Wonkette Presents THE SPLIT: Chapter Forty-Two.

In which our heroine hurtles toward another scary place.

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!

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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