Turnbull assessed the nearby passengers – all probably harmless. He relaxed a little. The pistol in the small of his back was remarkably comfortable. He picked up a copy of the in-flight magazine, Sky Justice. The cover story was a hagiography about a differently abled Justice Air pilot. She was blind.
“Oh swell,” thought Turnbull. He wondered where her dog sat in the cockpit.
The other passengers finally settled into their places, though there was a short shouting match between two travelers who each felt entitled to a window seat and proceeded to call each other “Racist!” at the top of their lungs until the crew sorted it out. Then a very beefy-looking white female in a light blue polyester uniform got on the loudspeaker.
“I am your lead flight attendant Pat. I am a person of girth, but privileged by birth.” She did not smile as she said it – apparently it was not meant to be humorous. “My preferred pronouns are ‘she’ and ‘her.’ Our flight to Indianapolis will be about three hours. Our delays were the fault of the local government’s racist policies.” She hung up the mic and proceeded to work her way down the aisle, which was much too narrow for her extensive carriage.
A row ahead were the man and the unhappy wife from the lounge. The attendant’s hefty flank brushed him hard, and he was flustered and sputtering.
“Don’t be fatist,” snapped his appalled wife. He shut his mouth and ceased his fussing.
The plane finally took off, and Turnbull settled back. He could feel the gun in the small of his back, but it was fine there. Next to him, the collegiate hip-hop critic was bopping away to some rap song via his earbuds. Satisfied no one was paying inordinate attention to him – or anyone, since people seemed reluctant to make any eye contact at all – Turnbull pulled his carry-on up from under the seat and felt inside the front pocket for something to read. He pulled out a paperback that bore a cover depicting a green woman with pointy ears wearing a jewel-encrusted bikini writhing around some sort of magic scimitar that was wreathed in golden flames. The title was The Runewench of Zorgon: Part XII in the Elf-Blade of Norxim Saga.
Yeah, that fit his identity as an accountant all right. Turnbull turned slightly and saw the hip-hop college kid looking at his book and smirking.
“You’ll pay, Clay,” Turnbull muttered.
The rest of the flight was relatively uneventful. When they went to provide the in-flight snack, the attendant preceded the service by reading a lengthy disclaimer about how the airline regretted any possible implication of cultural appropriation entailed by offering salsa and tortilla chips. Turnbull dipped a chip and took a bite, then spit the hateful mouthful into his napkin. It tasted like cedar with ketchup. Yeah, to associate that mess with the Mexican treat would have been a grievous insult to those south of the border.
Turnbull pulled down the bill of his Cincinnati Blues cap and tried to sleep. It was an old infantry habit – if you aren’t moving, prepping, eating, or fighting, you should be sleeping.
The customs line in Indianapolis was pure chaos, at least for the people in back of the plane like Turnbull. The people who were in first class, though no one called it that in the new egalitarian People’s Republic, were quickly guided through. The rest of the passengers were left to fend for themselves. Once they finally got their luggage off of the conveyors, they next proceeded to fight to escape the dank, stifling hall.
First come, first served was a relic of the pre-Split racist paradigm, so the order through the three bored customs officers’ station was determined by some sort of pyramid of relative victimhood that no sign or official offered to explain. The queue degenerated into a series of conflicts and people shouted and shoved. One frustrated customs officer had to referee between two shrieking women, one of them a Hindu, the other with a severe limp, arguing over who fell where in the oppression spectrum.
Turnbull hung back, avoiding drawing attention and hoping that by the time he got to the counter the customs officers would be exhausted. One official walked by him as he waited, pointed at him, and asked “Do you identify as gay?” Apparently, this would propel him up a few rungs in the great ladder of wrongs.
“Sorry, I like girls,” Turnbull said, shrugging. The officer scrunched up her face with distaste.
“I totally like men,” interjected a guy Turnbull had watched check out every female derriere that had crossed his path starting back in Dallas. The officer waved him ahead.
But his plan ultimately worked. Turnbull was near the end, one of maybe a dozen forlorn cis-het guys bringing up the rear. The customs officer at the gate waved him forward, and Turnbull quickly assessed his targets should this go bad and he were forced to shoot his way out of the terminal. But it didn’t go bad. The officer asked him to open his suitcase, which he did. The worn undies were on top. The customs officer waved him through.
The parking garage was well past the ground transport area. There were cabs, along with a large sign that spent four lengthy paragraphs affirming that the cabbie-passenger relationship was now one of mutual respect and shared power here in the People’s Republic, despite the sordid racist origins of the industry.
He pushed on to the parking structure. It was hot and humid and he was sweating in the sport coat he dared not remove. People were passing him without making eye contact – not just the non-contact you often see in large, anonymous hubs like airports, but what seemed to him to be a more determined refusal to interact.
He walked by two People’s Security Force officers handcuffing someone. It was not clear what the perp had done, but they had been shouting “Sexist” at him.
The elevator in the garage was out. A sign taped to it read “Brokin” and it had been there for a while. Turnbull dragged the suitcase and his carry-on up five flights, sweltering in the sport coat.
The blue Chrysler was right where it was supposed to be. He put the bags in the trunk and sat down in the driver’s seat. The tank was full. Deeds’s agents had done this right. He got out his phone and opened the nav app, setting course for the surplus store.
The roads were bad, but there was less traffic than before since gas was now about $10 a gallon, or $17 in People’s Dollars, the new currency that was being phased in here. But everyone seemed to prefer the old-fashioned dollars the red states still printed – the red states had gotten the printing plates during the great divorce.
Turnbull headed south, out of the Indianapolis metro area. He saw no military, and he was looking, but observed a fair number of People’s Security Force cruisers. Turnbull carefully kept within the speed limit, and drove as timidly and cautiously as he could manage.
By about three, he was through Bloomington – a sign at the outskirts warned “Intolerance Is NOT Tolerated” – and he exited when the phone told him to exit so that he could stop at the surplus store. It was a beat-up old place without much activity – actually, there was not much activity in the town at all. Turnbull parked out front, looked around and went to the door. A bell jingled when he pushed it open.
It looked like every other surplus store in the world, though of course there were no guns for sale – nor bows or fishing poles, since fishing was now an environmental crime just like hunting. The outlawing of hunting was clearly going to do this place in eventually – the camouflage clothes market needed good old boys chasing whitetails. There was no way the bearded proprietor was going to feed himself selling to the occasional hipster college student looking to spiff up his, her or xis wardrobe.
There was a wide array of stuff in stock – old US military uniforms, boots, camping gear and the like. Turnbull knew exactly what he wanted. He gathered sturdy, but plain utility clothing that would hold up to use outside and keep him from freezing if he got caught overnight, along with a civilian jacket, and brought them to the counter.
“You got an old Army sleep system?” he asked, plopping the goods down. The proprietor, in his mid-fifties and with considerable mileage, smiled – this was already his best sale all week.
“Yeah, Gortex outer layer,
two inside layers. You know your gear.”
“Guess I’m just an outdoorsman.”
“You ex-US military?” the proprietor asked. “I’m a Marine. Well, I was. There used to be no such thing as an ex-Marine, but that was before the politicians shut down the Corps. Well, at least shut it down here.”
“I just want to go camping.”
“Camping, huh? Okay.” The proprietor smiled. A small radio on the counter had been playing music, but the music had stopped for an “Oppression Resistance Bulletin.” The announcer began encouraging people to turn in “denialists, racists, and red state agents to your local PBI office.” The proprietor clicked it off.
“I used to listen to Tony Katz on WIBC out of Indy,” he said sadly. “Before they took him away. They can’t even let me have my music in peace. Luke!” he yelled.
A young skinny kid of about twenty with bad skin came out of the back.
“Get that sleep system we got in stock,” said the proprietor. He looked back at Turnbull. “You need anything else?”
“I could use a good knife and a Leatherman.”
“We’re not really supposed to sell knives,” the proprietor said. “It’s not illegal, but it’s frowned on. I think I can square you away though. You aren’t a cop?”
“Do I look like a cop?”
“Ten years ago I’d say yes. Now the damn cops look like criminals. This country is going to hell.” The proprietor paused, wondering if he had said too much.
Turnbull nodded. “The knife?”
The proprietor rooted around under the counter for a moment and came up with a used Ka-Bar with a tan leather scabbard and a Leatherman multi-tool.
“I’ll take them both. And that battle rig.” Turnbull pointed to a tan plate carrier with six mag holders across the front and what looked like an aid pouch. It had cobwebs.
“Ain’t sold one of those in a while.”
“Guess I’m a weekend warrior at heart.”
“I think I’ll close early,” the owner said as Luke put the sleep system on the counter next to the pile of stuff. The proprietor tallied it up, and Turnbull handed over the cash. Then he saw a tan ball cap and took it. He tried it on, was satisfied, and tossed it onto the counter.
“Also, those sunglasses. Are they ballistic protective?”
“You need ballistic protection?”
“Can’t be too careful.”
“Yeah, they’ll keep frags out of your eyeballs.”
“Them too then,” said Turnbull. The proprietor eyed him warily. “It’s a fashion thing.”
The old rotary phone on the counter rang as the owner was shoving everything into a duffel bag he had thrown in gratis. “Grab that, Luke.”
“Ringler Surplus,” the young man said, then his face turned serious. “Okay,” he said, and then he hung up.
“What?” asked the owner, concerned.
“The PVs are in town again. They’re at the market.”
“We need to hurry,” said the owner. He reached under the counter and pulled up a sack, then opened the register and began unloading his cash.
“What’s going on?” asked Turnbull.
“Nothing. You should go, quick.”
“Something’s happening.”
“The damn People’s Volunteers are back again. We aren’t cooperative enough, I guess, so they come through to teach us who’s boss. And they never pass this store by. They come in here, take whatever they want, and I can’t do shit.” He finished loading the sack, leaving just a few bucks in the till. Luke took the bag and left without a word. “They aren’t getting my money this time.”
Turnbull pulled the duffel bag over his shoulder. “Sorry,” he said.
“Nothing we can do. They took all our guns. Well, all they could find. But how do you fight the damn government?”
“Good luck,” Turnbull said.
“You too. Now get going before they get here. You don’t want to meet these PV sons of bitches.”
Turnbull turned and walked out with his gear, not explaining that it was really the People’s Volunteers who did not want to meet him.
5.
Deputy Ted Cannon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The ceremony was being held in the gym at Jasper High School, with dozens of People’s Security Force officers and the half-dozen remaining tan-uniformed deputies sitting in folding metal chairs on the same basketball court where he had played center almost two decades ago. There were few locals in the bleachers – the three PSF officers shot dead in the raid on the Langers’ farm were from out of town and no one really cared.
Pastor Bellman of the Jasper First Baptist Church had been told not to have a service for the dead Langers under the authority of the Anti-Hate Act. He held one anyway.
This ceremony for the dead PSF officers was not actually a “memorial” or a “funeral” – it was hard for Cannon to figure out what exactly it was. A severe, square-looking woman in a yellow robe and cropped hair was at the front of the crowd under the basketball net waving a candle. She was flanked by several versions of the ever-changing People’s Republic flag.
“Our Earth Mother/Father Spirit surrounds and nourishes us!” she howled. Then she paused. Cannon wondered if he was supposed to do something in response. After an awkward few seconds, the woman did an odd little jig.
“We dance with joy and with sorrow! We dance in the light of our mother the sky!” Her voice went high and cracked on the final syllable.
The crowd sat watching silently as she capered about, her robe twirling. After about a minute of this, she suddenly stopped and went away.
Lieutenant Kessler arose while the Sheriff himself, still wearing his tan county sheriff’s uniform with three silver stars on the collar, remained seated uncomfortably in the front row. Kessler was the highest ranking PSF officer present, and that was bizarre. Three dead cops pre-Split would have drawn the Governor, if not the vice-President, and thousands of cops from other agencies. Now three dead and a half-dozen wounded could barely fill a basketball court.
It occurred to Cannon that if he was shot dead in the line of duty, this was what they would do for him. Not exactly a morale builder.
“We will redouble our efforts to battle the legacy of hate that led to the murder of these fine People’s Security Force officers by racist hooligans!” Lieutenant Kessler said, her voice remarkably free of emotion. She was reading off of a 3x5 card.
Cannon turned to his side, expecting to whisper an incredulous “Hooligans?” to his friend Sergeant Dietrich, but Dietrich wasn’t there. He was gone, disappeared the night of the shootings. His family too – Cannon had driven by his locked-up, empty house at the edge of town. Probably over the border and away from all this.
It was tempting, but Cannon had grown up here. He knew these people. They were his people. And leaving them now just seemed wrong.
“There will be no mercy for those who disrupt the new order! We will never allow the hate we drove out when we expelled the racist states to return to our community!”
Our community. Cannon stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Kessler had never set foot in town until a few weeks ago. She went on.
“We will bring the criminals and those who sympathize with them to justice! And we are fortunate to have help in our mission by the People’s Volunteers.”
The PVs – a bunch of shitheads the government handed guns and let loose on uppity citizens. The night before, there had been a net call ordering all the deputies back to the headquarters. Once Cannon rolled in, he was ordered to stay. Then the phones started going crazy with calls. A bunch of People’s Volunteers had shown up on Main Street with AKs and started shooting into the air. Then they decided to shoot out a couple windows and beat the hell out of a couple citizens. When they got tired of that, they walked through some stores and took whatever they wanted.
And the deputies couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Lieutenant Kessler had smiled as the remaining local deputies fielded the desperate p
hone calls. “This town needs to learn,” she said. The PSF officers, all out-of-towners, thought the whole situation hilarious.
Luckily, the PVs didn’t murder anyone, not this time at least. But that was hardly reassuring. Sooner or later.
Cannon quashed the urge to speak up, to tell the outsiders that these people could only be pushed so far. But that would be the end of his job, and then there would be one less local to protect the natives. Plus, they wouldn’t listen anyway.
Kessler went on with her eulogy for a couple minutes – it was entirely unmemorable – and then sat down. The priestess came back up front and led the crowd in an awkward acapella attempt at a Katy Perry song about girl power, even though the three dead officers – whose names were never mentioned – all identified as “male.”
“Are these song books approved?” asked Darcy Puig, the regional Inclusiveness Inspector. About 24 and a recent graduate of Notre Dame, where she had majored in Oppression Studies, she had come to Jasper’s First Baptist Church as part of her regular inspections of licensed religious organizations. She was squat and had dyed black hair cut in a bowl shape. A stainless steel spike protruded from her lower lip.
“We call that a ‘hymnal,’” answered Pastor Tim Bellman. “And I don’t understand the question. Do we have to get our hymnals approved now? I thought the People’s Republic’s constitution protected freedom of religion.”
“Well, it does,” she answered. “And you don’t have to get your church books approved, not yet.” She sounded disappointed.
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