Wonkette Presents THE SPLIT: Chapter Forty-Four

In which our heroine finally emerges from under the golden bedspread.

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.”

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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.

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