Wonkette Presents THE SPLIT: Chapter Fifty

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

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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