the car’s speakers, “Ryerson. Dispatch.”

“What’s up, Ernie?” Michelle said.

“You’d better spin around and come back to base, Lieutenant.”

“Bridge bombing?” Michelle asked.

“Yes, ma’am. What else is new?”

“Copy. I guess they’d better set up an overnight room for my passenger. She’s not going anywhere today.”

“They’re already on it, ma’am.”

“Okay, Ernie. We’ll be back in … however long it takes.”

“Roger, ma’am.”

“This might be a little bumpy,” Michelle said to Lorinda. “Hang on.”

She turned on her siren and flashing lights, disconnected from the satellite, cranked the wheel to the left, and with a rude thump drove up on the curb. The tires spun with a whine for a second until they got traction on the grass, whereupon the car charged across the median between northbound and southbound lanes before bumping down off the curb into the southbound side. Michelle wheeled it expertly through a sharp left, and they took off incredibly fast — until she had to slow down when she reached the last of the southbound cars that had made it through the overpass before it crashed down.

Still tense, Lorinda tried to settle in. “Who does that?” she said. “Who bombs these bridges?”

“Your fellow CCSA citizens.”

Lorinda thought about it, then threw her hands up and slapped them down in her lap in frustration. “Why?”

“Oh,” said Michelle, “no good reason. Jealousy? Boredom? Who knows. They like to mess up our traffic, I suppose. They just like to stick it to us. They don’t know what else to do. Those are my best theories. My real theory? Don’t quote me now: They’re fucking morons.” Loudly, she said, “Edit that out, guys!” Then, quietly: “Or leave it in. I don’t care.”

“But … what if there are people on the bridge? And doesn’t it also mess up their traffic? How do they cross The Corridor?”

“Sometimes they warn people off the bridges, sometimes they don’t. And, you’re right, if they blow up an overpass, they can’t cross the corridor, doh!” Michelle laughed. “I mean, they have to go the long way round, to the next closest overpass. Which means having to drive farther, and then getting stuck in traffic with all the other people doing the same thing. And of course they blame it all on the USA.”

Lorinda thought about it for a moment. “Okay,” she said, “I get blaming it on the USA, but how come …”

“How come you never heard about it in Texas?”

“Yeah. How come?”

“Some of their propaganda they like to keep local,” Michelle said. “The CCSA government doesn’t want citizens who don’t live near The Corridor thinking about The Corridor. You start thinking about The Corridor and maybe you start thinking about escaping from the CCSA.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lorinda said.

“Tell me about it,” Michelle said.

“I still don’t get it. What is the point of bombing a bridge?”

“Why do some people do spiteful, destructive things that are against their own self-interest? Let me give you a brief summary of my theory, which I believe I mentioned a minute ago: They’re morons.” She paused. “It’s the best I can do.”

“I don’t know,” said Lorinda.

“Actually, there’s another theory I’ve heard,” said Michelle, “which doesn’t contradict that. The theory is that blowing up overpasses, and letting the occasional pedestrian die, keeps at least some CCSA citizens from standing up there and seeing what a real economy looks like.”

“Isn’t bombing the bridge of another country an act of war or something?”

“Now that’s a good question,” Michelle said. “Here’s the problem. The perpetrators aren’t CCSA agents or military or anything official. They’re private citizens. Private terrorists. We know they’re often funded by the government. Or at least partially reimbursed. Almost no one in the country can afford to blow up overpasses as a hobby. Except the billionaire class, and they have other interests.”

“This is crazy!” Lorinda said. She paused, then added, “I mean, it’s not the craziest thing I’ve heard in the last week, but it’s pretty crazy.” She fell silent.

“Of course,” Michelle began, “the simple answer could be —”

“They’re fucking morons,” she and Lorinda said in unison, then burst into laughter.

“So what does the USA do about it?” Lorinda asked.

“Not much,” Michelle said. “We do the repairs — we have fulltime crews on standby up and down The Corridor. Of course we make the CCSA pay for it. Which they do quietly, without informing their citizens. Occasionally, if they blow up one too many overpasses, we have to threaten to bomb the living shit out of Austin or Miami. That gets their attention.”

The return trip, as return trips always do, felt much faster. In what seemed like no time the car was back in the compound, approaching a row of neat little bungalows. “He’s waiting for you,” Michelle said.

It took Lorinda a moment to see who she was talking about. There was Stimpy — Stewart — standing next to Serena in front of one of the little houses. Her heart thudding, Lorinda jumped out of the car before it had come to a complete stop and ran toward him. He took a few big steps forward and opened his arms wide. She crashed into him. Their lips came together at a slightly safer velocity.

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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.

Chapter Forty-Nine. In which our heroine makes her exit from the CCSA.

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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.

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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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“John Fitzgerald Kennedy Junior! That’s JFK Junior!” a female prisoner bellowed. “He’s JFK Junior! It’s him!”

The prisoners went wild, shouting “JFK Junior!” and “Johnny!” “Junior!” and “It’s really him!” Deputy Lukas’s eyes were bouncing from the prisoners to Stimpy and back. Sheriff Flint got all squinty, stared at Lorinda, stared at Stimpy, and finally opened his little packet and slapped a second THC patch on the other side of his neck. Stimpy did his best to hold himself steady and stare with a noble, self-effacing-but-proud, Man-of-Destiny look into the middle distance.

“You’re wondering why he looks so young,” Lorinda said, anticipating the sheriff’s question.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” said the sheriff. “He must be, I don’t know, sixty, seventy, eighty years old.”

“You don’t look much like JFK Junior,” the deputy ventured. “I seen your picture.”

“That’s the whole point! You all,” said Lorinda, sweeping the room with her smile, “you’re the only people in the country who know what my husband, JFK Junior, my Johnny, looks like now.”

“We have access to the greatest doctors in the world,” said Stimpy in a husky, confidential voice. “Plastic surgeons, gerontologists — that’s old-age doctors — every kind of doctor and scientist.”

“He takes a bath in nuclear-stem-cell youth serum every week,” Lorinda said. “He gets special radiation treatments. His bones are titanium and aluminum and carbon fiber. And look into his eyes.” Following her lead, Stimpy took a long, soulful look at the prisoners, then the deputy, then the sheriff. “Those are not the eyes of a young man,” said Lorinda in a hushed voice. “Those are the eyes of wisdom. I’m proud to say that he is …” And here she faltered — out of modesty? Love? Divine inspiration? Her voice broke, perhaps from sheer emotion. “… my soulmate.” 

The prisoners erupted in a cacophony of affirmation.

Waiting until they calmed down a bit, Stimpy said, “You should also know that my lungs and heart are new. They’re only two years old. The doctors and scientists tell me I can live another fifty or sixty years if … well, let’s just say, God willing.” The prisoners again burst into cheers.

“Now just hold on a minute,” the sheriff said, slapping his hand on the desk. “Y’all quiet down,” he growled at the prisoners, “or I’m gonna move you to the back cell.” They went silent. “Now,” said the sheriff, looking at Lorinda, “what about you? If he’s JFK Junior, who the hell are you?”

“I told you,” she said. “I’m Lorinda Moon. What I didn’t tell you is that I’m the daughter of —” Here she looked over at the prisoners, who were silent with anticipation. She paused, as though struggling with conflicting impulses. Should she tell the truth? Or maintain an easy, familiar deception? The truth won out. “Okay — I’m the love child of the late Donald Trump Junior and a very famous lady that I can’t talk about because it would put her life — my mother’s life — in great danger.” She patted her stomach. “The Prophet of Revelation prophesized that our baby will be the reincarnation of President Donald Trump. Only better. And Z himself will be our baby’s godfather.”

Stimpy jumped in before the others could digest all of that. “That’s why the CCSA fascists want to capture us. They know that our baby, our child, will grow up to lead the revolution that overthrows the rulers — the billionaires and trillionaires — who are destroying this nation with their corruption.” And, as an afterthought, “And their pederasty.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to remember one or two plot points from the old movie The Terminator to use in illustration of how their child would save the world.

“Why didn’t they just hang you?” the sheriff blurted. “Or shoot you? Or poison you? And why are they accusing you,” he looked at Lorinda, “of wanting an abortion?”

“Because they’re liars,” Lorinda said. “And because they want to make us look bad and make an example of me and Johnny. If they killed us right away, we’d be martyrs. So they want to put us in parades and on billboards and on CCSA broadcasts.” She paused and swept the room for eye contact. “They want to keep us alive until everyone hates us.”

“And then,” Stimpy said, “they’ll find the place in the CCSA where we’re the most hated, and they’ll release us there. They’ll say we escaped — right into a murderous mob. And they’ll make sure there are plenty of cameras around to show how much the people hated us. And they’ll have some fake footage showing how they tried to protect us and bring us to safety so we could get a fair trial or some horseshit, but, sadly, the angry mob killed us.”

The sheriff cracked up. “That’s a damn good plan,” he said as his laughter subsided. “Pure evil.” He laughed again.

For a second Lorinda thought the sheriff was going to adopt Stimpy’s fantasy on the spot, march them across the street, and hang them in front of an angry mob. “You know,” she said, hoping to change the subject, “we’ve been all over the country in the last two years. We believe people start out good, but then they’re twisted by the billionaires’ propaganda. Isn’t that right, Johnny?”

“Absolutely,” Stimpy agreed. “Propaganda is powerful.”

“And that’s why we have to get to Georgia right away,” Lorinda said emphatically. “Tomorrow if possible.” Stimpy tried to camouflage his shock with a fake cough.

“Georgia?” Sheriff Flint said. “Last I looked, that was in the USA.”

“People can’t go to the USA!” Deputy Lukas said.

“Why would you want to go to the USA?” the sheriff said. “How would you even get in? How do you know they’d let you in?”

“We have to go there,” Lorinda said. “It’s the prophecy.” She leaned toward the sheriff as if they were having an intimate conversation, but her voice was clear enough to carry to the prisoners in the cell. “The prophet said that our baby must be born in Georgia, in the USA. That’s the whole point! The baby has to be born in the most unlikely place. Like Moses in the bullrushes, and Baby Jesus in the manger. And the USA will welcome us.” She altered her voice as though reciting Scripture. “’As soon as they behold the Mother, even then will they Know.’ In fact, they won’t be able to stop us from entering and having our baby there. And with the power of our child, combined with the power of Z and the power of Jesus Christ, the USA will leave us alone until the child is strong enough to come back here with his army of crusaders to save us all. And to return Georgia to the CCSA, where it belongs!”

An awed hush fell over the assembled. Finally, the sheriff said, “Wow.” He sat back in his chair. “Just wow.”

“But we can’t do it without your help,” Lorinda said urgently. “The prophet told us we will meet a tall, strong stranger with a mustache and a badge who will take us to the promised land.”

“The prophet said that?” Sheriff Flint was now stroking his mustache thoughtfully. “And you think he meant me? I’m the one to take you to the promised land?”

“Of course it’s you!” Lorinda said. “Who else could it be? We’ve been all over this country and there’s no one else it could be. Until now. It’s you!”

“You’re the one, Sheriff,” Stimpy said. “Don’t you remember? Z himself posted something about this last year.” He raised his eyes toward the ceiling, as though trying to recall the quote. “‘And hey. Make sure the Vessel and the Father get to Georgia. Let them be helped by a Man of the Law. A man of patches.’”

“Sheriff!” the deputy cried, pointing to his boss’s neck. “Patches!”

“You are the Man of Patches,” Stimpy said.

“Oh yeah?” The Sheriff looked skeptical. “Then how come you two waited so long to tell us this?”

“Because,” Stimpy said, “we couldn’t be sure we could trust you. But now we know we can. You are … the chosen one.” He couldn’t remember what movie that was from, but it sounded right.

The prisoners cheered, called the sheriff’s name. Some of them chanted “You’re the one! You’re the one!”

The sheriff closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. For a long time he appeared to be deep in thought. When he opened his eyes there was a new look of determination on his face. He was practically yelling. “We’ll get you there! We’ll pull out of here by four in the morning! Lukas!”

“Yes, sheriff sir!”

“Get the word to everybody in the enclave. We’ll form a convoy in front of the office here at three-thirty in the morning. Anyone who doesn’t show up will be hanged when we get back.” He closed his eyes again, re-opening them in a matter of seconds. “I’ll get my cousin Hudson and his limo for these two,” he said in his normal conversational voice. “They need special conveyance. Oh, and all of you,” he said to the prisoners. “You’re free. Let ‘em out, Lukas. I hereby deputize all y’all to go tell everybody you know — your friends and relatives and everybody else — you go tell them what’s happening, and that I’ll hang ‘em if they don’t cooperate. I expect to see you back here at three-thirty, with your cars and trucks. Full tanks! Lukas, wake up Andy, tell him to open his gas station. You got that everybody? And no slacking off or …” He grabbed his neck, stuck out his tongue, and made a loud gagging sound.

Deputy Lukas promptly unlocked the cell door and the prisoners piled out, thanking the sheriff profusely. Some of them shyly touched Lorinda or Stimpy before charging out the door.

“Up and at ‘em!” the sheriff called, clanking the cell door a couple of times to make sure his message got through. But Lorinda and Stimpy were already awake. After a fitful, uncomfortable sleep on the narrow cell bench, they’d been woken up ten minutes earlier by the sounds of the first vehicles arriving out front, including the low-frequency rumbling of some big trucks.

“What time is it?” Stimpy asked.

“Three-thirty-five,” the sheriff said. “And here’s your breakfast.”

Deputy Lukas sailed into the cell with a bag of take-out containers. “I had Mimzy, from the restaurant over there, make you something. She says hi. She remembers you from yesterday. She says she knew you were JFK Junior, but I don’t believe it.”

“You better eat quick,” said the sheriff. “We want to get rolling in twenty minutes.”

“What’s that sound?” Lorinda asked. The rumbling had started again.

“Oh, that’s just a missile-launcher truck,” the sheriff said. “We got three of them. They’re getting themselves in position for the convoy.”

Two Kamov Ka-62 helicopters touched down near the WELCOME TO ZONE Z IF YOU CAN HANDLE THE TRUTH road sign, nearly blowing it over with their rotor downwash. A minute later a single file of eight gleaming, unmarked black Gelandwagens slowed down and stopped just before the first one reached the choppers. The hulking Skippy, now in a skin-tight black tee-shirt and jungle-camouflage stretch jeans, jumped out of the lead Kamov, turned around, and gave Janelle Stark — in a black jumpsuit, still with a bandage on her head — his hand to ease her leap to the ground. Out of the second helicopter poured ten uniformed CCSA Domestic Security warriors, followed by one dazed-looking civilian wearing plaid shorts, a yellow polo shirt, and a bandage on his head.

The uniformed drivers of the first three G-Wagens were already out and opening the doors for the helicopter passengers’ load-in. The other five vehicles were stuffed with Domestic Security enforcers. “Brad,” Janelle Stark called to the civilian in shorts, “get in the third car.” She and Skippy proceeded to the first G-Wagen, while the others segregated themselves into the second and third.

The procession, resembling a fancy funeral motorcade, stopped in front of the sheriff’s office. Skippy leveraged himself out of a rear door of the first vehicle just as Deputy Lukas stepped out of the building and onto the little boardwalk. “Why, look who’s back,” Lukas said cheerfully.

“Give me her,” Skippy snarled. It was like listening to a rock try to talk.

“Give you who?” said the deputy, screwing his face into what he hoped would look like confusion.

Janelle Stark emerged from the other rear door, marched over to the building, and looked up at the deputy. She pulled a folded sheet of paper out of an inner pocket, thrust it at Lukas, and said, “By order of the Domestic Security Administration of the Confederation of Conservative States of America, you are to remand Lorinda Moon to my custody at once, motherfucker!”

“No need to cuss, ma’am,” the deputy said laconically. “I’d love to hand her over to you, but she ain’t here.”

“What do you mean?”

“They all left here about two and a half, three hours ago.”

“What do you mean, they left? And who’s they?”

“They is everybody in Zone Z, pretty much. They ain’t here. They left in a big convoy. Maybe, I don’t know, fifty vehicles. Sixty? Seventy? Like a big parade, sorta, I guess …”

“Where did they go?!”

“Oh, jeez, ma’am. They didn’t tell me that. I wasn’t even awake when they left.”

“Where’s that sheriff? I need to talk to the sheriff!”

“Well, ma’am, he went with them, a-course. Yep. I guess that makes it an official Zone Z convoy.”

Lunkhead Skippy stomped his foot on the pavement, like an angry bull.

“Traveling in a car going east again,” Stimpy said dreamily.

Lorinda opened her eyes. “Hmmm? Was I asleep?” She was slumped against Stimpy, who was slumped on the seat. She tried to sit up, but it wasn’t easy. Stimpy helped with a gentle push on her shoulder.

“I think I was asleep,” Stimpy said, “and I think I said ‘Traveling in a car going east again,’ and woke myself up.” He looked out the window. “But it’s true. We are traveling in a car going east. I hope we’re going east.” He leaned forward, hit the window button, stuck his head out, and checked the whereabouts of the sun. “Yep, we’re going east. And I’m not driving. That’s the best part. And it’s still early.” He rolled the window back up and looked at the screen of his com. “Only seven-thirty.”

“In the morning?” Lorinda said.

“Wow, you were really asleep!” Stimpy laughed.

“You’re awake!” said the driver, rolling down the window that separated his compartment from theirs and looking at them in the rear-view mirror. His name was Hudson, Lorinda remembered, “Like the old car, which is maybe why I got into old cars,” he’d offered by way of introduction as he stood by his impeccable black car in front of the sheriff’s office. Lorinda had no idea what he meant, but she’d smiled anyway. Stimpy later explained that Hudson was a car from the USA that hadn’t been produced since the middle of the twentieth century.

“We’ll be to Georgia pretty soon,” Hudson said, rolling the privacy window back up.

Stimpy felt his com vibrate. He looked at it and said, softly, to Lorinda, “It’s all set.” She gave him a big, drowsy smile. He scootched forward and tapped on the window, which Hudson rolled back down. “Route 80 to 280 right to Georgia,” Stimpy said.

“Your prophet spoke to you, Mr. Kennedy?”

“Sure did,” said Stimpy cheerfully. ”Loud and clear.”

“I’ll tell the sheriff.” He was already saying “Ten-four, Jesse …” as the window slid up.

After they’d wolfed down their Mimzy’s breakfasts — scrambled eggs, Confed-fried potatoes, toast, chemical-free cappuccinos — they’d been hustled out of their cell by Deputy Lukas. The gathering convoy was impressive, starting with the three big rigs, each blasting black smoke and trailing a flatbed loaded with a vintage Iranian rocket launcher and many sharp-nosed, neatly strapped-down missiles. There were already thirty or forty cars and trucks jockeying for position, with more arriving from both directions. Some of the cars were waving hastily made flags or signs in their windows: ZONE Z TO THE RESCUE; BABY TRUMP IS OUR SAVIOR; JFK JR OUR HERO; LORINDA MOTHER OF LIBERTY. It was likely the biggest traffic jam in the history of the enclave.

And then Hudson’s car had purred into view, stopping right in front of them. Lorinda had never seen anything like it. After introducing himself, and saying what an honor it was to make their acquaintance, Hudson — who bore a striking resemblance to Sheriff Flint — had proudly explained that it was a 1960 Cadillac Fleetwood limousine, that the car was his, and that he personally had restored it and did all maintenance himself, including fabricating parts if he had to.

“Does that include polishing it?” Stimpy had asked.

“Damn right. I detail it once a month, whether or not it’s seen any use. When the sun comes up you’ll see how beautiful she shines.” A cloud had passed over his expression. “Not that there are that many special events around here lately.”

“That’s what you use it for?” Lorinda had asked. “Special events?”

“Yeah, weddings and things. It’s not much good for anything else. Too damn long to park anywhere. Course, it’s perfect for driving celebrities like yourselves to Georgia.”

Down the street, the sheriff had been showing people how to line up their vehicles for the procession. “Sheriff Flint said he was going to ask his cousin to bring out his limousine,” Stimpy said. “I guess that makes you his cousin.”

Hudson beamed. “Yes sir. My cousin, the big boss of the enclave. He wants me to ask you where we’re going. I mean, he knows you need to get to Georgia, but where? And, you know, we can’t just drive into Georgia. We’ll probably have to drop you off or something.”

“Let’s just head east the fastest way possible,” Stimpy said. “After we’re moving the prophet will tell me the details. Is this car leading the parade?”

“No way. You don’t want to put the celebrities right at the tip of the arrow, you want ‘em in the middle, so they’re protected.”

Just then the little armored car — the one they’d seen the day before — clanged up and parked in front of the limo. The family — mom, dad, Clay — emerged and called a friendly “Hail!” to Stimpy, Lorinda, and Hudson. “We’re here for you,” said the father. “And, of course, for …” He looked at Lorinda and patted his own belly.

“See?” said Hudson. “The main thing is, one of the missile launchers will be near the front, one a few cars ahead of us, one at the rear. My cousin Jesse will be up front in his patrol truck, and me and him, we can talk to each other. I got a police CB radio! So you’ll tell me the directions — you know, when you hear from the prophet — and I’ll tell him.”

“What are those things sticking up?” Lorinda asked, pointing to the rear of the Cadillac.

“That’s called tail fins,” Hudson said fondly.

Lorinda gazed out the side window at the flat, practically featureless landscape. “Do you really have a farm?” she asked.

“What?” Stimpy, who had been exchanging messages with Wilma in Revelation, looked up from his com.

“That old truck you had. When you guys picked me up in Little Harlem. With vegetables in back? And the name of a farm on the side?”

“Patriot Farm,” Stimpy said. He was smiling, but his smile instantly curdled as he pictured Ren — Roger — with him in the truck, and then the catastrophe in Libertyville. “Yeah, it’s a real farm. We’re not great farmers, but we do grow some nice stuff. It’s mainly a base camp, and an escape when we need to regroup between missions. And we’ve got some communications equipment there. And a small server farm. We’ll have a memorial service for Roger. Snoopy recovered his body. I’ll probably go there after, you know, you’re safe in the USA.”

Silence, other than the clanging of the armored car up ahead, hung heavily in the air between them. It was interrupted by a distant buzzing. Lorinda craned her neck and looked out the side window. “What the hell?”

Stimpy turned to see two ancient-looking biplanes, one red, one green, circling each other at low altitude. Trailing from the red plane was a banner reading FURIOUS FYODOR 6 WEEK CHAMPION; the banner on the green plane said ALEX THE AVENGING ANGEL. A loud air horn squawked, apparently a signal to the pilots. The planes instantly veered radically from their paths and the pilots — their heads and shoulders sticking up out of the cockpits — started shooting at each other with hand-held automatic weapons. Stimpy tapped on the window of the chauffeur’s compartment again and loudly said, “What’s going on there?”

Hudson stole a glance at the biplanes and rolled down the window. “No idea,” he said. “Maybe the End Times? Or something from the Penal Colony? There’s the exit.” He pointed to an exit ramp whose sign read PENAL COLONY ENCLAVE.

 “Thanks,” said Stimpy as the window went back up. Lorinda looked puzzled. “It’s the enclave where they produce that show, Top of the Heap,” he said. “I think we’re seeing two contestants trying to kill each other.” Just at that moment, as the green plane was heading upward at a steep angle, they saw puffs of smoke emanating from the red plane, followed immediately by the sound of its gun, followed by the starboard horizontal stabilizer and the top two-thirds of the vertical stabilizer of the green plane disintegrating. “I think we have a winner,” Stimpy said. The green plane continued its upward trajectory for a few seconds before it started a slow spin; soon it started falling tail-first. Then the nose snapped violently down and the old plane entered a spinning dive. Both wings on the starboard side were starting to detach when it crashed dead-center into the top of the red plane. There was an instant explosion. Flames enveloped both of the plummeting aircraft. The limo was suddenly bouncing. Stimpy looked through to the front compartment and saw their driver bent over and staring out the passenger-side window at the chaos in the sky. “Hudson!” he yelled.

Hudson instantly sat up and steered the car back onto the road. He lowered the window just enough to say, “Sorry, boss,” then raised it again.

The multiple concussions of the planes crashing into the ground nearby were terrifying. Lorinda was speechless.

“You think the show taught them how to fly those planes?” Stimpy asked after they’d left the raging flames behind them. “Or did they recruit two suicidal pilots?”

“What will they do next week if there’s no winner from this week?” Lorinda said. “I guess they’ll use last week’s runner-up?”

“Last week’s runner up is dead,” Stimpy said. “By definition.”

“Second runner-up?” Lorinda said. “Good thing we don’t have to run that show. And I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

They traded a look of horror and disbelief — then laughed.

That’s when they passed the first of the newly hacked billboards: MAKE WAY FOR LORINDA AND JFK JR. Followed by several more with the same message. “I guess Bill didn’t have time to get creative,” Stimpy said. Then they came upon a group of young people lined up at the side of the road, waving and holding handmade posters:

WE LOVE YOU JFK, Jr.

TAKE ME WITH YOU!!!!!!

PROTECT BABY TRUMP!

WE ARE ALL LORIDNA MOON

GO JOHNNY GO!

Several paces away from the rest of the group, two young men were kicking and trying to punch each other while still holding onto their posters, one of which said WELCOME BABY TRUMP! and the other WELCOME BABY JESUS!

Hudson rolled down the window and said, “What is wrong with people?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Stimpy said.

“Nah … But … I mean, everybody knows the baby isn’t going to be Jesus. Right?”

Lorinda and Stimpy looked at each other and nodded. They looked back at Hudson in the mirror and nodded again.

”So, yeah …” Hudson said. He shook his head at the folly of mankind. “Anyway, what I really wanted to say is that we’ll reach Georgia in, like, five or ten minutes. Hope we don’t see no lizard people coming for us.” The window flew back up.

And then they heard the helicopters.

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!

Tip your bartenders we mean authors!

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.

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

As they stepped onto the little boardwalk, Lorinda asked, “What did he do?” It was more to establish some kind of conversational rapport with the sheriff than to have her question answered.

“What did who do?” said the sheriff, temporarily halting the march into his office.

“Him. Back there,” Lorinda said, jerking her head toward the gallows.

“Oh, him,” said the sheriff. “That one was a sad case. He coulda gone far here. But he committed a capital heresy and paid the price. As you can see.”

“A capital heresy?” Stimpy asked. That was a new one on him.

“Yep, a capital heresy,” said the sheriff. “Class A, the worst kind. He denied the existence of Z, orally, verbally, in writing, and in the so-called media. We gave him the opportunity to retract his statements. Many times. But he refused. Gave us no choice but to string him up. Stubborn, stupid bastard.”

“Have you ever met Z?” Lorinda asked.

“You don’t want to meet Z,” he snorted cryptically. Resuming his forward motion, he firmly guided her and Stimpy into the building.

The interior perfectly matched the exterior. The “office” part, on the right-hand side of the room, consisted of two wooden desks, a wooden chair behind each of the desks, two chairs in front of the near desk, and several wooden file cabinets. In bold red letters on a white background, a poster on the wall behind the desks said:

INDEPENDENZ FOR ZONE Z

Z SAYS

IT’S TIME TO ZECEDE FROM THE CCSA

Past the office were some rooms, presumably washrooms, closets, and the like. On the left side, facing the office, was a line of four small jail cells that extended to the rear wall. More accurately, it was one large cell divided into four smaller cells by floor-to-ceiling vertical bars, with each of the small cells having its own barred door facing the office side of the room. Sturdy, beat-up wooden benches were bolted to the floor around the three doorless sides of each cell. 

Only the first cell, the one directly across from the office, was inhabited. The prisoners, seven men and four women, were a scraggly bunch. As the sheriff and his two new charges entered, most of the prisoners in the crowded cell — those who weren’t nodding-out on a bench — scrambled up to the front of the cell to have a better look at the fresh meat. “Calm down and back off y’all,” barked the sheriff. The prisoners eased away from the cell bars while keeping their eyes on the action.

“Now,” said Sheriff Flint, “first I gotta read you your Sacred Rights Warning.” Just then the deputy sheriff — the man Lorinda and Stimpy had seen stringing up the noose and who later pulled the lever — came through the front door. “Did the clean-up squad come, Lukas?”

“Nah,” said the deputy, “the dude’s still hanging out there. Just twisting in the breeze.”

“Damn. Why are they always so slow? We may need that gallows tonight for our new prisoners here.” Then, to Lorinda and Stimpy, “This here’s my deputy, Deputy Lukas.”

Lorinda turned to the deputy, flashed her eyes, and said, “I’m … I’m Randi Howland. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Edward Chapman,” Stimpy muttered reluctantly.

“Search ‘em, Lukas,” the sheriff said, sitting down behind the desk, opening a drawer, and grabbing a rumpled sheet of paper, a pencil, and a small, brightly colored packet.

“You got anything in your pockets, sir?” Deputy Lukas asked Stimpy, who took out his wallet and his com device. As he passed the com to the deputy, he stole a glance at the sheriff who, after removing a small square patch from the packet, peeled off the backing and slapped the patch on the side of his neck. “Lordy,” said the deputy, fondling and staring at Stimpy’s com. “I never seen one like this before. What is it?”

“Oh, it’s just, like, a music player,” Stimpy lied, as he deftly slipped his Citizen Card out of his wallet and into his pocket.

“You ain’t carrying some kind of communicator on you?”

“The CCSA security people took it. They also took our Citizen Cards.” He held out his wallet while sneaking a glance at Lorinda, who instantly caught what he was telling her: Our Citizen Cards say we’re old fogies, so we’d better try not to show them.

“We don’t use CCSA credentials here,” said the deputy, ignoring the wallet and handing the com back to Stimpy. “And you, ma’am? What’s in there?” Lorinda held her bag open for him. He went right for the pink Lady SIG Sauer .22 and held it up in front of his face. “Hey, sheriff, check it out.”

The sheriff, now writing on the sheet of paper, looked up. “What the hell?”

A woman in the cell shouted, “I want that little toy!”

“And I guess them CCSA folks took your communicator too?” the deputy said.

“That’s right,” said Lorinda.

“Okay,” the deputy said, dropping the pink gun back into Lorinda’s bag. “Can’t see you doing any harm with that thing.”

“Sit down,” Sheriff Flint said. Lorinda and Stimpy sat on the chairs in front of his desk. The sheriff opened the drawer again, found a length of heavy white string and two pairs of handcuffs, and slid the handcuffs across the desk. Lukas cuffed Lorinda’s left wrist to her chair and Stimpy’s right wrist to his. “Fix up cell two for them,” the sheriff said. “I think they’ll be here for a while if I don’t hang ‘em first.” Deputy Lukas moseyed off to a closet. Closing his eyes, the sheriff said, “This stuff is the best.”

The woman who’d shouted about the gun now shouted, “Give me a patch!” Everyone ignored her.

The sheriff opened his eyes and held up the little packet so Lorinda and Stimpy could read its swirly logo: ZTONED THC PATCHES XTRA ZTRONG. “We just started a new manufacturing operation here. Closed down the tee-shirt factory and put everyone to work on this fine product. Pretty soon we hope to be shipping all over the CCSA.” He closed his eyes again. “It’s the strongest and the quickest anyone’s ever seen. And I’m proud to say that I helped with the formulation.”

“He owns the company!” the deputy chimed in.

“Well, I’m a part-owner. It’s only right, since I thought of it. Also, I’m the top law-enforcement and legal authority here in this enclave, so I’m owed a piece of the action. Don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely,” Lorinda said. Stimpy nodded and tried to smile.

“He’s like the CEO of  Zone Z,” the deputy said proudly.

The sheriff nodded to Lukas, then addressed Lorinda and Stimpy. “Down to business. You should know that this is just a little jailhouse, not a real prison. It’s more what you call a drunk tank.”

This was instantly met by catcalls from the cell and one deep voice grumbling, “I ain’t drunk no more.”

“Zip it, Howie,” the sheriff shot back. Then, to Lorinda and Stimpy: “We don’t believe in long-term incarceration here in Zone Z.” He paused for effect. “That gallows out there gets a lot of use.”

“Don’t forget the firing squad,” one of the women interjected.

“Yeah, well we don’t do that so much anymore,” said Sheriff Flint. “Ammunition ain’t cheap.”

“Also, we had that accident,” called the deputy from behind the closet door.

“So what I’m saying,” said the sheriff, “is that one way or the other you won’t be here long. I’ll either send you back to the CCSA, hang you by the neck, or …” He thought about it for a moment, then, surprisingly, giggled. “I don’t know what I might do. Maybe I’ll give you a loyalty oath and make you my deputies.” He cracked up, as did some of the prisoners. “But,” he said, pulling himself together, “I’ll probably just hang you. Anyway, I need to read you your Sacred Rights Warning.” To Deputy Lukas, he called, “I put some new stuff in the Sacred Rights, Lukas. You should listen.”

Turning his eyes to the sheet of paper on his desk, he read aloud: “‘You have the right to an attorney if you can afford one and if you can find one who will work for you. You have the right to remain silent. I have the right and obligation to do whatever is necessary to make you talk. Anything you say will be used against you in a court of law or right here in my jailhouse. Irregardless of your guilt or innocence, any blasphemy against Z will incur the death penalty.’ That’s why we had today’s hanging. Did I tell you that already? ‘And aside from everything else, I, Sheriff Jesse Flint, am sovereign in my jailhouse and throughout this Zone Z, and, under the auspices of our leader Z, have the right to do whatever I deem necessary to preserve our freedom and our way of life here in our precious enclave, up to and including doing whatever I deem necessary to prisoner’s name here’ — you know your names, I don’t need to say ‘em ‘—including, as heretofore mentioned or suggested, hanging you with a noose until you are legally dead. Z is here, there is nothing to fear, live the dream, believe in the Scheme. Amen.’ Now put your right hands over your hearts and repeat after me.”

Stimpy and Lorinda glanced dubiously at each other, then covered their hearts with their right hands.

“I swear to Z and Jesus Christ that I agree,” the sheriff intoned.

“I swear to Z and Jesus Christ that I agree,” Lorinda and Stimpy repeated, struggling to keep from laughing.

Several of the prisoners clapped and cheered. “That was a good one, sheriff,” the deputy said as he opened the door to cell number two. “I like your new material. It gets better every time.” He tossed two rubber pads and some sheets onto a bench in the cell.

“So,” said the sheriff, “tell me what you did to get the CCSA so pissed off at y’all?”

Stimpy cleared his throat, cast a glimpse at Lorinda, and nervously began, “Randi and I, we … she got pregnant, you see, and she had just gotten a job promotion, she was about to get very busy, and she really wasn’t ready to have a baby. So then the CCSA Domestic Security Force grabbed her because … they were worried that she wanted to have a reset. An abortion.” He paused, not sure which way to take the story.

The prisoners who were standing were now pressed against the bars staring at the back of Stimpy’s head. Those who were sitting were getting up and migrating toward the bars; those still on a bench were rubbing the sleep out of their eyes and trying to focus. Lorinda looked over her shoulder at the prisoners. They were obviously sympathetic, and a few gave her big grins, affirmative nods, or thumbs-up.

She gave them a wan smile.

“We don’t even know how they knew,” Stimpy said.

“Oh they know!” one of the women prisoners said. The crowd mumbled its agreement.

Lorinda’s gaze had slid off the prisoners and was now aimed at the floor. Her expression went blank. She was contemplating an idea that — like all her best ideas — had come of its own accord, out of nowhere, seeming both superficially crazy and absolutely brilliant.

“They caught her,” Stimpy continued. Then he paused to swallow hard as he noticed the sheriff absentmindedly fashioning the piece of string into a noose. Stimpy resumed, “but … but she’s an incredibly strong person, and she escaped. Which isn’t easy to do. And that’s when I decided to help her get out of the CCSA —”

“Hold on, Johnny,” Lorinda interrupted. Stimpy looked at her. There was a touch of panic in his eyes.

“Johnny?” The sheriff looked up, suddenly alert. “What happened to whatsisname, Edward Chap-thingy?”

 Lorinda turned back to the sheriff and said, “Can I be honest with you, Sheriff Flint?”

“You better be.”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Only if it don’t involve breaking one of Z’s rules,” he said with a smile.

She turned to the cell and addressed the prisoners: “Can you guys keep our secret?” They roared in affirmation. She turned back to the sheriff. “We’ve been lying for so long. I’m just tired of lying. I need to be honest. To finally be honest. My real name …” She turned to look at the prisoners, then looked back at the sheriff.

“What’s your real name?” another voice called out.

“My real name,” Lorinda said, “is Lorinda. Lorinda Moon.” Stimpy gasped. “It’s all right, honey. I know that these people are our friends.” She gave the sheriff her biggest “Welcome to PumpJack's” smile, then turned and flashed it at the prisoners. “Yes,” she said, leaning her head in Stimpy’s direction. “He’s right. I’m pregnant. It’s his baby. This man, this beautiful man, is my husband. His name is …” She looked at Stimpy, whose eyes were wide. She looked back at the prisoners, who were rapt. “No,” she said, letting her head sag. “I’m sorry,” she stage-whispered. “This is all a mistake. I really … I can’t say any more.”

The prisoners exploded in “Say more”s and “Please”s and “Tell us”s and “Don’t stop”s and, from Howie, the man with the basso profundo voice, “You can trust us, dear.”

“Can you really really keep a secret?” Lorinda asked. They nodded and cheered. “Do you really mean it.” They cheered much louder. Deputy Lukas was now standing in front of the prisoners, cheering along with them. “All right,” she said, turning back to Sheriff Flint. “My husband’s name is …” She turned to Stimpy, saying, “Don’t worry, Johnny. I know we can trust the people of Zone Z.”

Then, loud and clear, she said: “My husband’s name is … John Fitzgerald Kennedy Junior!”

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!

Tip your bartenders we mean authors!

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.

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

Janelle Stark was in an expansive mood as she steered Lorinda around the side of the Zotel toward the rear parking lot. “I’m happy to see you graduated up to a real weapon,” Stark said. “That little pink thing you had …” She trailed off into a mirthless chuckle.

“Your bandage looks good,” Lorinda said. Stark ignored that as she pushed her captive in the direction of the nearer of the two black Gelandewagens that were parked on the far side of the Chartreuse Xiaomi Lumberjax. “That’s a nice truck you have, Moon,” Stark said, giving the plastic cuffs securing Lorinda’s wrists behind her back a nasty little shake. “Too bad for you our satellite found it in about ten seconds.”

“Fuck you,” Lorinda spat.

“Oh, my, my, my,” Stark said. “You’re a lucky girl. If you weren’t with child I’d be slapping you silly.”

If I weren’t with child, Lorinda thought, I’d be behind the bar at PumpJack's and not out here in the middle of godforsaken nowhere. Just then Stimpy, his hands also cuffed behind his back, half ran, half stumbled past her, barely managing to avoid falling on his face. She turned to see that big ghoul Skippy grinning with sadistic satisfaction. “Of course,” said Stark, ”there’s no reason Skippy can’t have his way with your little friend here, whoever the hell he is.” The big guy mimed dusting off the lapels of his dark suit, caught up to Stimpy, and yanked up on the plastic cuffs, causing Stimpy to yip in pain. “You take him in the other truck,” Stark said. “She’ll come with me in this one.”

Lorinda, nearly in tears, locked eyes with Stimpy and mouthed “I’m sorry” just as Brad opened the rear door of the first G-Wagen, popped his still-bandaged head out, and shouted, “Who is he, Lorinda?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Lorinda said. Stimpy laughed. Skippy gave him another yank.

“Move over,” said Stark to Brad, pushing down on Lorinda’s head and easing her into the back seat. “And don’t touch her.”

“But I love her,” Brad whined.

“Shut up, Brad,” Lorinda and Stark said in unison.

“I’m bringing you and your friend to the local jail for a day or two,” Stark said, turning to face Lorinda from the front seat as the two unmarked but unmistakably obvious CCSA vehicles burbled slowly toward the sheriff’s office. “Of course I could extract you right now. I have a chopper waiting just outside of this stupid enclave. But I want to do it right. I want to have a big procession, a parade, if you will, all the way from here to the breeding center in Baton Rouge. The BRBC. It’s probably even nicer than the one in Austin. You’ll love it there. Here’s the thing, Moon. You’re getting famous. Your picture’s on billboards all over the country.”

“Some of them are calling you a hero,” Brad said. He frowned and looked at Stark. “I guess those were hacked, huh?”

“Shut up, Brad,” Stark said through gritted teeth. She turned back to Lorinda. “But yes, some of them think you’re heroic for endangering innocent life and breaking the law, and I want to correct that misunderstanding. I want everybody in the country to see what happens when wicked young women get out of line. So I need a little time to advertise this. I want thousands — millions — of people looking at you along the parade route.” Then, almost to herself, “Maybe I’ll have to leave you in jail here for a week to get it organized.” She gave Lorinda a cold smile. “You might find it interesting here. These people are insane. I wonder what they’ll make of you …”

The trucks stopped in front of the sheriff’s office. Out the window Lorinda could see that a crowd of sixty people, maybe even eighty or a hundred, had gathered around the gallows across the street. So that’s where everyone is, she thought. A man of around thirty, in torn black pants and a black tee-shirt, his hands, like hers, secured behind his back, stood straight and still in the center of the platform. Lorinda’s driver stepped out, opened her door, and gestured — surprisingly politely, she thought — for her to get out. As she stood up, she saw a man in a tan law-enforcement uniform mount the platform, approach the prisoner, grab the dangling rope, and fit the noose at the end of the rope around the young man’s neck. “Y’all know I’m innocent,” the young man yelled, his voice easily carrying to Lorinda and beyond. “Just remember this when they come for you.” He said more but Lorinda couldn’t hear him as he was drowned out by the crowd hissing and booing and yelling “Shut up!” Finally, he nodded at the other man, who stepped down from the platform, pulled the rope taut, and reached for a big lever attached to the side of the platform.

“That could be you,” said Stark, who had come around the truck. She grabbed Lorinda’s shoulder and guided her toward the sheriff’s office. But her curiosity got the better of her: She stopped and turned to face the gallows. Lorinda studied her captor’s face, which lit up with joy at the sound of a wooden thud followed by a softer thud. A moment later came the collective gasp of the crowd, followed instantly by cheers. Still grinning, Stark stepped behind Lorinda, grabbed the plastic cuffs, and frog-marched her forward.

“By what authority are y’all here?” The sheriff had emerged from his office. A lanky man with a big white mustache, he wore a tan uniform, a big, shiny, five-pointed star on his chest, a tan cowboy hat, and a pair of gleaming six-shooters in the holsters on his hips. Whoever designed the Wild West building had apparently designed him as well. He came to a halt in front of Lorinda and addressed Stark, making it obvious that, in the unfolding scenario, his was the only authority that mattered.

“By the authority vested in me as a Senior Domestic Security Officer of the Confederation of Conservative States of America,” Janelle Stark said contemptuously. “I and my team have full overriding authority to be here.”

The sheriff theatrically spat on the ground before speaking. “Full overriding authority?” He smiled. “Full overriding authority. Enforced by what? How many are you, four? Five?” He noticed the towering Skippy. “Or is it three and a circus freak? Don’t really matter, does it?” He looked past the black trucks and nodded approvingly. Stark followed his gaze. Behind her, the gallows crowd was scuttling across the street. They were all waving guns. As if they’d rehearsed it, they spread out until they formed a dense semicircle around the trucks, the CCSA security crew, Lorinda and Stimpy, and the sheriff. Many of them aimed their guns at Janelle Stark, quickly figuring out that she was their target.

“Now,” said the sheriff to Janelle, “I suggest you explain what the hell you’re doing in our precious enclave. The only enclave, I ought to remind you, that don’t take no shit from the CCSA government or any other government.”

“I’m here to arrest this woman for …” Stark was having trouble putting her words together in this unaccustomed situation. “To arrest this woman for seeking to terminate her pregnancy. To bring her to one of our breeding centers. And likewise to arrest her accomplice.”

“I see. Well, that’s very interesting because that’s not the way the law works here in Zone Z.”

“What are you going to do with them?” Stark said, realizing that there was no point arguing with a crazy person, or a whole enclave of crazy people.

“I’m going to keep them here in protective custody, in my jailhouse, while we figure out what this is all about. Now remove their cuffs and get the hell out of my enclave.” Stark was frozen in indecision. “Or,” said the sheriff, “we can walk you across the street …” he paused for effect “… and hang the whole lot of you. Although” — here he rubbed the back of his neck, seemingly in thought — “we only got one noose up there right now. So it might take a while.” Then he brightened, grinned at his townspeople, and said, “But we got plenty of time.”

The crowd of armed Zone Z citizens cheered wildly. “And I’ll tell you what,” the sheriff continued, clearly enjoying this, “just set down those nice new military weapons you got, right down in front of you. Real gentle-like. We could always use a few more weapons around here. ‘Specially when folks like y’all come nosing around.”

The townspeople cheered again and crowded in a little closer. Stark signaled to her people that they should do as the sheriff said. She placed her gun on the ground, patted it goodbye, stood up, and gave Lorinda’s handcuffs a painful little twist that caused her to yelp in pain. In retribution, Lorinda fiercely clapped  her wrists together, mashing Stark’s fingers between the two sides of the sturdy plastic cuffs. Now it was Stark’s turn to yelp, jump back, and gape at blood oozing out of her left index finger. “You little bitch!” she snapped. The same sweaty agent with whom she’d video-conferenced this operation to life stepped forward with a pair of small hedge shears and cut off first Lorinda’s plastic handcuffs, then Stimpy’s. “I’ll be back. And with a lot more firepower,” Janelle growled. “Maybe tomorrow,” she added as she skulked off toward the shiny black G-Wagens. Her people fell in line behind her.

The crowd stepped aside, just a tiny bit, to let them pass. “And fuck you!” someone yelled. Fifteen or twenty more townsfolk joined in the “Fuck you!” chorus, along with the odd “Fuck the CCSA.”

As Lorinda watched them leave, she noticed a tearful Brad taking it all in from the back seat of one of the official vehicles. Across the street, the limp body of the hanged man lazily spun one way, then the other on the thick rope.

“I let you down.” Stimpy, looking physically deflated, had slouched over to Lorinda’s side as she watched the G-Wagens drive away and the mob lower their guns and start to disperse.

“What are you talking about? You’re a hero.” She put her arms around him and hugged him tightly. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be okay.”

Lorinda felt a strong hand grip her arm. "Let's go, missy," the sheriff said harshly. He looked at Stimpy. "You, too, bub. I’m Sheriff Jesse Flint, and you’re in my custody now."

As the sheriff guided them toward his office, Lorinda said, "Thanks."

The sheriff stopped and looked at her deadpan. "For what?"

"For ... I don't know ... getting rid of those people."

"They'll be back, with more of 'em next time. And I bet it’s all your fault. They followed you. You lured 'em here."

"I didn't ... we didn't mean to—"

"So now we gotta deal with them and with you. And your boyfriend."

"You could just let us go," Stimpy said. "You'd never see us again."

"Yeah? And get caught up in their aiding-and-abetting-a-fugitive bullshit? Have them send in the army and tear the enclave apart looking for you? Not happening." The sheriff drew a deep breath and looked off into the distance. “Course, I could just throw up another noose and hang the both of you, leave you dangling till they come back.”

He stroked his mustache and his eyes went dreamy as he said, “What would Z do?”

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!

Tip your bartenders we mean authors!

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.

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

It was an unusually bright, clear day. Lorinda and Stimpy, looking refreshed and considerably younger than they’d looked twelve hours earlier, bounced out of the Clothing Zone and onto what the street signs identified as Commerze Ztreet.

Lorinda wore new white high-top sneakers, a faux-suede mini-dress, and the long-brimmed plaid baseball cap she’d bought — was it just yesterday? — at the Trump Memorial Golf Shoppe; Stimpy sported a red-, white-, and blue-checked cowboy shirt, tight acid-washed jeans, black high-tops, and a black trucker cap with a Zone Z skull-and-crossbones logo on the front panel. Each had an automatic weapon dangling jauntily from a shoulder. Lorinda reached in her bag for her oversized sunglasses, but Stimpy stopped her. “You have the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen,” he said.

“You’ve never seen my eyes before?”

“I guess not,” he said. “They’re amazing. Pure emerald. Maybe it’s just this light.”

Lorinda put on her sunglasses, saying, “The beautiful, pure sunlight of Zone Z.”

Stimpy put on a new pair of mirrored wraparounds, moved his weapon to the other shoulder, and took Lorinda by her weaponless arm, saying, “We need a great big breakfast.” Before they could take more than a couple of steps, he felt his com device vibrate in his pocket. He slipped it out, quickly read the screen, and said, “Confirmation about the car this afternoon. Georgia, here we come.”

A family of six walked past them, a mom, a dad, and four kids ranging in age from about twelve down to about three. The parents were both carrying long guns, as were the three older kids. The little one had a toy automatic weapon, modeled after Stimpy’s and Lorinda’s real ones. They all, except the youngest, wore bulky bulletproof tunics over their military-inflected street clothes.

“Hi,” said Lorinda pleasantly.

“Hail,” all six of them said in unison as they continued on their way.

As soon as they were out of range, Lorinda whispered, “What was that?”

“Welcome to Zone Z,” Stimpy said. “Now, which way should we go?”

 “I think I’ve found our breakfast,” Lorinda said, pointing a few blocks down Commerze Ztreet to what appeared to be several tables sheltered by jolly, brightly colored umbrellas.

“Wow,” said Stimpy, “it looks like an actual restaurant.”

“We’ve earned a little good luck.”

“’Sluggo’ and ‘Nancy’?” Janelle Stark slammed her hand down on her desk and glared at her screen. “Don’t screw around with me, agent.”

“N-n-no, ma’am. Those are the names they gave us.” The agent, a short, plump, sweaty young man, seemed like he was about to burst into tears.

“Hold your device steady, agent! You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, attempting to steady himself. “We, we didn’t get anything else out of them yet. But after the fugitive’s picture went up, a civilian saw it and told us —”

“Yes, yes,” barked Stark, way ahead of her subordinate. “The civilian saw Lorinda Moon with this Nancy and whatsishame. Where did this civilian see them?”

“At —” He checked his notes. “— at the, umm, Psychedelia disco dancing place. The witness thought Lorinda Moon was accompanied by a man.”

“Disco?” Stark looked disgusted. “The little whore went dancing?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s where our witness saw her with them.”

“And how did you locate these collaborators of hers?”

“There was a firearms incident at the Psychedelia and this witness ran out the door at the same time as Sluggo and Nancy and saw them get into a car —” checking his notes again “— a black late-model sedan, a … I’m never sure how to pronounce these words, ma’am … Pyeonghwa Satrap?”

“And you tracked them down because of their car?”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, I didn’t personally do it, but —”

“And where are these collaborators now?”

“They’re right here, ma’am.” He shakily turned his device to reveal a small shabby room in which Nancy and Sluggo, he in pajamas, she in a nightgown, both looking pretty roughed-up, were tied with ropes to metal chairs.

“We demand to see our lawyer,” Sluggo yelled hoarsely.

“Very funny,” Stark snapped. “No lawyers for garbage like you.” Then, as the agent pointed the device back at himself, she asked, “How do you intend to get them to talk?”

At that moment, the sound of a door creaking open came through Stark’s speaker. The agent aimed his device at the door just as a stooped older man with sparse gray hair, wearing a soiled white lab coat and brandishing an oversized hypodermic syringe, entered the room. “The doctor here is going to give them something that’ll make them talk,” he said.

“Perfect,” said Stark. “I’ll let the good doctor do his job, and you’ll call me back as soon as you have some results. Won’t you, agent?”

“Yes I will, boss, ma’am. I sure will.”

“We need our lawyer!” Sluggo shouted off-camera.

“I’ll expect your call within a half-hour. This doesn’t need to be a full interrogation. You might not need anything more from them than the kind of car Lorinda Moon got into. If you get more, fine.”

“Never! We’ll never talk!” This time Nancy was shouting.

“Sure thing, boss. And I’ll keep these two locked up —”

“Only until we apprehend the fugitive,” Stark said. “After that they’re disposable.”

Once the gun-toting family was out of range, it was uncannily quiet on the street. On one side stood a row of two-story buildings of the type known as “taxpayers” in places where taxes were levied: commercial space downstairs, residential upstairs. About a quarter of the storefronts had “For Rent” signs in their windows. They noted that each displayed a sign — commercially printed, identically designed, like election campaign posters — with one of four messages: Z IZ HERE; ALL IZ WELL; Z SEZ: “TRUST THE SCHEME”; and THE SCHEME IZ SUPREME.

“Is there any place outside of Perfecton that isn’t weird?” Lorinda said.

Stimpy gave a loud, “Hah!” and said, “It’s cute that you think Perfecton isn’t weird.” After passing a bulletproof-clothing boutique, two gun-and-ammunition stores, a home-protection-equipment store, three real estate businesses trying to outdo each other in the size of their banners touting the availability of fully furnished family bunkers, a contractor who built both conventional homes and bunkers, a spy-equipment store, and a grocery store specializing in food guaranteed to last a hundred years, Stimpy muttered, “We must be in the accessories-for-the-paranoid district.” In addition to the apparently official posters, most of these stores featured homemade signs and flags as well, including: Z’S STORM IS COMING; WHEREVER WE GO, WHATEVER WE DO, WE’RE GONNA GO THROUGH IT TOGETHER (or its abbreviation WWGWWDWGGTIT); NOTHING CAN STOP WHAT HAS ALREADY HAPPENED.

The other side of the street consisted mainly of dusty, paved vacant lots, punctuated by the occasional small house or tiny concrete shed located toward the back of its lot. “What’s going on here?” Lorinda whispered. “Where is everyone?”

“I’ve heard about this,” Stimpy said, his eyes sweeping the desolate landscape. “The underground bunkers of Zone Z. A lot of people here don’t live in houses. They live underground.”

“Because?”

“Fear.”

“Of what?”

“Everything, I guess.” Stimpy attempted, unsuccessfully, to laugh. “And I guess they spend a lot of time down there. Which would explain why there’s no one here on the scary street.”

As they approached the end of the block, Lorinda said, “Am I imagining that?” An impeccably white wooden church steeple rose from the dusty hard surface. There was no church. Just the steeple, its sharp point a good twenty feet above the ground.

They stopped when they reached it. Next to the steeple was a white concrete shed with a bombproof steel door in front and a rear that angled down to the ground, obviously housing a staircase. A sign on the door read “Church Entrance During Worship Hours.” On the lower façade of the steeple, a big electronic sign said “First Christian Church of Zone Z,” followed by the words “Daily Homily,” beneath which flashed:

“CRAZY” IS IN THE MIND OF THE BEHOLDER

While attempting to digest that, Lorinda and Stimpy were startled by the sound of a vehicle approaching from the next side street and turning the corner. At first glance it looked like a jumbo toy car made of plywood, but they quickly realized that it was an actual car, a small one covered with thick, heavy sheets of rusting metal that clanged against the underlying bodywork and compressed the tires and suspension so the poor thing was nearly dragging on the pavement. “A homemade bulletproof car,” Stimpy marveled as it lumbered past. “You wouldn’t even have to shoot it. Just yell at it and it’ll fall apart.”

“Zone Z,” Lorinda laughed. “It’s all about the paranoia!”

The next two blocks consisted of more of the same, with storefronts on one side (their favorite: a place called End Times Financial Services) and dreary vacant lots — or bunker roofs — on the other, until they homed in on the restaurant at the end of Commerze.

Compared to everything they’d passed so far, Mimzy’s Zeecrit Gourmet Café looked friendly and welcoming. Without needing to confer about it, they made a beeline for the terrace and sat across from each other on yellow plastic chairs at a blue table under a yellow umbrella. Almost immediately, a large middle-aged woman in a yellow dress wheezed out to the terrace, dropped two menus on the table, and said, “Mornin’, y’all. Welcome to Mimzy’s. I’m Mimzy. Need a couple of chemical-free cappuccinos?”

“That’d be great,” said Lorinda.

“Just give me a minute,” Mimzy said, shuffling back into the restaurant. Before she reemerged, the armored car loudly announced its return and grated to a stop in front of the restaurant. The two front doors and the near-side rear door opened simultaneously and disgorged their occupants: a thirty-ish couple in front, a pre-teen boy in back. All three wore military-adjacent outfits, bullet-studded bandolier belts across their shoulders, and shiny black hip-belted holsters cradling gleaming handguns. In a well-practiced move, they each faced a different direction and, in sync, slowly swiveled their heads until they had, with considerable overlap, scanned all 360 degrees of the horizon.

“Clear,” said the man.

“Clear,” said the woman.

“Clear,” said the child.

At which point they relaxed and headed for a table as far away from Lorinda and Stimpy as possible. Since the terrace had room for only five tables, they weren’t very far away.

“Good job getting those idiots Nancy and Sluggo to talk,” said Janelle Stark to her subordinate on the screen. “Our satellite located Moon’s vehicle in about ten minutes. She’s in Zone Z.”

“I’m an hour and a half from there,” the agent said.

“I’m going to order a chopper right now. Gather as many agents as you can and meet me at the entrance to the enclave in ninety minutes. We can’t bring the chopper right in there — they’ll shoot us down, they have a few missiles. So bring an extra vehicle for me and my people.”

“Just one extra vehicle?”

“I’m just bringing a skeleton crew. Plus your people is all we’ll need,” Stark said. “There’s only two of them. They’ll be easy to take down.”

The nervous agent hesitated. “Ma’am, I only have a few agents I can grab that fast —”

“Three or four should do it. This operation’s going to be a piece of cake.”

“A, um … huh? What does that mean, ma’am?”

Stimpy and Lorinda lingered at their table, the remnants of their Cheeze Omelet Zpecials (“Z’s Favorite!”) before them. They were nursing their third chemical-free cappuccinos, which, after her first sip of the first one, Lorinda pronounced “weak coffee with whipped cream on top.” Now sitting close together on the side nearest the family at the next table, she and Stimpy leaned on each other, and held hands, and sat in blissful silence, feigning romantic rapture so they could unobtrusively eavesdrop on the family’s conversation.

BOY: But Mom!  How can JFK Jr. be about to reappear now? I thought he died a long time ago.

WOMAN: That’s just what they want you to believe, Clay.

MAN: Of course he didn’t die.

BOY: But why do they lie about it? Why do they say he died when he didn’t? Why does he lie about it?

WOMAN: First of all, Clay, it’s not a lie. Z calls it a strategic fiction. There’s a big difference. Second, JFK Jr. needed to go underground to accomplish all that he needed to do. Out of reach of the so-called media.

MAN: Just like Z.

BOY: Is that why Z lives in a bunker?

MAN: Not just one. He has lots of bunkers.

BOY: Did you ever see him?

MAN: No, but we know people who have. Jeanine and Cord.

BOY: Really? They’ve seen Z?!

MAN: I think so. Either that, or they know someone.

WOMAN: Z and JFK Jr. are best friends. Along with President Trump.

BOY: But he’s dead, too. Right?

The man and the woman exchanged meaningful glances.

WOMAN: We’ve talked about this. Where did you hear that?

BOY: I don’t know! From Duane.

WOMAN: Maybe think twice before believing Duane, sweetie.

MAN: President Trump also had to go underground, son.

BOY: But … wouldn’t he be like a million years old?

MAN: Not with our doctors. And their special treatments.

WOMAN. This is why Zone Z is so important. One day you’ll understand.

BOY: You always say that. [Crudely mimicking the woman] “Zone Z is the only safe place in the country.” Is that why they live here? Z and JFK Jr. and President Trump?

WOMAN: Yes, but not just because it’s safe. Because they need to be left alone to make their plans. Pretty soon Z is going to straighten everything out.

BOY: With JFK Jr. and President Trump?

MAN: That’s right, Clay. “Nothing can stop what has already happened.”

BOY: But what are they going to straighten out?

WOMAN: Lots of things. Like the Lizard People who run the USA. They’re going to stop them from invading us.

MAN: The Jew bankers who bought up all the satellites to distribute … certain things.

BOY: You mean CHILD PORN?

WOMAN: Shh!

MAN: Who told you that?

BOY: I guess Duane.

MAN: Well —

BOY: But he didn’t know what it was. What is child porn?

MAN: We’ll talk about it later. [To his wife, pointing to the menu.] Check it out. The whole-wheat pancakes have gone up. Again.

 WOMAN: And isn’t it interesting that corn and wheat are expensive because of the drought, but beef is also expensive? I mean, coincidence? [Laughs.] If you believe that, I have some waterfront property in Galveston to sell you.

BOY: But don’t the cows eat corn and wheat? So —

MAN: It’s not that simple, Clay.

WOMAN: There are a lot of things they want you to believe. But Z’s going to get them all. They’re all going down. That’s why it’s time for JF —

“Can I get you anything else?” Lorinda and Stimpy hadn’t noticed that Mimzy was back at their table. “A couple more cappuccinos?”

“Oh, no thanks,” said Lorinda. “Any more coffee and I’ll ...” She made a “head exploding” gesture.

“We’d love to stay,” Stimpy said, “but we don’t want to take up your valuable table all day.” Lorinda stifled a laugh: Other than the family at the next table, no one else had come anywhere near Mimzy’s since they’d been there.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Mimzy said. “I like having y’all sit here. Makes it look like we’re busy. Business attracts business, they say.”

“Where is everybody?” Lorinda asked.

“I see y’alls not from around here. People are worried about things, so they don’t come out much. At night is when they usually come out. If they come out at all.”

“What are they worried about?” Lorinda asked.

“Oh,” said Mimzy, lazily starting to stack their dishes, “Where to begin? The usual things, I guess. Newcular war. Pandemics. Communism. Socialism. Airplane crashes. Car crashes. Stray bullets. Immigrants. Muggers —”

“There are muggers in Zone Z?” Stimpy asked.

“Well, I’ve never seen one,” Mimzy said, musing. “I heard of one once. I mean, it’s possible, right?”

“Earthquakes,” chimed in the boy at the next table, who was staring at the strangers. His father grabbed his arm, but the kid just kept staring.

“Can a bunker really protect you from an earthquake?” Lorinda kindly asked him. Both parents looked at Lorinda and subtly shook their heads. She couldn’t tell whether they were signaling, “No, it can’t” or “Don’t encourage him.”

“We do have two big parades every year,” Mimzy said cheerily. “One on Christmas and one on Our Independence Day. That’s when we all get to see each other out in the sunlight. I mean, unless there’s a tornado or something. Or a public event, like a hanging.”

“I love parades!” the boy said. “Last year we drove our car in the parade!”

“It’s sad that it was interrupted,” his mother said.

Lorinda’s eyebrows went up. “Oh?”

“Tornado,” the father said.

Two unmarked black G-Wagens stopped just short of the “Welcome to Zone Z” road sign. A minute later an ancient Kamov Ka-62 helicopter, devoid of military or civilian identification and painted incongruously in jungle camo, roared into view. Then, blowing dirt and trash in every direction, it set down dangerously close to the vehicles.

“That was insane,” Lorinda said as they walked back along Commerze Ztreet.

“I know,” Stimpy said. “‘We all live underground and come out twice a year. And at night.’ I’m not saying they’re all vampires. But I’m not saying they’re not.”

Lorinda laughed. “Really. Meanwhile, how can anyone believe that stuff?”

 “There’s a lot of weird stuff that you believed. Maybe you still believe some of it.”

Lorinda paused. “Not so much anymore.” Then, changing the subject slightly, “I have to say, those people were nice for not correcting their son about the earthquakes.”

Stimpy considered that before saying, “Maybe. Or maybe they should be criticized for enabling his ignorance. Not to mention the antisemitism. Maybe one day he’ll look back and think, ‘My parents let me believe a lie about earthquakes. And bunkers.’” He paused. “‘And bankers.’” He suddenly stopped walking, struck by a thought. “Although they don’t think it’s a lie. They think it’s the truth. About the Lizard People and the Jews. Which makes it worse.”

She took his arm and they resumed walking. “You can think that if you like,” Lorinda said with a smile, “but I’m going with ‘nice parents.’”

Stimpy grew melodramatic. “No! Bad parents!”

“Oh —"

“And then maybe that’ll drive him to devote his life to overthrowing the fascist rulers of the CCSA. If the country still even exists.” Lorinda gave him a look and rolled her eyes. “Ya gotta dream,” he said with a grin. “Should we go back to the motel? Or do some more sightseeing first?”

“I don’t think there are any sights to see,” she said. “But I don’t mind walking for a bit. I can get in some more fresh air before — you know, the bedspread.”

The only interesting sight they came upon was the Zone Z Sheriff’s Office And Jailhouse, a freestanding building in the middle of a dusty stretch of bunker roofs. The Sheriff’s Office, with its name in an old-timey font on a wooden sign, a little boardwalk along its front, and vertical bars across its small window, looked like something out of an old cowboy movie. “That’s not an old building,” Stimpy said as they walked past it. “This enclave isn’t old enough for that building to be real. They built it to look old. It’s, like, art directed. Very weird in the middle of all ...” He gestured at the dusty bunker flatlands.

“Oh my God!” Lorinda pointed across the street from the sheriff’s office. Instead of houses or stores, there was a small park or plaza in the middle of the block, in the center of which sat a wooden stage or platform, with two substantial uprights connected by a horizontal crosspiece about ten feet above the floor of the platform. A man wearing a tan uniform and a cowboy hat was standing on a ladder, meticulously attaching a heavy rope to the middle of the crosspiece.

“It's a gallows,” Stimpy said huskily.

Lorinda shuddered. “I hope it’s not for us.”

“I might take a nap before we head for Georgia,” Lorinda said as they entered the Zotel parking lot.

“Good plan,” said Stimpy. “I’ll try to figure out where to grab a few sandwiches before we leave. Maybe just go back to Mimzy’s.”

“Where’s Regis when we need him?”

They had just turned the corner of the cabins to head for their room in back, when a pair of people emerged from the shadows. It was Janelle Stark and the enormous Skippy. Their weapons were raised. “Stop.” Janelle commanded. “Drop your weapons and get down on the ground. Do it!”

Lorinda and Stimpy spun around to flee just as four agents closed in on them from behind.

“Drop your weapons now! Or we start shooting!”

“Fuck,” said Stimpy. He slowly removed the rifle from his shoulder and set it gently on the ground. Lorinda, following his lead, did the same.

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!

Tip your bartenders we mean authors!

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.

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

As they bumped along the increasingly bad roads toward Zone Z, Lorinda brooded under the bedspread, her thoughts vibrating between an intense desire to escape from what she now saw clearly as the evil stupidity of the CCSA, grandiose fantasies about personally fixing the country so that no one would ever again have to go through what she was going through, and vague visions of what her life would be like in the USA. She was brought back to her present hot, itchy reality by a deep voice booming through the cabin speakers of the Xiaomi Lumberjax: “Are you ready for Zone Z? You are getting close.”

Lorinda yanked the bedspread off her face, sat up — her feet noisily burrowing under the pile of guns — and said, “You still haven’t told me about Zone Z.” Two billboards appeared in quick succession, accompanied by the booming voice:

GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM, SOCIALIST

WANT A VAX? TURN AROUND AND GO HOME.

“I was hoping you forgot,” Stimpy sighed. “All right, the short version: Going way back before the Split, the USA was full of insane conspiracy theorists and their insane theories. The crazier they were, the more popular they were. After the Split, all those people — pretty much everyone who started the conspiracy theories or believed them or repeated them — they all ended up in the CCSA. At some point, early on, a character named Z, just the letter Z, popped up.” He was interrupted by two more billboards and their soundtracks:

WE DON’T RECONIZE YOUR GOVERNMENT

NO COLLEGE GRADATES NEED APLY

“I guess they don’t teach spelling in Zone Z,” Lorinda said. “Was this Z a real person?”

“Nope,” Stimpy said after thinking about it for a moment. “Pure horseshit. There was a rumor that counterintelligence people in the USA invented Z as a meme to spread chaos and stupidity in the CCSA.” He shifted in his seat. “Not that it needed any help.”

“Wow. Is that true? This Z was, like, a character invented in the USA?”

 “Yes. It’s true.”

“How do you know?”

Stimpy paused before he spoke. “Don’t ask. Maybe one day I’ll tell you how I know,” he finally said.

Two more small billboards appeared, along with that voice through the speakers:

SATAN IS A COMMIE

ONLY 5 MILES TO FAMOUS ZONE Z

“Jesus!” Lorinda said, “If I hear one more word I’m going to …”

“To what?”

“To start shooting.” She laughed. “I’ve got a pile of guns here!”

“Just don’t hit me,” Stimpy said. “Aim out of the truck.”

As they hit a series of potholes, the guns clattered and the truck’s headlights bounced over a simple road sign stating:

WELCOME TO ZONE Z

IF YOU CAN HANDLE “THE TRUTH”

“So how did a bunch of stupid conspiracy theories turn into an enclave?” Lorinda asked, now leaning up against the front seat. “More billionaires?”

“It might be the only enclave that didn’t have billionaires behind it,” Stimpy said, attempting to get his bearings as the truck entered Zone Z proper. “The true believers got together on their socials and contributed just enough money to establish their own enclave. They started some businesses to keep the place going. I think the biggest one was a tee-shirt factory. The enclave has always been on the verge of falling apart. They’re not too good at, you know, real life.”

“Can I stay out here? No more bedspread?”

“You’re safe. The last time the CCSA tried to hang a camera in this enclave they killed the technicians, stuffed them in their official CCSA truck, towed it out of the enclave, and set it on fire.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“Oh, just about everyone in the enclave. Men, women, children, dogs … Now I have to find our motel …”

They drove through streets lined with shabby two-story attached houses. It was a moonless night and streetlights were scarce, so it was hard to read the crackpot posters in the tiny front yards or figure out the symbolism of the many crazy-looking flags tacked to the fronts of the houses. When they reached a small commercial strip, Stimpy said, “Oh, look. There’s a clothing store. Clothing Zone! Tomorrow we’ll stop in there and —”

“It’s makeover time for Lorinda and Stimpy!”

“Hah. And here we are.” He turned past a sign reading “Zotel” and into the parking lot in front of a row of attached tiny white cabins, stopping in front of the one marked “Office.” “I’ll be right back,” he said, leaving the engine running and jumping out. Less than a minute later he was in the driver’s seat again. “No ID, no nothing,” he marveled. “Here’s your door code, thanks, goodnight. I could get to like this place. And we’re in a back cabin, hidden away.”

After finishing their remaining Regis sandwiches on the bed of their tight little room, Stimpy did a quick check-in with his people. “Tomorrow afternoon,” he said to Lorinda, who had deposited the sandwich wrappings in the waste basket and was now looking for a comfortable position on the bed, “we’ll have another car or truck or whatever they manage to find for us. Parked back here near our truck, key on the rear driver’s-side tire. And then we’ll be off to Georgia.”

“And I suppose we just cruise into Georgia,” Lorinda said. “Like, no problems.”

“It’s never that simple,” Stimpy smiled. “We’ve got a little tunnel that goes under the wall between Alabama and Georgia, USA. We know we’ll be able to get through this time — no riots, no wars. The tunnel’s in the middle of nowhere. The last twenty miles or so is these tiny back roads —”

“You’ve been there before?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Four times. We have our own cameras on it, and on the roads leading to it. Maybe we’ll even have a spy satellite on it when we get there.”

“Satellite! Who are you people?”

He ignored the question. “The bad news is that once we leave Zone Z you’ll have to hide under that bedspread again until we get to the tunnel.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“So we get some sleep, in the morning we shower, wash off this makeup—”

“Finally!”

“Go to the clothing store, find a place to have breakfast, walk around, take in the sights of Zone Z, kill some time, get in our new car and we’re on our way.”

“Sounds good,” Lorinda said. “I can’t handle another last-minute escape.” She snuggled her head into a pillow. It felt like it was stuffed with cardboard, but it was better than nothing. “I’m sick of being a fugitive.” He was silent, but she sensed something was up. She lifted her head and saw him looking at her. “What?”

With difficulty, he said, “You’ve been an excellent fugitive. Believe me. You know I’ve done this before, and no one has been as brave and … tough as you. At first I thought you’d just be some pain-in-the-ass nice girl from some stupid middle-class enclave, but … I was wrong.”

She felt a rush of heat. Maybe she was blushing. “Well, thanks …”

“So just … it’ll all be over soon.”

“Good.” Knowing she was about to break into a silly grin, she pressed her face into the pillow. Soon, her mind drifting through the mad journey she’d been on since her violent encounter with the awful Janelle Stark, she tried to count how many days it had been since she’d left home. It felt like forever. Months? But, really … only five days?

With no need to wake up early, she slept profoundly until well after sunrise.

Sour green sunlight filtered through the streaky film of effluents that coated the office windows. The new bandage covered a bit less real estate on Janelle Stark’s face than had the previous one, but it was still her most prominent feature. She scowled at her screen as her fingers danced on the keyboard: tic-tic-tic. The screen beeped twice. She hit a button and the face of a Domestic Security agent filled her screen. Withholding any kind of greeting, Stark stated: “You’d better have good news for me.”

“Yes, I do, yes, boss.” The agent was clearly terrified of Stark. His image shuddered on the screen.

“Hold your com steady!”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“What’s your news?”

“We have custody of two people who collaborated with the fugitive. We think.”

“Oh,” Stark sneered, “you think.”

“Yes, ma’am. We talked to a civilian who sighted them —”

“Who are these two people in your custody?”

“They call themselves —” he checked his notes “— Sluggo and Nancy, ma’am.”

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!

Tip your bartenders we mean authors!

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.

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“They’re putting Lorinda’s picture up on billboards,” Stimpy said, then waited for a response through his earpiece. “No idea. We’ve got to assume they’re everywhere. Listen, would you put me through to Bill?”

“What’s going on?” Lorinda asked, poking her head out from under the bedspread.

“Get back underneath,” Stimpy said harshly.

“How do you know I’m not underneath?”

“Because I can fucking hear you.”

“It’s impossible for cameras to see me,” she said. “I’m too low, the windows are tinted, it’s nighttime, don’t worry about it.”

“Bill! ... I don’t know if the billboards are everywhere. We passed one of them and I called it in right away…. You see where we are, right? We’re almost to Zone Z…. That’s great!”

“What’s great?” Lorinda blurted.

“Bill can hack into the billboard system…. No, I’m just talking to her…. Yeah, she’s covered up in the back seat…. Okay, man. We’ll check in when we’re all cozy in Zone Z. Oh, right, good question.”

“What’s a good question?”

“Can I just finish this conversation?”

“I think I have the right to know what’s going on,” said Lorinda, indignantly. “It’s me on the billboards. I’m the fugitive.”

“Yeah,” said Stimpy to Bill, “she wants to know what we’re talking about.” Then, to Lorinda: “He’s going to hack the billboards and wants us to tell him what they should say.”

“Something about … how what’s happening to me could happen to anyone in this country.”

Stimpy thought about it for a second, then said, “Maybe ‘What’s happening to Lorinda Moon could happen to you’?”

“Too long and boring,” said Lorinda.

“Yeah,” Stimpy said to Bill, “that’s what Lorinda just said … all right. And if I think of anything better I’ll let you know…. Okay, bye.” He half turned to the back seat. “He and Hillary are going to try to come up with something.”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be embarrassing for me,” Lorinda said.

“That’s what’s embarrassing for you? Not being called an abortion-seeking terrorist?”

“Not a terrorist,” Lorinda laughed. “Fugitive.”

“Whatever,” Stimpy said. “Is your head sticking up?”

Lorinda pulled the bedspread over her face. “No!”

Stimpy barely heard her. “That’s better.”

“I just figured it all out,” Lorinda said.

“Get under the bedspread!”

“Don’t worry. Nobody can see me.”

“What do you mean, you figured it all out?”

“When you’re under a bedspread for hours you think about stuff. And I figured out that it’s all a big scam.”

“What is?”

“This.”

“This what?”

“This whole country! I’ve been thinking about that abortion doctor and how abortions are just for the rich. What do you call them? The authoritarians.”

“Authoritarians. Oligarchs. The plutocracy. Rich fuckheads. They go by many names.”

“It’s all about money!”

“Well yes, but also —"

“Shh. Let me finish. The whole country is just for them. They own everything! They claim to be religious and all that, but — like in Perfecton! That huge stupid church! A guy who owns a drug company is standing up there? Like what’s that got to do with Jesus? Or that stupid Libertyville!” She had a flash of Ren dying at her feet but shook it off and continued. “All that yelling about freedom? It’s insane! There’s … you can’t … Or, holy shit, that disco! Everybody shooting at the same time! You know what they drilled into our heads in elementary school?”

They spoke in unison. “‘If everyone has a gun, then everyone will be safe.’”

Lorinda was surprised. “You weren’t in elementary school here. How do you know that?”

“I know shit.”

She was instantly back on track. “But how can having guns make everybody safe? It’s like saying, if everybody had a flame thrower, then everybody’ll be safe. If everybody had a bomb! How can people believe that?”

Quietly, Stimpy said, “Everybody doesn’t believe it.”

“Everybody I know does.” She thought of Emmy. “Well, mostly.”

“People in the USA don’t believe it.”

That pulled her up short. All she could say was, “Huh.”

“The thing about this country —” Stimpy began.

“And the golf enclave!” she went on. “Oh, man, that’s the best.” In a bitter tone that surprised even her, she said, “‘Cheat on your sacred marriage and bring a girlfriend. Or we’ll supply one for you! And if she gets pregnant, we have a full-time doctor to take care of it.’ Meanwhile, I’m the criminal.” Running low on venom, she sighed. “So is the whole country just a scam to trick people and take their money?”

“Not quite,” Stimpy said. “To take their money, yes. You bet. But also to have control over them. Right? Because if you’ve tricked someone to take their money, and they find out, they may come after you.” He laughed. “With their guns.”

“But then what are the enclaves? There’s not much control there. It’s the opposite. They’re fucking lunatic asylums.” She paused, then completed the thought. “Run by the inmates.”

“Here’s another metaphor for you. The whole CCSA has cancer. It always has. The enclaves are tumors. Of one kind or another.”

“Huh. And this all started with the Split?”

“Not really. It’s always been this way. Before the Split the USA had laws that were supposed to keep these people from just, you know, taking whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted it. Which were sometimes even enforced! It’s the main reason they dreamed of getting their greedy mitts on their own country.”

“And now they have their own country but they pretend it’s everybody’s country. As if people like me have the same rights they have. It’s a big fucking god-damned fucking scam. I hate them.” She paused to catch her breath. “Okay. That’s all I wanted to say.”

“it’s an excellent observation,” Stimpy said calmly. “You’re not the first one to make it, but I know you came to it on your own.”

“Thanks to you for yelling at me all the time. You got me thinking.”

“I do not ‘yell’ at you.”

“Well, you did. At first.”

“I’m sorry if it seemed that way.”

“It didn’t seem that way,” she said. “It was that way.” She giggled. “But you’re nicer now. A little nicer.” She paused. “Whatever your name is.”

“Thanks. Now get under the bedspread. Excuse me: please get under the bedspread, ma’am.”

For a few minutes, he drove in silence through the bleak landscape. Lorinda resumed her thinking until Stimpy broke the silence. “Are you experiencing morning sickness? Or any other symptoms?”

“It’s much too soon,” she said. “The test I used? It was some special new thing from the USA — Philadelphia, USA — that can figure out if you’re pregnant much sooner than the ones we have here.”

“How’d you get your hands on that?”

“We all have our secrets,” she said with as much smugness as she could muster, lying under an itchy golden bedspread. Then, speaking softly, she asked a question that he didn’t know she knew the answer to. “As long as we’re getting all personal, have you ever been married?”

“Whoa!”

“What?” Lorinda said, poking her head out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean —”

“It’s not that. Look.”

“I can sit up?”

“Just for a second.”

Lorinda hiked herself up and peeked over his shoulder. A big billboard nearly filled the windshield. (Bill, who had hacked it, was opposed to billboard soundtracks. Hence, no soundtrack.) The background was a deep blue. Animated fireworks and shooting stars garlanded the periphery. The words in the center, in bold, shimmering, multi-colored type, sent her diving back under the bedspread:

WE ARE ALL LORINDA MOON

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Tip your bartenders we mean authors!

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.

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

Regis the valet was standing outside, in the porte cochère just past the hotel-lobby doorway, as Stimpy and Lorinda entered the lobby from the mall passageway. He saw them before they saw him. “Hey, Mr. Chapman, and ma’am!” he gushed, charging into the lobby.

Stimpy firmly took his arm and ushered him back out into the porte cochère. “Look, Regis,” he said in a near-whisper, “the lady and I have run into a little situation and we have to move quickly.” He pressed four hundred-dollar bills into the kid’s hand, saying, “I’d like you to help us.”

“Sure thing, sir,” Regis said, peeking at the money and failing to suppress a grin.

“We need our truck, right out here, and we’re going to need, let’s say, six big sandwiches and a couple of big bottles of water or whatever kind of beverages you can get. In the next two minutes.”

“What kind of sandwiches, sir? There’s Nuclear’s Submarines and there’s—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Stimpy said. “Whatever’s fastest, and whatever kind you think we’ll like. You’re the man! Keep the change, obviously.”

“Okay, Mr. Chapman. I’ll do my best. Thank you, sir. It might take a little more than two minutes.”

“I know you’ll do your best, Regis. Can you buzz us in our room when the truck’s ready for us?”

“No problem,” Regis said, snapping him a salute. “I’ll put the food on the floor in the back seat?”

“Sure,” said Stimpy, taking a few steps and grabbing a luggage cart, “but make sure there’s room back there for the guns.”

In the Libertine Suite, Lorinda loaded the guns onto the cart while Stimpy typed on his device. He was still typing as she pushed the loaded luggage cart over to the door, and sat on the swing while she waited. “I see how this could work,” she said. “Although aiming might be hard —"

“Shit,” he said, focused on his screen. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What?”

He finished and dropped the com back in his pocket. “We’re screwed again. They’ll have another car for us for in a couple of days, but they don’t have one when we need it: right now! We’ll just have to risk it in that big, conspicuous green truck.”

“Where’re we going?” she asked. “Georgia?”

“Alabama first. It’s a ten- or twelve-hour drive. Depending on how we go.”

“Long drive.”

“It is. But it gets us pretty close to Georgia.”

“And when can I get rid of this stupid makeup? I thought we’d be here for a few days …”

“We didn’t expect to see your picture on every screen in the country.”

“But,” said Lorinda, trying out a little wishful thinking, “maybe it’s just on the screens here in this enclave.”

“If it’s here,” sighed Stimpy, “it’s everywhere: CCSA TV. Grab one of those bedspreads."

"Okay," she said, hopping off the swing and sweeping up the bedspread she’d slept on top of. “What for?”

“To hide you in the truck. Roll it up so the gold side isn’t showing. We don’t want to get busted on the way out for stealing hotel property.”

She did as he said and tossed it to him. He set it on top of the guns in the luggage cart just as the room phone rang. Lorinda picked it up. “Hello?”

“The truck’s ready, ma’am.”

“Hi, Regis. We’ll be right down.”

“Tell him to put the food on the front-passenger-side floor,” Stimpy bellowed.

“I heard that, ma’am. Passenger side floor in front, not in the back. Will you be here for the séance with President Trump tonight at seven?”

“I don’t know,” Lorinda said. “Maybe.”

“Just let me know if you want me to get you tickets, ma’am. Those séances are really popular.” He clicked off.

“Why did you tell him to put the food in front under my feet?” Lorinda was puzzled.

“You won’t be sitting there,” Stimpy said cryptically. “Let’s go.”

“I can’t do this much longer,” Lorinda said. She’d been lying across the back seat, completely covered by the bedspread, with its plain side up, for close to two hours. The a/c was blasting but, like most air conditioners in the CCSA, it was barely functional. She was hot. Sweaty. Sticking to the seat. Stimpy, at the wheel, had trouble hearing her.

“There’s a place to pull over in ten minutes,” he yelled. “We’ll have a quick lunch and you can get some air.”

“What?”

Sheltering behind a defunct gas station, they sat on the truck’s tailgate and scarfed down their first round of hero sandwiches. Lorinda was holding back tears.

“What’s up?” Stimpy asked, setting down his sandwich and giving her a quick little backrub.

“I just feel like I’ve made a mess of my life.”

“It’s this ridiculous country’s that’s messing up your life,” he said gently. “It messes up a lot of people.”

Unconsoled, she shrugged. “My parents will see me on TV. They’ll know I’m wanted by the police.” She looked away, stricken. “They’ll know I’m not a virgin.”

Stimpy’s attempt not to laugh turned into a snort. “At least they’ll know you’re alive.”

“I guess that’s something.” She took a thoughtful bite of her sandwich. “This isn’t bad, actually. Regis did a good job.”

“That’s why he gets the big bucks.” They both laughed.

“I’m kind of surprised that we’re driving on a main road,” Lorinda said.

“I’ve been in touch with Bill — you’ve heard me talking to him, right?”

“I can’t hear much under that bedspread.”

“Anyway, he hacked the cameras on this highway the same way he did before — putting up an old video of the same road while we’re passing through, so if they’re watching their screens they don’t see us.” He took a sip of water. “The man’s a genius. We couldn’t do what we do without him.”

“How did he learn that stuff? Did he go to school for it?”

“Yeah, and then he worked for CCSA Security, setting up their spy-camera network.”

“So he’s the perfect guy to hack it.”

“Exactly.” Stimpy finished his sandwich.

Lorinda took a few more bites and finished hers, then took a swig of water from the same bottle. “Ready for me to drive?”

Stimpy considered it. “It’s safer if you don’t. The cameras are okay for now, but we don’t know how long that’ll last.”

Lorinda didn’t hide her disappointment.

“I think it’s safe enough for you to sit up in the back seat,” Stimpy continued. “If you keep your back to the door it’ll be hard for a camera to get a good shot of you. Leave the bedspread nearby, so you can dive under right quick if you have to.”

“Lucky they didn’t get a shot of you, too,” Lorinda said. “I have one demand.”

“Okay,” he said, “hit me.”

“Tell me your real name.”

Stimpy laughed.

For hours they drove through the bleakest landscape they’d encountered so far, passing more falling-down or boarded-up buildings than occupied houses and functioning businesses. They exchanged few words, which is why Lorinda jumped when Stimpy broke the silence: “Yeah, I’m here.” Before her mouth could form words to ask him why the hell he said that, she realized that he’d received a call on his earpiece. “And it’s safe? Someone’s been through there lately?”

Lorinda calmed herself down and eased back against the door.

“Yeah, sure,” said Stimpy, “we can handle it. Good.”

“What?” Lorinda asked the moment he finished his call.

“What what?”

“What’s happening? Where are we going?”

In the spookiest voice he could muster, Stimpy said, “We are going … to Zone Z …”

“You’re kidding!”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“I don’t know. I can only see the back of your head. Why are we going to that scary place?”

“It’s only scary if you live there and you’re one of them. Being scared is their way of life. They’re always killing each other. They’re fucking morons.”

She laughed. “Half the people in the country are fucking morons.”

“Well, then … they’re fucking morons in their own fucking moronic way.”  

“Sounds great. Now why are we going there?”

“For one thing, it’ll be safe for us.”

“Like the last place?”

“Well, that was safe until you became a TV star.”

“Haha.”

“Zone Z is different. The people there, they don’t watch TV, they don’t get any outside news at all. They barely consider themselves citizens of the CCSA. And the feds almost never go in there. They’re scared of the place.”

“Oh great! And why aren’t we scared of it?”

“Because,” said Stimpy, “they love tourists, when they can get them. Or at least they love tourist dollars — they don’t have much of a local economy. That’s because —”

A booming voice filled the cabin: “Jail the cannibals!”

— as a small billboard, the first one they’d seen in hours, blinked the same words.

“What the hell?” Lorinda implored Stimpy.

“Speak of the devil,” Stimpy said. “Cannibalism is a Zone Z obsession. You’re supposed to know that’s a Zone Z message. Look — there’s more.”

About a hundred yards down the road another billboard blinked, and the same voice boomed:

TRUMP AND JFK JR. WILL RETURN

And then another:

WHAT IF YOU ARE ALREADY IN HELL?

Followed in quick succession by a series that were no more than forty or fifty yards apart:

EDUCATION IS COMMUNISM

COMMUNISM CAUSES CANCER

SCIENCE IS COMMUNIST PROPAGANDA

OUR ENEMIES ARE ALL PEDOPHILES

ONLY COMPLICATED THEORIES ARE TRUE

GASOLINE IS THE FUEL OF THE FUTURE

ALL ELECTIONS ARE STOLEN

ONLY 50 MILES TO FAMOUS ZONE Z

“Well —”

“No. It’s not just me. My parents don’t know it. The people I went to high school with don’t know it. Probably nobody in Perfecton knows it! They think they’re all normal, and that the whole country is just like them!”

Stimpy tried to sound soothing. “Not the whole country, but a lot of it is. Normal. Like them. Sort of. Of course it depends on what ‘normal’ means —”

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT MEANS ANYMORE.” She was silent for a few seconds after her explosion. Then she gasped, her eyes went wide, and she said, urgently, “Or maybe it depends on who’s defining it!”

Now he really did laugh. “Oh! Well, yeah! See —"

 “Can you explain Zone Z to me before we get there?”

Stimpy opened his mouth to speak — and then shut it. Finally he said, “I don’t know if that’s possible. But I’ll try.”

The next sign they saw, just past the final Zone Z billboard, was a shabby little hand-painted road sign that was hanging at an angle from its wooden stake:

WELCOME TO ALABAMA

“The Haert of Dixie”

“The Haert of the CCSA”

Stimpy was silent for a good two minutes. “I’m just trying to figure out where to start with Zone Z, how far back to go.” But before he could begin, another voice crackled through the sound system: “Warning! This fugitive is armed and dangerous.” A moment later the associated billboard came into view. It was a big one, with a gigantic picture of Lorinda, the same one they'd seen on CCSA TV:

ABORTION SEEKER!

PUBLIC ENEMY LORINDA MOON

BIG CA$H REWARD FOR CAPTURE!

WARNING! THIS FUGITIVE IS ARMED AND DANGEROUS!

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!

Tip your bartenders we mean authors!

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.

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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.

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!

Tip your bartenders we mean authors!

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.

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

“Would you like me to wrap up the clothes you wore?” asked the friendly, helpful cashier of the Trump Memorial Golf Shoppe. She was pretty, perky, and just about Lorinda’s age, wearing red and black plaid golf slacks and a light green cardigan. Stimpy wore a turquoise polo shirt tucked into white baggy trousers over a pair of white leather walking shoes, while Lorinda showcased a pink mini-skirt, a cardigan like the cashier’s but in white, plaid sneakers, a matching plaid baseball cap with an extra-long brim, and oversized sunglasses.

“No, thanks,” said Stimpy. “You can just toss them. Or donate them. We’re through with those old things.”

“I understand,” the cashier said. “Should I put this bill on your room or would you like to pay here?”

“Oh, you can just put it on the room,” Stimpy said. “It’s room ten-oh-one, upstairs.”

The young woman, blushing, couldn’t help but look from Stimpy to Lorinda and back. She’d heard about that room. Lorinda, who just then was adjusting her hatband, completely missed the cashier’s embarrassment. “Do you play?” she asked as she put her hat back on her head and looked up at the cashier.

“Play?” The cashier gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, dear, no. I’m married!”

Lorinda’s mouth fell open but nothing came out. Stimpy laughed, saying, “She’s just asking if you play golf?”

The cashier visibly relaxed. “Oh, golf, no. You’re not allowed to play here if you’re not a member. But I know it’s a great game. Sport. Whatever it is. And golf clothes, they’re the best.”

Agreeing that golf clothes were indeed the best, Stimpy and Lorinda exited the shop in their golf-adjacent attire and walked arm-in-arm through the hotel’s mall. Stimpy checked the time on his device. “We have almost an hour until the facilities tour.”

“Do we really have to do that?” Lorinda asked. “All I want to do is eat. I’m starving.” They passed a store called Guns ‘n Ammo ‘n Such and arrived at the restaurant section of the mall.

“Me too,” he said. “But we’ve got to do the tour. We don’t want them to think we’re weird. What about this?” They stopped in front of a big plate-glass window under a sign reading BugeRama Restaurant & Casino.

“Booj-rama?” Lorinda was confused.

“I think they want you to pronounce it “burger-rama.”

“That’s stupid,” Lorinda said. “But they do serve breakfast. Look.” Sure enough, about half the tables were occupied — mainly by men but there were a number of women and a smattering of kids — forking up eggs or French toast with one hand, while playing video poker or pulling the handle of a slot machine with the other.

“Ahh,” said Stimpy. “I can’t … I just can’t.” He peered down the corridor and brightened. “But look at that!” He pointed.

“Holy shit!” Lorinda said. “It’s a PumpJack's!”

“It looks closed,” Stimpy said.

“Yeah, if it’s anything like mine it doesn’t open till noon. And you can’t get breakfast there anyway. Let’s eat here and we’ll have lunch there after the tour.”

“Oh, all right. But don’t make me gamble.”

Fifteen or twenty people — mostly middle-aged men, three accompanying women, one couple with their two kids, everyone in golf attire — were puttering about in the hotel lobby when Lorinda and Stimpy arrived. A moment later their guide came in the front door, a twentyish young man in a baggy business suit, an overly long red tie, and an ill-fitting orange-gold wig — apparently the official uniform of tour guides at the President Donald J. Trump Memorial Christian Golf Resort and Beautiful Residences.

“Hi, y’all,” the guide said cheerily. “I’m guessing you’re all here for the facilities tour. My name is Jared and I’ll be your guide today. The tour takes about two hours, and I’ll show you all around our miraculous luxury Christian golf community. And I should know, ‘cause I grew up here. I’m a proud grad of Donald J. Trump High School. I even played on the junior varsity football team and our national-championship varsity golf team. I’m gonna try to give you such a great tour that by the end of it you’ll want to move here and buy a villa. Or a condo. Or at least join the golf club as an associate member. Or maybe just a bunch of clothes and commemorative tee-shirts and whatnot. So let’s go!”

“I think this ‘facilities tour’ is just about selling stuff,” Lorinda whispered.

“That’s the thing about billionaires,” Stimpy whispered. “They always need more money.”

The guide led the way out to the porte cochère, where ten gleaming white golf carts were parked, each emblazoned, in gold, with “Tesla” above the initials “P.D.J.T.M.C.G.R.A.B.R.”

“Just find yourselves a golf cart,” said Jared the guide, “four folks in each, max. These are Teslas with Infallible Autopilot, and they’re all programmed to follow mine, so you don’t have to do a thing, just sit back and enjoy. I’ll be talking to you through the speaker in your cart. If you have trouble hearing me just give a shout. Okay, climb aboard.”

Lorinda and Stimpy sat in the last cart. Jared made sure everyone was in place, then hopped into the first cart. “Can y’all hear me?” he said into his microphone. His voice, coming through the air as well as from nine tiny speakers, was slightly surreal, but everyone waved and nodded happily. “All right, then.” He tapped a button next to the base of his microphone and all the golf carts roared to life, their small gasoline engines sputtering and hiccupping black smoke for several seconds until they smoothed themselves out.

As the lead cart pulled away, the others fell in line behind it, two-by-two, other than Lorinda’s and Stimpy’s, which was a singleton at the end of the queue. A half-minute later the guide veered off the street and onto a narrow, golf-carts-only path beside a lush fairway. “You know,” Stimpy said into Lorinda’s ear, “Tesla started out making real cars in the USA. Nice electric cars. It was the most valuable automobile company in the world for a while.”

“You’re kidding. And now?”

“Now they’re a joke, All they make are these internal-combustion golf carts, for sale only in the CCSA.”

“Bizarre,” Lorinda said. “What happened?”

“The guy who used to own the company was such a reptile-dick that everyone stopped buying his cars. And the people who liked him? They hated electric cars.”

“Reptile-dick?”

“I just made that up. How about gator-dick? Crocadick?”

Lorinda laughed. “Is he the one who died on the way to Mars?”

“Very good!”

“I vaguely remember hearing that story. He built his own rocket? It exploded or something?”

“Actually, it got lost and veered off into deep space. He might still be alive out there somewhere.”

“I guess you gotta give him credit for flying in his own rocket.”

“Well,” Stimpy said, “he tried for years to get other people to go first, but no one —”

“Here we have the world’s greatest driving range,” the guide interrupted. When he hit his brakes, the nine carts tailing his abruptly slammed on theirs, causing several of the riders to gasp and one to hit his forehead on the steering wheel. After a short, rote lecture about the driving range, and how great it was, the entourage churred on to the next attraction.

“You probably already know,” said Jared, as the carts halted abruptly behind his, “that we have three famous golf courses here, the Blond, the Brunette, and the Redhead. Here we are at tee number-one of the Blond, the shortest and easiest of our links, with seven par-threes. It’s the only one that ladies and children under fourteen are allowed on. Are there any lady golfers here?”

As all three women raised their hands, Lorinda whispered, “How nice that they allow ladies to play golf.”

“Shh. They’ll hear you.”

“I’m sure you gals will love playing The Blond,” said Jared the guide. “And remember, you get a complimentary thirty-six holes and a free lesson, because this is your first visit here.” As he described the rare and expensive constituent ingredients of the sand in the bunkers, the autonomous-golf-cart train took off again. The next stop was in front of an elaborate miniature golf course filled with eerily quiet little kids and their teachers. The “hazards” of the course were scaled-down, highly detailed versions of stately old office buildings and hotels — except for the 18th hole, which featured a model of the White House in Washington DC, USA, with the glowing neon letters “DJT” filling the pediment above its stately portico.

“Miniature golf is a required course in our elementary school,” the guide said, proudly. “We were the first school district in the whole country to make it a requirement. Every kid in this enclave plays golf, starting on our beautiful miniature courses!” His cart started moving again, followed by the others. “What do you say we check out some condos and villas?” A rush of giddy anticipation swept through the carts ahead of Lorinda and Stimpy.

According to the guide, this slice of domiciles formed a several-block-deep semicircle behind the thirteenth green of the Brunette course. The vast ground-floor picture window of one of the houses, Lorinda noticed, was covered by unsightly sheets of plywood. In the middle of the house’s lawn, which was contiguous with the apron of the golf green, several construction workers were putting the finishing touches on a tall fence of poultry netting, obviously meant to keep golf balls from smashing any more windows. “I should mention,” said Jared, expertly ducking a small white sphere that was coming straight at his orange wig, “that there are villas available here for as little as nine-point-five million dollars, this week only! For the two-bed, one-bath.” The carts came around a bend and halted in front of a twenty-five-foot-high faux-marble statue of Donald J. Trump caressing a pair of golden tablets with glowing Roman numerals I through X on them. “I just want to stop here for a second for my own personal tribute to the man — the god, really — that this enclave and everything in it is named after. He was the inspiration behind The Split, and without The Split the CCSA wouldn’t exist, and without the CCSA we wouldn’t have —” he gestured expansively “— all this. Thank you, President Trump.”

As he bowed his head, the guests in the golf carts clapped and cheered. Stimpy elbowed Lorinda. They joined in, even more enthusiastically than the others.

“I always get emotional around this statue,” Jared said. “It’s called ‘The Ten Numbers.’” He sighed. “All right. Now, about the villas and condos. Did I mention that prices will never be lower than they are today? When we get back to the hotel at the end of this tour, there will be some great, terrific real estate people who will be happy to help you find the permanent or vacation home of your dreams, subject of course to board approval and a complete financial workup. Some terms and conditions may apply.”

The visitors’ golf carts trailed Jared’s into a short stretch lined with mansions — each with a big golden cross (topped by an oversized golf ball) on its lawn, and with a front-row view of the third tee of the Redhead Course. A foursome of older men who were preparing to tee off paused their bantering to watch the little motorcade drone past them. “This,” said the guide in a low, confidential voice, “is some of the most primo real estate in the entire enclave. In the entire country! Sixty-five million and up! And worth it — for the best views of the best golf course in the world!” He sighed in admiration. “Look at them! They’re castles!” As much as his audience wished he would stop so they could ogle the huge, turreted-and-crenelated residences, he took the first turn out of there, and they were back to looking at more conventional — though still enormous — houses.

The last villa they passed before emerging from this cluster was a big white one. On its lawn was a discreet sign reading “Dr. Jonas McFarland, Medical Doctor, By Appointment Only.”

“Huh!” Lorinda said.

“What?”

“I’ve never seen that,” she marveled. “A doctor in a private house.”

“That doctor,” Stimpy whispered, “is the billionaires’ abortionist.”

“What?!”

“Shhh.”

She kept her eyes on the house as they chugged past it. “How do you know that?”

Stimpy paused to consider his answer. “Let’s just say,” he began in a near-whisper, “that we have friends and supporters among the people who work … in the various enclaves of the CCSA.”

“That was nice and vague.”

Stimpy smiled and continued. “And some of those members of the servant class have, let’s say, been sent to this doctor by their billionaire boyfriends to avail themselves ... of his medical specialty.”

“So why don’t I just go there? For my … problem?”

“You know what would happen if you walked in there and asked for a … reset? First, the receptionist or nurse or whoever works for him would say she didn’t know what you were talking about. Then a minute later you’d be hauled away by the local blue boys and sent right back to what’s-her-name. Your friend —”

“Janelle Stark. Fake-doctor Janelle Stark.”

“Yeah. This Doc McFarland is definitely not for you,” Stimpy said. “As far as you’re concerned, he doesn’t exist.”

Lorinda looked away and digested this fresh piece of bitter news. Finally she whispered, “I hate this place.”

“This enclave? Yeah, it’s —"

“This whole fucking nation.” She practically spat the last word.

Stimpy grinned and smacked her lightly on the thigh in congratulations. “That’s the spirit!”

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!

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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.

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

The gold-painted door to their room opened on more gold: two shiny gold canopy beds with gold-embroidered bedspreads, a gold-colored carpet, gold floor lamps radiating golden light through golden lampshades, a gold-painted desk and chair, and, between the beds, a gold wicker swing-chair suspended from the ceiling by gold-velvet-covered ropes. “What do you think of the Libertine Suite?” the eager valet asked as he wheeled the cart through the doorway. The room was big. Lorinda figured it must be the size of any two rooms on the lower floors.

“It’s really something,” Stimpy said.

“A swing?” Lorinda was puzzled.

“I’ll tell you about that,” said Regis, a bit nervously. “But where would you like the guns, Mr. Chapman? Oh, and by the way, there’s a great ammunition store right downstairs in the mall, near the restaurants.”

“Just put them on the floor, right by the wall there,” Stimpy said.

The lad unloaded the artillery, then stood, more or less at attention next to the cart. Stimpy took out his wallet, removed a thick wad, peeled off five one-hundred dollar bills, and ceremoniously handed them over. The valet’s eyes were practically popping out of their sockets as he took the cash.

“Sweet! Thank you so much, Mr. Chapman! And ma’am!” he gushed. “Just let me know if you need anything during your stay. I’m here for you. Just ask for Regis. Oh, wait — the swing.” He pocketed the bills, then pointed toward the swing, his face reddening. “You can use those little, like, buckle things at the bottom of the ropes to adjust it up or down, for your … you know, so it fits better, I guess.” He bowed slightly, then, walking backward, pulled the cart to the open door, said, “Thanks again, thank you,” and reached over the cart to close the door as he left.

“Big tip,” Lorinda said. “I must be in the wrong line of work.”

“It’s an investment.” Lorinda looked puzzled. “We don’t have any people in this enclave. He’s now our person.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Five hundred dollars says he is.”

Lorinda shrugged and looked around the room. There was a big gold crucifix — with a golf ball on top — on the wall over each of the beds; two small night tables with lamps and, presumably, with golden Bibles in the drawers; a small refrigerator; a screen sitting on top of the refrigerator; and, mounted on the wall above the screen, an elaborately framed reproduction of a painting of slim, orange Donald J. Trump (in golf shirt and slacks) and blond Jesus (in ancient robes), arms around each other’s shoulders, beaming at the viewer from the seat of a golf cart parked next to the flag on a perfectly smooth golf green.

Stimpy, tracking her eyes, said, “That’s a very, very bad picture.”

She laughed. “Why? Because Christ wasn’t alive then? Because he wasn’t a golfer?”

“It’s way beyond that,” he said. “Everyone knows you don’t drive a golf cart onto the green.”

Lorinda laughed again, then continued surveilling the room. When her eyes lit upon the swing Stimpy said, “It’s for sex.”

“What?!”

“The swing. That’s what it’s for. See, the woman sits …”

“Ohhh-kay. I get it.” She stared at the swing for a moment. Then, suddenly exhausted, she took a few steps to the nearest bed, tossed her hat to the floor, flopped on her back, and sighed deeply. “What’s the deal with this place, anyway?”

“This enclave?”

“Yeah. And what are we doing here?”

“Too quiet for you? Not enough shooting?”

“C’mon. I’m being serious.”

“Well,” he said, sitting on the other bed, “the thing about this enclave is that pretty much every billionaire in the country is a member of the golf club.”

“They live here?”

“A few of them live here. The others just come here a lot. To play golf, but mainly they come for secret meetings where they plot the future of the country. Which really means figuring out how to suck money out of the rest of us.” He looked over at her. She was staring straight up at the ceiling. “They also bring their girlfriends here. Or get friendly with one or two of the many women who work here who specialize in … servicing them. Golf, secret meetings, secret girlfriends. It’s the dream enclave for autocrats.”

“Jeez,” she said. “I wondered why they didn’t check to make sure we’re married. Like a regular hotel. In a regular place.”

 “This is definitely not a regular place. And now you’re wondering: How does this help Lorinda Moon from Perfecton?

“Yeah. How?”

“The billionaires,” he said, “don’t want the rest of us to know what they’re up to. So this is a camera-free zone. The entire enclave.”

“Whoa!” Lorinda was incredulous. “That doesn’t even seem possible.”

“They built it and they own it, so it’s exactly the way they want it,” he said. “You saw that brick wall, right?”

“The fifty-foot-high wall we came through?”

“Forty, actually. And ten feet thick. It goes all the way around the enclave. It took them two years to build. They spent most of the CCSA’s defense budget on it, and they had to stop building their stupid wall around the country until they finished it. Not enough money, not enough manpower.”

“Wait. They were more interested in the security of this golf place than … than of the entire country?”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Insane.”

“Totally. We tried to hack the cameras here, and that’s when we learned there are no cameras to hack.”

“You — whoever y’all are — you went through the entire enclave looking for cameras?”

“The enclave’s not that big. It’s the size of three golf courses. And a driving range. And a couple of miniature-golf courses. Everything else — houses, churches, stores, hotels, schools, whatever — they’re all packed inside the golf courses. The enclave can’t get any bigger — there’s a wall around it.” Stimpy paused, considering how much to divulge to Lorinda. “And, just so you know, we didn’t have to personally go over every inch of the enclave. We have sensing equipment, satellites …”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Who are we? That’s what you want to ask, right?”

Lorinda laughed. “Yeah, but never mind that. Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you something else. It’s a complete non-sequitur. Is that the right word?”

“Depends on whether it’s a sequitur or a non-sequitur.”

She rolled her eyes without taking them off the ceiling. “So what is college like?”

“That’s a non-sequitur, all right.” He paused to absorb it. “You thinking of going to college instead of being on the lam?”

“Haha. No, I’m just … I’ve always been curious. Growing up in Perfecton, or maybe anywhere in this country, people like me —”

“Girls?”

“Girls, boys, anyone. It was like only the super-goobers got picked to go to college.”

“And you thought it would be a good thing to do? But you didn’t want to be a super-goober?”

“I wanted to learn things. I wanted to study. I mean, I never told anyone, except my friend Emmie. She at least went to nursing school. I miss her.” Her eyes teared up. “I miss everyone.”

“College is like school, but much better.”

She wiped a cheek with her hand. “Really?”

“Or at least it used to be. I’m sure it still is in other places. Maybe you can go to college in the United States when you get there.”

“If I get there.”

Stimpy ignored that and fell backward on the bed so that he, too, was looking at the ceiling. “What would you study?”

“I don’t know,” Lorinda said. “There’s so much.”

“So little time, so much to know,” he chanted.

“What’s that?”

“It’s from a cartoon. The Beatles. Yellow Submarine.”

“I’ve heard of the Beatles,” she said. “I thought they were a band.”

“Yup. And a cartoon.”

She let that slide. “Where are we going next?”

“Another non-sequitur. We’re paid for four days. I figure we’ll stay for two or three. Rest up. Maybe take some golf lessons …”

“Get outta here!”

“And then make our final dash. To Georgia, USA!”

“No more stops?” Lorinda’s exhaustion overwhelmed her. She tried to keep her eyes open but couldn’t do it.

“We’ll see. Maybe we’ll switch cars a couple of times. Can’t be too careful.”

Lorinda slid into a dream about being in a classroom full of bright, eager fellow students. Emmie sat at the desk next to hers. Stimpy, standing in front of the class, was the teacher. Lorinda was ready to take the test! But thank goodness there wasn’t going to be a test today. Instead, the teacher was narrating a long, enchanting story about what life is like in the USA …..

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!

Tip your bartenders we mean authors!

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.

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

“Your mandatory facilities tour is at 9:30 tomorrow morning,” the guard said, scanning Stimpy’s perfectly counterfeited Citizen Card. “You’re staying at the Trump Imperium Luxury Hotel. Prepaid for four days. Best hotel in the CCSA, that’s what many people say.” He seemed surprised by the next line of the readout. “You’re in the Libertine Suite. Man, y’all’s gonna have a lot of fun.” He gave Stimpy a lewd wink and handed the card back with a surprisingly respectful little bow of his head. “Just follow the golden crosses up the path here and bear right, Mr. Chapman, sir. Can’t miss it. Have an outstanding stay at our Christian golf resort.”

“He didn’t even look at my card,” Lorinda said as they cruised slowly along the grand entrance drive.

“That’s because you’re with me, and I’m The Man.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Our friend Bill — I’m sure it was Bill — must’ve hacked our reservations and set me up as some kind of richy-rich oligarch dude. The ideal customer for this place.”

As Lorinda stewed on this, she saw that, in contrast to the patchy brown scrubland they’d been driving through over the past four (was it really only four?) days (it felt like months), here they were, surrounded by a deeply vibrant, evenly trimmed carpet of green. Small rainbows were visible in the fine mist that hovered over the turf, apparently the product of an elaborate hidden sprinkler system. Off to the left, she noticed two brilliant white patches of sand forming parentheses around an elevated freeform shape that was a darker shade of green. A little flagpole poked up from the middle of it. “We’re driving through a golf course,” she muttered.

Before Stimpy could respond, there was a loud bang on the roof of the truck. Lorinda flinched, shouting “They’re bombing us!”

Stimpy laughed.

“What’s so funny?” she snapped.

“It was a golf ball,” Stimpy said gently. “Just a little golf ball. You’re right.” He put a calming hand on her knee. “We’re in the middle of a golf course. If I owned this truck I’d be pissed. Here we are. I’ll explain this place … later.”

He turned into the frilly, gilded porte cochère of the elaborately gilded entranceway of a pink-stucco ten-story building. In a robotic voice, he said: “Best hotel in the CCSA, that’s what people say.”

“Are we still walking old?” Lorinda asked.

Stimpy thought about it. “I think you can just walk normal,” he said. “I mean, not too normal. No jumping around or anything. We don’t want to attract attention.”

“And what about you? You get to jump around?”

“I,” he said, “will stay old. Old rich guy with cute, young sexy babe — we’ll fit right in here.” The baseball caps Archie had issued were sitting on the console between them. He handed Lorinda hers. “This’ll cover some of that gray.”

Lorinda arranged the cap on her head. “So you think I’m a cute babe?” She was pleased, and a little surprised, that he would describe her that way.

A teenage boy, wearing a fanciful light-blue military-style uniform and a white pith helmet, scurried over and opened Lorinda’s door before the truck had stopped moving. “Welcome to the Trump Imperium,” he attempted to purr — despite his cracking voice — as he opened the door. “I’m Regis, your val-lay. It would sure be my pleasure to take your bags.”

“O-kay …” Lorinda said uncertainly, not accustomed to being the target of fawning.

“No luggage,” Stimpy affably called as he got out of the truck. “We’re buying new clothes here. We understand you have terrific clothing stores in this enclave.”

“The best golf clothes in the country, sir. Especially the stores right here in the hotel mall. That’s what people say.” The young valet bowed slightly as he closed Lorinda’s door.

“When people say things, they usually know what they’re talking about,” said Stimpy, rounding the truck and dropping the key fob into the valet’s hand. “We’ve got a pile of guns on the floor there,” indicating the back door. “Could you rustle us up a cart so we can move them up to our room? We like to stay near our guns.” Lorinda hadn’t seen this sociable, charming-yet-assertive side of Stimpy before, and she was impressed

“Sure thing, sir,” said the valet. He sprang over to a golden luggage cart, rolled it to the truck, and lovingly transferred the handguns to the cart’s metal basket. “Hummin’ sweet!” he said as he picked up one of the heavy automatics and laid it across the suitcase rails. He sounded more like the kid he was than the fake military officer he was dressed as.

Stimpy took Lorinda’s arm and together they strolled into the hotel, Stimpy a bit stiffly, Lorinda — aware that she still was wearing the remnants of Archie’s makeup and dowdy clothing—only a tad more spryly. The valet followed with the jangling cart. The lobby was all columns, gold bunting, fake orchids, overstuffed sofas, and big screens running CCSA-TV with the sound muted. Stimpy approached the elaborately carved and gilt desk. If the young valet was dressed as a lieutenant in some imaginary army, the middle-aged clerk behind the desk was decked out as a five-star general.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Chapman, sir,” he said, snapping off a crisp salute. “Welcome to the finest hotel in the CCS of A. And welcome to you, Miss Howling. You’re prepaid here for four days, it’s your first visit here — well, y’all know that — so there’s the mandatory facilities tour tomorrow morning, I know you’ll enjoy it, your group meets right here in the lobby at 9:30 sharp, your room is the very special Libertine Suite up on the top floor, room ten-oh-one, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, your Citizen Cards are your room keys for the duration of your stay, and welcome again to the Trump Memorial.” He paused for a breath. “Regis can bring that up for you if you like. And let me just say on a personal note that you two look very fetching together.”

“Thank you kindly,” Stimpy said. “C’mon, Regis.” The valet, with the gun-laden luggage cart, followed Lorinda and Stimpy into the elevator. Lorinda made eye contact with Stimpy, wrinkled her face, and mouthed: “fetching?” He gave her a comic shrug as Regis pressed the button for 10 and the gleaming golden doors slid shut.

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!

Tip your bartenders we mean authors!

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.

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

“Ahh, you know me so well. No, I have no idea what happened to Donald Trump Junior,” Lorinda admitted. “We don’t see much news in our Perfecton bubble.” She added, “Or only a certain kind of news.”

They were interrupted by another loud announcement through the truck’s sound system: “Many people say this is the Christian golf capital of the world!” And there was the billboard, showing a picture of Trump on a green lawn, wearing a biblical white robe and leaning jauntily on a golf club. The adjacent headline read:

LIVE THE CHRISTIAN LUXURY GOLF LIFESTYLE!

Before Stimpy could continue he was interrupted by another blaring announcement: “If you’re rich and Christian, this could be your gated community!” And there was the accompanying billboard showing a gigantic face of Donald Trump, perfectly bronzed and mischievously winking an eye, along with the proclamation:

MANY PEOPLE SAY

THIS IS THE CHRISTIAN GOLF CAPITAL OF THE WORLD!

“I mean,” Lorinda continued, shaking her head as if to slough off the creepiness of the billboards, “we learned that Donald Trump had some children. I remember, let’s see, Don Junior of course. Then there was … Edward?”

“Eric.”

“Eric.” And the girl. “Ivanka, right?”

“Right.”

“But they didn’t tell us what happened to them. I think there were some others too.”

“Yeah, I can’t remember them either. Maybe they changed their last name and disappeared. Anyway,” Stimpy said, “Eric died in prison. In Connecticut, I think.”

“Whoa. No one talks about that in Perfecton.”

“They never did figure out what killed him. Or who. Ivanka, she divorced that creepy real-estate dude and married some Saudi prince. And converted to Islam. And then there’s Donny Junior. You don’t know anything about his story?”

“Not really.”

“Okay. So he started out thinking he’d follow in his father’s footsteps and one day be president of the USA. The budgies and dwaynes in the red states had elected his father, right? He was thinking: Why not me? It’s my turn! Then came The Split. He figured he’d be a shoo-in as CEO of the brand new CCSA. Nope. He had a little bit of a following among some old dementos who still worshipped his father, but the billionaires thought he was an asshole and a fool and a drug fiend, so that was out. And his father’s so-called fortune, well, it turned out there was no Trump fortune. So he still needed a job —”

“Wait a minute. I thought Trump was a billionaire.”

“Well guess what. He wasn’t. So Donny Junior needed a job but he didn’t know how to do anything. He’d already cozied-up to the Nazi morons, and he thought maybe if he couldn’t be CEO of the country, he could at least be the Fuhrer of the Nazis. So he took five or six of the top Nazis out on one of his jerkoff safaris. He had this safari business in Louisiana — Trump Swamp Safaris or some shit. It was supposed to be a two-week vacation —”

“Hah!” Lorinda hooted. “Two weeks in a swamp is a vacation?”

“I guess it is if you’re shooting things, yeah. Now, remember, he had spent his whole life being supported by Daddy, but he was somehow under the illusion that he was this Born Leader of Men. He figured the savvy way to conduct himself — and the way to be just like Daddy — was to bullshit and bully everybody. Except for dictators. Anyway, seven or eight days after the start of the safari, the Nazis showed up at a police station in some godforsaken town in Louisiana to report that their tour leader had somehow died while they were out there in the swamp.”

“He died? On one of his own safaris?”

“Oh, it’s worse than that. When they finally found the body — the parts the alligators didn’t get to — and they had an autopsy? It turned out there were quite a few bullet holes and slugs in it.”

“Someone shot him?”

“Everyone shot him. All the Nazis. The bullets came from different guns. But they’d conveniently lost all their weapons in the swamp, or at least the ones that could be matched to the bullets, so there were no ballistics matches. No evidence to tie anybody to the shooting. They all claimed to be surprised that he’d been shot. They said he’d had a heart attack or a stroke or something. Aneurism, maybe.” Stimpy snickered. “Not that they knew that word.”

 “Wait. So how did these Nazis explain the bullet holes?”

“Good point! So maybe some other group of hunters came upon poor Junior and filled him full of lead. You know, after he died. That was their best theory.”

She shook her head. The big world outside Perfecton kept revealing new forms of chaos, danger, and insanity. “Okay, so the Nazis shot him. But why?”

“They all claimed they didn’t know nothin’ about no shootin’. But remember, these people are stupider than anyone you’ve ever met. Of course they talked to all their Nazi pals, and soon the whole world knew that after a few days on the safari they just couldn’t take any more of Don Junior. Hated his guts. Forget about him becoming their Hitler, the leader of their sacred crusade. They didn’t want him leading them out of the swamp. They just wanted him gone, forever. Expunged. Wiped out.”

“That’s so weird!”

“It’s sort of a variation of what happened in the war in Vietnam. Soldiers sometimes hated their own officers. I mean really hated them. So they killed them. Fragging, they called it. This is the modern, super-ultra-fucked-up version of that.”

“How do you know these things?”

“I’m just a font of wisdom, and —"

“You are about to enter the enclave for people just like yourself,” the announcer interjected as the final billboard in the series came into view:

WELCOME TO THE GOLFCENTRIC GATED CHRISTIAN LIFE 

DONALD J. TRUMP MEMORIAL CHRISTIAN GOLF COURSE

AND BEAUTIFUL RESIDENCES!

THE ENCLAVE FOR PEOPLE LIKE YOU!     

Ethereal “heavenly” music filled the cabin of the truck. Stimpy slowed down and took a long look at Lorinda.

“What?” she said.

“I’m just checking your makeup. You still look sort of okay.”

“You mean old?” she said.

“Yeah. But I don’t think it’ll make it through the night. How do I look?”

“Old, but getting younger all the time.”

“The makeup’s falling off?”

“Yeah. And the hair,” she said. “Is it good news or bad news that you’re not permanently old?”

“Whatever it is, we’ll have to figure something out.” He drove slowly toward an ornate golden gate in the middle of a tall brick wall topped by gleaming golden spikes. Over the gate, a sign blinked:

PRES. DONALD J. TRUMP

MEMORIAL CHRISTIAN GOLF RESORT AND BEAUTIFUL RESIDENCES

On the other side of the gate they caught a glimpse of enormous golden crucifixes on both sides of the roadway. It looked like a line of glittery cartoon telephone poles, without the wires. Each featured, teed up atop its vertical member, an oversized, dimpled white golf ball, with the initials DJT in black Gothic script.

They stopped at the gate and fumbled around for their citizen cards as the uniformed guard in the gatehouse looked on.

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!

Tip your bartenders we mean authors!

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.

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

They burst through the exit and into the parking lot, not far from where they’d left the Zhiguli. In their wake spilled a mob fleeing the next wave of flying bullets. After running past a few rows of cars, Lorinda and Stimpy stopped and huddled behind a tall van. “Good shooting,” Stimpy said.

“You liked that?”

“I did. Very quick thinking. You didn’t lose your cool. And minimal peripheral damage. I wouldn’t have thought of it!”

“Oh.” She felt pleased. “Thanks —"

“You got us out of there fast. Now put the safety back on.”

“Right,” Lorinda said, flipping the safety on. “My adrenaline….” She patted her heart.

“Now we need to find a green Xiaomi Lumberjax crew-cab,” Stimpy said. “Should be right around here somewhere.”

“Is that it?” Lorinda indicated a shiny, new-looking, sickly chartreuse pickup several slots over from where they stood.

Stimpy pushed a button on the fob Sluggo had given him. The truck’s lights flashed and the first five notes of the Xiaomi jingle blasted from all eight of its loudspeakers. “Afraid so,” Stimpy said.

The first of the fleeing Psychedelia customers were already speeding away, honking their horns, far more likely to be injured in a parking-lot crash than by a stray bullet. Lorinda and Stimpy looked around. There were plenty of people who might see them.

“Fuck it,” Stimpy said. “No one’s looking.”

Abandoning their old-person shuffle, they sprinted to their garish new ride, set their big automatics on the back-seat floor, and took their places in front, with Stimpy at the helm. He stopped the truck just behind the Zhiguli, and popped the trunk lid with its remote. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said as he jumped out.

“What are you doing?”

“Our guns.”

After scooping up the remaining weapons from the Zhiguli’s trunk and placing them carefully next to their machine guns, he closed up the Zhiguli, placed the key fob on top of the car’s left rear tire, got back behind the wheel of the truck, and drove warily toward the exit.

“So much shooting everywhere we go,” Lorinda finally said. It had been a good half-hour since either of them had said a word. “I don’t think my heart rate will ever get back to normal.”

“I guess you don’t see much shooting in the bubble of Perfecton.”

“Not too much.”

“It’s different out here in the real CCSA,” Stimpy said. “Good thing Sluggo and Nancy were standing near the emergency exit.” He smiled. “Well, not really standing. Dancing. Well, if you call that dancing —"

“That was deliberate? Being near the door?”

“Oh, yeah. We always meet near an exit door if we can. You never know when you’ll have to make a run for it.”

“Who exactly is we? I mean, who’s behind we?”

 Silence from Stimpy.

“All right,” said Lorinda, “let me ask it this way. Who pays for all this? All these cars, this fancy truck —”

“Most of the cars are shit,” Stimpy interrupted.

“Still! The hotel … the pizza … that gas station … your fancy communication system. All of it. It’s kind of a big deal. Who pays?”

Stimpy nodded. “Okay, it’s a fair question. But I can’t answer it until you’re out of this country. And then I won’t be able to answer it because …”

“You’ll still be here,” she said softly.

He nodded, his eyes on the road, his hands on the wheel.

“But why? So secret!”

He sighed. “Think about it. If we don’t make it … if I don’t get you out of the CCSA, you’ll end up in custody. That woman —”

“Janelle Stark.”

“Right. And others just like her.” He paused dramatically. “And you’ll talk.”

She waved a hand and scoffed. “No I won’t. I won’t tell them anything.”

“You won’t want to. But they don’t ask politely. You get the picture?”

The image of that monstrous, sadistic thug Skippy flitted across her consciousness. Lorinda looked away and gnawed her lip as she considered this for about two seconds. “Fuck,” she said. “You’re right. I should have figured that out. Sorry for asking.”

“No, no! Ask anything! Just don’t always expect an answer.”

She smiled and curled up in her seat. “It’s funny. That’s what my father always said. ‘Ask me anything.’ And I did. And he always had an answer. Turns out most of them were bullshit.” She flipped down her sun visor to see if it was one of the fancy ones with a mirror. It wasn’t. She flipped it back up. “Okay, one more question. What’s your real name?”

Stimpy laughed.

The sun was starting to set behind them when they came upon the first golf billboard. It was electronic and animated, and showed nothing but a giant Donald Trump as a slim, muscular superhero repeatedly, and with perfect form, swinging an oversized driver and sending a glowing white ball soaring off into the distance. A startling voice boomed inside the truck: “Congratulations! You’re on the road to the President Donald J. Trump Memorial Christian Golf Course and Beautiful Residences!”

“That’s where we’re going?”

“I told you,” Stimpy said. “Golf.”

“What the fuck —”

He held up a silencing hand. “You’ll see.”

Lorinda thought for a moment. “Speaking of Trump,” she said, “When you made that comment about Donald Trump Junior? How the Nazis thought he’d be their messiah?”

“And I said that didn’t turn out so well. Let me guess. You don’t know how it turned out.”

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!

Tip your bartenders we mean authors!

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.

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

Soon they were seeing video billboards for Wonders of the Old South: Beautiful people dancing under flashing lights, surrounded by walls displaying old-fashioned stuff like plows and sickles! Chaotic Civil War battle re-enactment, with drunken men in crude Johnny Reb gray and Yankee blue uniforms, wielding rifles and charging each other and falling down as women and children on the sidelines cheered! Elaborate wedding scenes, the brides in big poofy dresses like Scarlett O’Hara and the grooms in Rhett Butler waistcoats and vests, with a million bridesmaids and a preacher all in black! Happy families sitting at picnic tables, waving hot dogs or hamburgers in one hand and Confederate — not CCSA — flags with the other!

 Lorinda, who had never heard of the place, was baffled. “This is … what? An enclave?”

“Fuck, no. It’s an amusement park.”

“WHAT?”

“You heard me,” Stimpy said. “It’s a place where people go to amuse themselves.”

“By celebrating a war?”

“That they lost. Yes.” He laughed. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but it takes all kinds.”

The final billboard in the series was nothing but a huge arrow pointing right, flashing the words: TURN HERE FOR WONDERS OF THE OLD SOUTH.

Lorinda turned onto a narrow, winding driveway. She drove slowly, not sure what to expect. The first amusement they encountered was, according to its sign, the CIVIL WAR FIELD OF GLORY. The field of glory was a rectangle of dirt the size of a football gridiron. From a public address speaker mounted high on a pole came the announcement, “And now … The Battle of Manassas.” A few dozen actors, some in blue uniforms, some in gray, clumsily stuffed their muzzleloaders, yelled a lot and shook their fists in righteous fury, then shot blanks at each other, and either spouted copious quantities of stage blood and tumbled theatrically to the ground (the blues) or performed elaborate victory dances and war whoops (the grays). A small, motley gaggle of spectators standing on the sidelines intermittently cheered (for the good grays) and booed (the bad blues) while gobbling unidentifiable comestibles out of paper bags.

Next they came to a big, festive tent behind a SQUARE DANCING sign. Fiddle music blasted, occasionally overwhelmed by a nasal caller announcing dance moves that sounded like, “HONNAYA PA-NAH, HONNAYA-KAH-NAH, ALAMMA LET LET LET…”  The dance floor was empty.

“That’s kind of sad,” Lorinda said.

“You want to do some square dancing?”

“I think I’ll pass.”

“That’s what everyone says.”

A little way down the road was what appeared to be an oversized antebellum mansion. As they drew closer they realized it was in fact a whitewashed cinderblock edifice masquerading as a bloated house and festooned with ersatz antebellum signifiers. Its sign said BLUNDERBUSS RESTAURANT AND COCKTAI LOUNGE. A smaller fake-old-timey building next door identified itself as PLANTATION SPA AND HAIR-NAIL SALON.

“That’s where we’re going,” Stimpy said.

“To the spa? Great! I could use —”

“No. Over there.” He pointed to a sprawling single-story building that might at one time have been a warehouse or server farm. A billboard on the roof identified it as the DISCOTHEQUE OF THE OLD SOUTH, the bold words surrounded by a border of dancing Confederate flags and blinking musical notes. To Lorinda’s surprise, the vast parking lot was at least a third full.

“What are all these people doing here in the middle of the day? Free bar?” Her question was quickly answered by a sign atop the entrance kiosk: 75% OFF ADMISSION IF YOU’RE UNEMPLOYED. PRESENT UNEMPLOYMENT CARD IN SLOT.

“I’m unemployed, I guess,” Lorinda said, stopping at the kiosk. “But I didn’t get my card yet.”

“You forgot to ask that crazy woman for one,” Stimpy said, handing her his money card.

“Janelle Stark. Yeah, why didn’t I think of that instead of hitting her with my gun?” She paid and continued into the parking lot. “And why are we here?” she asked.

“For one thing, no cameras. We hacked them a couple of years ago and they never got it together to fix them. And no one’s going to see us meet our contacts.” He read the latest text on his device. “See how close you can get to that corner of the building.”

Lorinda found a spot and parked the Zhiguli. She opened the trunk while Stimpy gathered up the remaining weapons from the back-seat floor and brought them around. Hanging onto the two machine guns they had had with them on the Rapture Ride, he eased the others into the trunk and slammed the lid.

Lorinda scowled at the rifles Stimpy was holding. “I’m sick of carrying that big thing. I’ve got this,” she said, slipping her hand into her bag and bringing out the pink Lady SIG Sauer.

“In case you have to shoot a mosquito?”

“No, but —”

His tone turned apologetic. “We don’t want to attract attention.” He held out her rifle. “Consider this part of your costume.”

Lorinda sighed, then dropped her little gun back in her bag and took the rifle he was offering. Grumpily, she slung it over her shoulder, then tapped the key fob to lock the car, and passed it to Stimpy.

“You promise me there are no cameras?” she asked as they made their way to the nearest entrance.

“That’s what my people tell me. And my people know their shit.”

Inside it was vast and dark, with glowing signs pointing the way to four separate dance halls: GRAND OLE OPRY, LINE DANCE COUNTRY, METAL MANIA, and PSYCHEDELIA. A confusion of bass notes pulsing behind the walls caused Lorinda’s stomach to clench. Stimpy guided her to Psychedelia.

The room was cavernous. The music — wailing fuzztone guitars, pounding bass and drums — was overwhelming. Illumination was provided by ultraviolet lights. The décor consisted of blacklight-reactive murals, stickers of stars and planets, and random slashes of orange, yellow, and red paint. A blue pencil-beam — not blacklight — was aimed at a huge, mirrored, slowly rotating disco ball hanging from the middle of the high ceiling.

Lorinda, who had never seen anything like it (not counting the small glitter-balls in the rec room of Pastor Doug’s Church), stopped and stared at that massive, mirrored orb. Stimpy took her by the arm and steered her across the floor between dancing couples, many wearing glow-in-the-dark clothes, hats, dangly accessories, and long-hair “hippie” wigs. When they were under the disco ball she shook free of his grip, put her arms around him, and tried to get him dancing. He made a couple of perfunctory moves while attempting to keep their bulky guns from colliding, but his focus was on the far side of the room, and he continued gliding in that direction, taking her with him.

Then he spotted what he was looking for and changed direction by a few degrees. In a moment he and Lorinda were dancing next to, and practically rubbing shoulders with, a couple who had clearly spent some time preparing themselves for Psychedelia. The man, who was a head shorter than Stimpy, wore an obviously fake beard, a blond long-hair wig, a shirt covered with glowing palm trees, and radiant orange shorts. The woman, in a zigzag-striped shirt-dress, had UV-sensitive lightning bolts and swirly lines on her face that made it impossible for Lorinda to know what she actually looked like.

“What’s your name again?” Stimpy asked Lorinda.

“I can’t hear you.”

He leaned down until his mouth was practically in her ear. “Your name. I forget.”

She turned his head sideways and shouted into his ear, “Randi Something! Howling?” She brightened. “Howland!” She slapped his arm in triumph.

He turned her toward the other couple, who were standing and waiting patiently. “Randi, meet Sluggo and Nancy.”

The new people didn’t catch the name, but they gave her big smiles anyway. As Stimpy and Sluggo did an elaborate fist-bump-handshake thing, Lorinda saw Sluggo discreetly slip a small black object to Stimpy, then hug him and say a few words into his ear. Then Stimpy gave Nancy a quick kiss on the cheek. She and Sluggo resumed their dancing as Stimpy took Lorinda in his arms and started shimmying her toward a door with a glowing exit sign over it.

They were halfway there when she stopped and shouted in his ear, “You dance like an old fogey.”

“Thank you.”

Lorinda was setting up to twirl him around when the pop of a gunshot cut through the throbbing music. The couples surrounding them either dove for the floor, turned toward the exit and prepared to flee, or brandished their own guns. One or two fired in the direction from which they thought the original shot had come—but, between the pounding din and the room’s acoustics, it was impossible to know

Then panic swept the room. Many more shots were fired—from different positions, toward different targets. Everyone who thought they were part of the solution became, to someone else, the problem. Stimpy tried to pull Lorinda toward the exit, but by then the rush in that direction had already become a pileup: Far more people were trying to get through the door than could fit. A man next to them started screaming and waving his gun around; then suddenly there was blood gushing from the bullet hole in his neck as he collapsed at their feet.

Somehow, Lorinda was angered rather than distressed by this grisly chaos. As she coolly unshouldered her weapon and flipped the safety off, Stimpy’s eyes went wide. “No!” he yelled. But she had already aimed the gun toward the center of the ceiling. A short, deafening burst from her automatic sent dozens of bullets streaming at the chain holding up the disco ball. Understanding that there was no way to hit it if she simply aimed at it — she knew she wasn’t that good — Lorinda waggled the gun back and forth, as though watering a garden with a hose, passing across the chain holding the disco ball just enough to ensure that at least some of the deadly little missiles would find and shred their target.

The recoil launched her backward, and Stimpy grabbed her around the waist to hold her steady. The deafening gunfire plus the percussive clatter of the bullets hitting the ceiling, the chain, and whatever else was in Lorinda’s range caused a hush to fall over the crowd, accompanied by a de facto cease-fire. Suddenly the disco ball slipped its moorings and commenced its stately descent. Those directly under it were instantly screeching and scrambling. Before the crashing sphere ignited another phase of panicky gunplay, Lorinda and Stimpy managed — using their weapons as bludgeons when necessary, stepping over quivering or, in three cases, permanently stationary bodies — to hack their way to the exit.

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!

Tip your bartenders we mean authors!

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.

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

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, opening the rear door, 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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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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Lorinda and Stimpy understood, without speaking, that although they needed to walk old, they had to move faster than they had on the way to the Rapture Ride, both because it would be noticeably weird to be walking slowly in the midst of this chaos, and because they had to get out of there as quickly as possible. So they had to walk slow but fast.

Lorinda couldn’t help herself — as she scooted past one of the ride’s pilings she looked toward Janelle’s little army. She gasped at what she saw.

Janelle, gun in hand, was pushing her way through her men until she stood in front of Brad, who was still bandaged, and now shirtless, sitting on the ground and working on his belt. She grabbed his chin, yanked him to a standing position, and jammed the gun into his forehead.

Lorinda froze, horrified by what she thought she was about to see. But then Brad said something, Janelle lowered the gun, and Brad scooped up his shirt.

“Hurry up,” Stimpy urged. Following closely, Lorinda found herself wondering if Brad had been planning to remove the bandage for smoother Rapturing. But did God really want that? To see everyone’s icky, unhealed wounds? She gave a little laugh — and then stifled it. This wasn’t funny.

They emerged from behind the ride and, facing away from Janelle’s crew, walking old but fast past frenzied naked CCSA citizens and piles of their discards, headed toward the parking lot. She suddenly wrinkled her face in disgust. “What. Is. That. SMELL?”

Without looking at her, Stimpy said, “People are shitting themselves.”

“Fear?”

“I guess. Fear? Excitement? They’re trying to leave their bodies behind? Who the fuck knows with these people. C’mon.”

They hobbled on. When she came to an automatic weapon similar to theirs lying on the ground in front of her, Lorinda bent down and scooped it up. Stimpy gave her a nod of approval, then spotted a few handguns on the ground and did the same. Soon they were lugging as many guns as they could carry, cradling long guns in outstretched arms like firewood and dangling pistols from their fingers. When Stimpy came upon a shopping cart full of recently purchased food, he emptied it on the ground and gently lowered his weapons into it, indicating that Lorinda’s collection should go in there as well.

“I know I started this,” Lorinda said, “but why do we need these? How many can we shoot at once?”

“They might come in handy,” Stimpy said.

She shrugged and placed her guns in the cart on top of his. Glancing back and seeing no sign of Janelle or her crewmembers, they resumed their hike to the parking lot, now with Stimpy pushing the gun-filled shopping cart. A moment later, despite the swirling anarchy around them, they heard a woman yelling, “No, Jeffrey! Put them back down on the ground! Gently!” They turned just in time to see a young mother and father, both naked, glaring at their young son (How old could he be? Four? Five?). He was also naked, and was grinning as he pointed two pistols at them.

“We’re about to go to Heaven,” the father said, taking a step toward his child. “Put the guns down! This is the Rapture!” Giggling playfully, the little kid pulled the trigger just as his father’s hands reached out for the weapons. The recoil knocked the kid over backward. He burst into tears as the bullet shredded the father’s left hand and passed into his heart.

Lorinda was already springing forward to help, but Stimpy grabbed her arm, saying: “No! We have to get out of here.”

“But —” She pointed. The mother was on her knees, screaming.

“They are reaping what they have sown,” Stimpy said sternly. Then he hesitated. “Sowed. No, have sown.”

Lorinda sighed and, reluctantly, nodded. They walked quickly toward the gate. “I guess we don’t have to walk old anymore,” she said. “No one’s looking at us.”

“The cameras,” said Stimpy. “But, yeah. The main thing is, we need to get the fuck out.”

They passed into the parking lot. The noise was all behind them, except for the ticket-booth kid, who was on the roof of the booth, naked, screaming, “Take me, God! Take me! Take me! I’m here! It’s me, Cord! Take me ...!” 

“Shit,” said Stimpy. He stopped pushing the cart and indicated with his head for Lorinda to look beyond the booth.

“Fuck,” she said. There was a uniformed Domestic Security officer, no doubt one of Janelle’s, standing near their car.

Leaving the shopping cart in place, Stimpy took Lorinda’s arm and walked her to the side of the ticket booth, where they couldn’t be seen by Janelle’s man. He took his device out of his pocket and made a call. It went quickly: “Yes, we pushed the button … we spotted Confeds looking for us … we’re in the parking lot, and there’s one of them on our car … yeah, we’ll deal with it … perfect, thanks.”

“Wilma?”

“Yeah,” Stimpy said, re-pocketing his device. “Wait here.” The kid was still raving on top of the booth. Stimpy shoved the shopping cart toward Lorinda. “I’ll be right back.”

He clicked the safety off his weapon and walked his best old-man walk toward the Zhiguli. The security man eyed him suspiciously. In his creakiest voice, Stimpy said, “You see what’s going on in there?” He turned toward the enclave, then, in one slick move, spun back to face the Confed, unshouldered the weapon, dropped to one knee, and let loose a burst that cut the man’s legs out from under him. In a second he was standing over the moaning figure who, despite the excruciating pain, was clumsily trying to unholster his gun. Stimpy put an end to that with a hard kick to the man’s temple. “Have a nice Rapture,” he muttered before taking the man’s gun and hustling back to Lorinda.

“Oh, God, are you all right?” said Lorinda, throwing her arms around him. “I heard ...”

“I was the shooter,” Stimpy said.

Slightly embarrassed, she released her hug. “Now what?” she said.

“Wilma’s setting up a car switch, but we’re in this one for now. You have your Rapture pager?” Lorinda took it out of her bag. “Just drop it here.” She dropped it. He did the same with his. “We don’t want to be fined $2,500 each, do we? Okay, let’s go.”

With Lorinda by his side, he pushed the shopping cart to the car.

“Oh my God,” Lorinda said when they came upon the crumpled tangle of limbs in a puddle of blood.

“It was him or us,” Stimpy said. “If he’s unlucky he might even live.” He opened the driver’s-side back door and carefully placed the guns on the floor. “You drive.” As Lorinda slipped in behind the wheel, he rammed the shopping cart hard into the inert Domestic Security officer, walked around the car, and got into the passenger seat.

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!

Tip your bartenders we mean authors!

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.

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