People's Republic

by Kurt Schlichter

  They walked on, Turnbull’s eyes darting about as he walked while his face was usually angled downward, or sunk inside his jacket.

  “Why do you walk like that?”

  “Habit. I don’t like cameras, though I doubt the PBI bothers with any out here. I like making it difficult for them.”

  “Hmm,” Junior grunted, then he angled his own face downward.

  Finally approaching the Strip, until they came to the security fence that surrounded it. Above the wall, the casino lights flashed and danced; one sign announced the 20th anniversary of Britney Spears’s residence in its theater. A group of bored guards protected the entrance gate, and a surly line of people waited for them to check their employee IDs and allow them through to cook, clean, and generally serve their elite masters.

  Just outside the gate were a collection of seedy bars and manifestly déclassé small time casinos. This was where the locals came to drink and gamble, and where the out-of-towners who wanted to slum came to play beyond the lights and surveillance cameras of the Strip. And there were women – lots of them, mostly older, mostly trying too hard – the women the Strip had used up. This is where they plied their trade now.

  “Wanna get blown?” offered one middle aged crone in a tight white dress that hid nothing, including what should have been hidden.

  “Uh, no thanks,” Junior replied. The woman hissed, and then her attention shifted.

  “Those assholes,” she said, looking past Junior.

  Across the street, four People’s Security Force were none too gently throwing a drunk against the wall. Their cruiser idled at the curb. A small crowd gathered, cursing and yelling insults and threats.

  “Get the fuck back, get the fuck back!” shouted one of the blues, hand on his piece. More people started converging on the incident. He looked panicked, and said something over his shoulder Turnbull couldn’t make out. His buddies threw the man to the ground and one gave him a vicious kick in the gut, but they did not try to take him with them. The quartet piled into the cruiser and drove off. A beer can flew from the crowd and splashed foam over the trunk. The cruiser didn’t stop; it just went on down the road.

  “Do they always back off, Kelly?”

  “No, when people get uppity they usually call their buddies and set an example. They were scared.” The crowd was still growing, and the obscenities were not decreasing even as the police car’s lights faded away down the street.

  “Let’s make this fast.”

  After another minute of walking, Turnbull turned into a bar called Clancy’s. There were no windows, only a metal door that was propped open. You could not see much inside, but there was loud K-pop spilling out. The doorman, who looked like he should either be riding a motorcycle or bench pressing one, barred their way, then motioned to Turnbull to halt and be patted down. Turnbull stopped, but held up his palm.

  “Nope. I need to see Ricky. He here tonight?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m the guy who’s here to see Ricky. Go get him.”

  “He’s busy.”

  “Not too busy to see me. You tell him his pal from Oregon is here. You need to do it now.”

  The bouncer looked them over, the cogs in his brain rotating slowly. They came to the correct answer. “Stay here.” He disappeared inside.

  “You’re from Oregon, Kelly?”

  “Hell no. What am I going to say? Hey, I’m from Dallas? He’s helped me before. He’ll know who I am.”

  The bouncer returned to his position and yanked his right thumb back over his shoulder. They went inside, unsearched, and were greeted with a large “NO SMOKING” sign right inside the doorway. It was stained with years of vile tobacco and pungent pot smoke. The place was much bigger than it looked from the street; there were at least 100 people inside, mostly lowlifes with the occasional cluster of rich punks making memories about that time they visited a seedy dive bar. They didn’t realize they were safer there than anywhere in Vegas – there was exactly zero chance Ricky would invite the scrutiny that would come with some assemblyperson’s son catching a knife between the ribs. That was for locals only; no one really cared, and if some cop pretended to care, a few bucks or a tryst in the back room with one of his girls would end that inquiry real quick.

  No one was dancing even though the Asian dance music was pounding; a skeletal dancer in a silvery latex bikini and a prominent caesarian scar gyrated listlessly and unwatched in a corner.

  Turnbull knew where he was going, to the office at the back. Biker bouncer’s twin stood outside, glaring. He kept glaring as Turnbull and Junior ignored him and went through the door into Ricky’s office.

  Ricky sat behind his desk, which was piled high with papers and an old IBM PC. He wore a bad tan suit with a yellow tie. He seemed sweaty even though there was an A/C unit in the high window; the place had its own generator to power it.

  There were a couple wooden chairs in front of the desk, and Ricky motioned for them to sit even as biker bouncer’s brother pushed the door closed behind them. The terrible music was mercifully baffled.

  “I’m seeing a lot of you lately, friend,” Ricky said. He motioned to Junior. “Who’s he?”

  “He’s okay. You know what I need, right?”

  “Don’t say LA.”

  “LA.”

  “I told you not to say ‘LA.’ I can’t do it. Not for you. Not now.”

  “You can’t get me just under 300 miles on a straight shot southwest?”

  “No, I can’t. Not for a while. Maybe a week.”

  “I don’t have a week. I need to go tonight.”

  “Can’t do it. 15 is sealed tight. You’d have four, five checkpoints, and you look like the guy they’re looking for.”

  Junior looked over at Turnbull, who did not break his lock on Ricky’s eyes.

  “They looking for someone?”

  “At least one. The alert just went out tonight. Somebody capped some guys on the border. The PBI thinks we might have infiltrators. Of course, you’re from Oregon.”

  “Portland all the way. Do they have a picture?”

  “No, but you sure looked like someone the TV was saying smoked some cops in LA last week, you know, three days after I got you transported there. Probably just a coincidence, right?”

  “Totally. We need to get to LA, Ricky. Fast.”

  “Yeah, well, fast kinda stopped when the damn country fell apart and they started making laws about driving and making you get movement authorizations and all. So it’s not like you can just jump in your car and drive from here to there anymore.”

  “Maybe we could catch a plane,” Junior said, annoyed.

  “Yeah, sure. You a movie star? Politician? Rich guy? You think I can get you the carbon credits to fly?”

  “There’s gotta be a way,” said Turnbull.

  Ricky sighed. “Maybe. You want to go the long way?”

  “How long?”

  “By bus, up to Reno, over the mountains, then down south to LA. I haven’t heard anything about any new checkpoints going up that way. Might take a day or two.”

  “Can you hook us up?”

  “I can get you travel passes in a couple hours. I’ll say you’re visiting your sick mom.”

  “Yeah, she hasn’t been feeling her best. So, what’s with the cops? I just saw four blues get run off by a crowd out front.”

  “People are pissed, man. They cut the food rats again, not that the stores have anything anyway. If you aren’t working, you’re standing in line.”

  “You seem to be doing okay.”

  “Hey, they don’t ration booze or dope, at least not yet. You want to see a freaking revolution, tell people they can’t drink or smoke.”

  “Where’s all the food gone?” asked Junior.

  “Hey, do I look like a farmer? Ricky said, looking at Turnbull and smiling. “The TV says it’s the USA doing it, it’s their fault. Not sure how that works. How is it over there?” “He wouldn’t know,” Turnbull answered. “He’s from
Portland too.”

  “All I know is that if you got money and know the right people you can buy what you want and you don’t need a ration card. I remember before the Split there was plenty, maybe too much. And now there isn’t any.”

  “Here are the names for the travel docs,” Turnbull said, passing over their People’s Republic IDs. “We’re staying at that People’s Shelter in the old church a klick or so from here.”

  “Jeff?” said Ricky, looking at Turnbull’s. “You don’t look like a Jeff. And Privilege Level 7. Nice. You got some sweet reparations going? They cost me enough, until I got myself a grandmother from Ecuador put on my records. That cut my reparations tax in half.”

  “How long?”

  “Three hours,” Ricky said. “I have wheels. I’ll drop them off to you at the bus station. Buses go out all night. Just be there when I roll up – I don’t like that class of people.”

  “You can pull travel docs after hours with no problem?”

  Ricky seemed annoyed. “I can do anything…Jeff. Just need the cash. Fifty grand.”

  “Done. Half now, half on delivery.”

  “See you at midnight.”

  As they stood, the music went off and the door flew open; one of the biker bouncers poked his head in.

  “Boss, they’re sweeping the streets. A whole bunch of cops.”

  “Crap. Okay, you two out the back. Don’t be late.”

  “You got this?” asked Turnbull.

  “Yeah, I got this. Go.”

  They slipped through the empty kitchen – the club didn’t serve food anymore – and out the back into the hot air of the alley. Over the top of the building, they could hear some sort of commotion – shouts, the occasional siren, and bullhorns demanding people disperse. This last demand cranked up the obscenities.

  Whatever was happening, they wanted no part of it. They headed the other way and worked their way back to the former church. A few people lounged out front or inside on their beds, smoking and drinking. The pair attracted more attention this time, as if the observers were watching them to see what they would do next. Turnbull stepped up the pace, crossing the desanctified sanctuary and taking the stairs up to the second floor.

  “Fuck me,” he said. Junior saw why. The padlock that secured their room was still there, but the entire mechanism had been jimmied off the door. It stood slightly ajar, the room inside dark.

  Turnbull put his finger to his lips and drew the silenced .22 and a small flashlight. Junior covered his back down the stairs with his Glock. Slowly, Turnbull approached the door, then kicked it open and turned on the flashlight, which he held parallel to the pistol.

  Nothing.

  He cleared the room and the closet in a matter of seconds and came out.

  “They got our shit.”

  “Who?”

  “Some of these damn lowlifes. Now we need to figure out who they are and where they went before they start digging through it.” Turnbull put away the gun and walked across the hall to the manager’s room. He pounded on it.

  “Fuck off,” replied the occupant.

  There was a peephole; a bit of light flickered in it.

  “Fucking open it or I’m coming in. You have three seconds. Two….”

  There was a click and a clatter and the door opened a half-inch, secured by a chain. Turnbull threw his weight on it and it smashed the manger in the face, the chain anchor that had been ripped out of the jamb swinging wildly. The manager stumbled back, grasping at his bleeding nose, hitting the rickety table by his cot that held his bong. It fell over on the floor, the noxious bong water spreading across the wood floor.

  “Damn it!” he moaned. Turnbull and Junior moved inside. Junior shut the door behind them while Turnbull grabbed the collar of the manager’s scruffy “HUMAN SERVICES” t-shirt. Scrunched up, in Turnbull’s fist, it read “HUM VICES.”

  “Who stole our shit, asshole?”

  “I don’t….”

  “Hey dipshit, I saw the peephole. Don’t tell me you didn’t look when you heard them breaking in. Who stole our shit?”

  “It was dark –” Turnbull smacked the top of his head with the butt of the flashlight. It made a loud “THWACK.”

  “Owwww!”

  “Listen, stupid. Now, my shit’s missing and I fucking want it back. You tell me who has it and where to find them or your fucking head is going missing. You read me?”

  “Yeah,” Junior added. “He’s not kidding. He will cut your head off. And add it to his collection.”

  “Okay, fuck,” said the manager, rubbing his skull. Turnbull let him loose. He looked around for a moment, trying to evaluate his options. Turnbull stepped forward and raised the flashlight again. The manager’s evaluation settled on the least painful course of action over the short term.

  “Okay, there’s these two guys, Whitey and Blackie.”

  “Let me guess. One’s white, the other’s black.”

  The manager nodded. “Yeah, but Whitey’s African-American and Blackie is…”

  “White?” suggested Junior.

  “Well, he’s really more Latinx.” Junior and Turnbull stared. “You know, Hispanic. He also kind of identifies as trans –”

  “Okay, I got it. Where the fuck are they?”

  “I’m not –“

  “You better shit me a location, asshole.” Up went the flashlight again.

  “They go smoke out in one of the houses three doors down, this side of the street, all right? Fuck. That’s all I know.”

  “What, they don’t smoke here?” said Junior. “Everybody’s smoking dope around here.”

  “Not pot. Meth, man. They’re meth heads. No hard stuff here. I have fucking standards.”

  “Uh huh,” Turnbull said, calm and reasonable. “We are leaving now. We won’t be back.” The manager wisely suppressed the urge to reply “Good.”

  Turnbull continued. “You need to forget we were ever here. Do you get that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, I mean blot it from your memory. Can I rely on you to do that because you understand that I will absolutely come back here and beat you to death in this shitty little room with this flashlight if you even whisper one word to anyone about us? Is that absolutely clear?” The manager nodded; his mouth was too dry to talk.

  Turnbull pulled open the door. Junior smiled and said, “Hey, great meeting you. Later.” Then he followed his partner out the door and downstairs. They walked through the old sanctuary with a purpose, not looking at anyone but neither looking away. The spectators had been curious to see how it would go; the cold seriousness of the strangers was a lot less fun than the screaming and shouting tantrum they had been hoping for to break the night’s monotony. Perhaps it would be best to simply mind their own business. These guys were Whitey and Blackie’s problem; no one else felt like making them their own problem.

  None of the houses on the street were still occupied by their actual owners. Many had left for the red when they found middle class folks were the designated bad guys in the People’s Republic’s mythology. Others finally got overwhelmed with the various reparations assessments for crimes that occurred a couple centuries before and lost their homes. When the church became a People’s Shelter, there went the neighborhood and that was the last straw.

  Turnbull and Junior went through the back yards, avoiding the street. It was easy enough – the fences between yards had long been battered through. The houses they had surrounded were wrecked too. The first one’s windows were gone, along with the gutters and spigots, scavenged of their metal. You could smell from across its yard that some of the locals used it as an improvised latrine.

  The second house was burned out. There was a rusting dishwasher in the backyard, sitting there in the middle of the desiccated lawn. There was an unstable-looking garden shed too – they could hear snoring coming from inside.

  They entered the backyard of the third house by scrambling over a portion of the grey wood-slat fence someone had kicked over. T
here were lights inside the house they could see from the back, flickering and dancing – probably candles. Down the side, there was another window. Turnbull pointed to it, then to his eyes. Junior nodded and drew his Glock – Turnbull shook his head and covered an ear. No noise. Junior nodded and he put the gun back in his belt, then quietly moved to the side of the window. Carefully, he peered inside for a moment before dropping back down and facing Turnbull.

  He held up two fingers. Turnbull drew his .22 and tightened the silencer. Then he took it off safe.

  The rear patio was piled with garbage; the sliding glass door’s glass had long ago been a casualty of the mindless stumbling of an oblivious meth head. Someone had nailed the edge of an old wool Army blanket to the wall above it to act as at least something like a door; Turnbull carefully moved it aside, leading with his weapon.

  It was some kind of living room. There was candle light flickering out of a doorway up the hall. And voices, laughing.

  “Holy shit, man, we got a gun!”

  “It’s all in pieces.”

  “We can sell it –“

  Turnbull entered the first room, and then crossed it slowly, the pistol up and locked on the doorway with a two-hand grip.

  At the edge of the doorway he paused, then exhaled, relaxed, and spun into the room. They were sitting on the floor; one pack was open and Whitey held the two halves of a broken down M4. They looked up, surprised. The front sight swung to Whitey’s forehead first. Turnbull squeezed the trigger and the gun kicked ever so slightly, the report a mere fwoop, and a soft click as the action cycled. The pieces of the carbine dropped into his lap, and he fell awkwardly to his left, eyes and mouth open. Turnbull swung the gun to Blackie.

  “Do. Not. Move.” Blackie sat still, eyes wide, mouth slack. Junior came up from behind.

  “Check the pack.” Turnbull entered and moved left so his partner would not cross his line of fire.

  “I think it’s all here.”

  “You sure?” asked Turnbull.

  “Yeah, it’s all here.”

  “Good.” Turnbull shot Blackie about an inch above the bridge of his nose. The addict fell back, against the wall, and slumped over onto his face.