People's Republic

by Kurt Schlichter

  Not surprising, as always, those with the greatest privilege prior to the introduction of privilege levels miraculously dominated the highest privilege levels afterwards. Rich people, movie stars, government workers in the Westside Sector – they were the eights, nines and even tens. In Compton and Inglewood, you might find a four, but he was probably only there to score drugs.

  Turnbull sat up, smiled gently, and offered his hand to Ms. Privilege Level 6 as she trotted behind the pick-up. She took his hand gratefully.

  He twisted, hard, and she shrieked in pain as he forced her off her feet and left her sprawling on the asphalt. As she receded in the distance, Turnbull could see the old man coming up behind her, something dark and heavy in his hands, something he raised above his head and threw down on her as she lay there. Payback was as much of a bitch as she was.

  Turnbull reclined on the pick-up’s dirty floor. Over the edge, a thin reed of smoke was rising from where the bus sat burning on the shoulder.

  “They’re torching their own bus. It’s going to get cold tonight and they burned their only shelter,” Junior said, incredulous. “What the hell is wrong with these people?”

  “These people aren’t much for thinking things through,” Turnbull said. “If they were, they wouldn’t have split off from the part of the country that fed and powered them. Plus, I think they just don’t care anymore.”

  The drive that would have taken 90 minutes a decade before took four hours. Their driver knew the area well enough to pull off and take backroads past the northern Los Angeles checkpoint. This meant a detour through some mostly empty mountain towns; the forest seemed to be reconquering much of it.

  “Where are the people?” Junior asked.

  “A lot of the kind of people who lived out here crossed over after the Split. It was pretty clear they weren’t beloved by the blue state types. Too independent. Too traditional. And since there’s no work out here anymore – no tourists, no water to farm – most of the ones that stayed had no choice but to move into the cities where they could get enough to eat. The rest, I guess, went off the grid. We won’t see them. That’s how they live, below the radar and out of sight.”

  “So, basically, the countryside is depopulated.”

  “Yeah, the People’s Republic figured out that it is a lot easier to control the people if they are packed into cities – especially when you control the food.”

  “So, ration cards and government stores?”

  “Right. No obedience, no dinner. Country people didn’t need the government before. They could grow their own food, or buy it from each other. And the People’s Republic can’t tolerate that.”

  “I thought they liked diversity.”

  “They do – they like a diverse variety of people who all agree with them and obey their commands.”

  The old I-5 corridor through Valencia and Castaic was largely empty. Most of the restaurants, and nearly all of the gas stations, were closed. Magic Mountain amusement park was still there, but it did not seem to be operating. It was called “People’s Park” now – the government had liberated it from the Six Flags Corporation after the Split as an “essential industry.”

  Coming south into the San Fernando Valley, there were considerably more private cars – though derelict vehicles still lined the freeway in even greater numbers. There were more billboards too – several offered the maniacally grinning and massively retouched visage of the elderly Hillary Clinton, who had presided over the Split, overlaid by the quote “WE WILL NOT TOLERATE THE SUPPRESSION OF WOMEN BY ANTI-PROGRESSIVE FORCES!”

  The Valley was smoggy and hot and teeming with people. Yet it looked broken and worn, as if no one had bothered to maintain or repair anything in the last decade. Much of it was boarded up – there were massive auto dealerships that had closed and their lots were now filled with tents and lean-tos. “Abandoned” property could be taken by “the People” for housing, Turnbull explained. And by “the People,” they meant squatters. And by “Abandoned,” they meant “any property the squatters felt like taking – assuming the owner was not someone the PSF would actually care about pleasing. So in the Valley, full of regular citizens, there was plenty of squatting. In the Hollywood Hills, in Brentwood and Pacific Palisades, where the elite lived behind a wall of security and had people with guns to do their bidding, there was zero.

  Their driver leaned back and cocked his head around, shouting through the cracked rear window.

  “Where you want me to drop you? South Central, Koreatown, Shariatown? Hollywood?”

  “Hollywood,” replied Turnbull, getting close to be heard. “You know that restaurant on Sunset and Gower – they called it the ‘Rock ‘N’ Roll restaurant’?”

  “The old Denny’s?” the driver asked, shouting over the wind. “Not a Denny’s anymore.”

  “Take us there.” Turnbull sat against the cab, watching the I-5 recede behind him. The pick-up slid right into the exit to the old 170, which a sign announced was now the “LGBTQ!MCX*” Freeway. It did not provide a legend to help them decipher the acronym.

  Most of the vehicles were buses, old and dirty, spewing black exhaust. There were more private cars on the road than they had seen so far, but not enough for the kind of traffic jams that used to gridlock the Southland’s roads. Some of the cars were quite new – many of them shot by in the “Privilege Lane” where the old carpool lane had been. It was hard to tell what constituted privilege, other than having a late model BMW or Mercedes.

  Occasionally, a small convoy of three or four black SUVs would speed by, the other vehicles clearing a path.

  “Who are they?” Junior asked.

  “Officials. Movie stars. People with juice,” Turnbull replied. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Look,” Turnbull said, pointing back. There were many billboards with many messages, but Junior immediately saw the one Turnbull meant. There was a young woman, blonde, smiling. It read “VICTORY OVER THE RACIST HATE STATES! REPORT SPIES, DENIERS AND HATE CRIMINALS TO THE PBI! DIAL 911!”

  “That’s Amanda,” Junior said.

  “Looks like she’s found herself a gig over here.”

  “They’re making her do that. She’d never do it by choice.”

  “Uh huh. When we find her, you just better be very, very persuasive when you tell her she’s going home.”

  “She’ll come. I know her.”

  “Did you know she was defecting?”

  “No, I was doing my service.”

  “Yeah, well people change and not always for the better. Just be ready, because you have no idea who she is anymore. Or what they have done to her.”

  7.

  It took another 30 minutes to cover the ten miles. A car had caught fire in the number one lane after the old 101 interchange – the 101 was now the Barbara Boxer Freeway – and blocked traffic after its owner abandoned it. There seemed to be a lot of fires today; Junior counted a half-dozen tendrils of black soot rising over the Valley as they drove through.

  They got off at Sunset and headed west. The streets were full of people milling about, many evidently transient. Many of the storefronts were shuttered; about half the stores in the mini-malls that lined Sunset along that stretch were closed. Junior noticed immediately the lack of advertising and logos. There just were not very many. The signs were mostly generic – “Convenience Store,” “Shoe Store” and the like. He remembered learning in school that in the blue, they saw having many different brands as economically “inefficient.” And, of course, all the food stores were nationalized. Each one they passed had a long queue of sullen people waiting to be allowed inside, except for one where the line was dispersing; a banner reading “NO FOOD TODAY” hung across the door, and bored workers stood around inside.

  The pick-up pulled into the parking lot of what had been the Denny’s. It was now called simply “Café,” but you could see underneath the surface and the peeling white and red paint job its origins as the popular chain restaurant. They still exi
sted back home – a few weeks ago he had gotten himself a grand slam breakfast. This one had been notable for the rock stars who would convene there in the wee small hours of the morning after their gigs and their post-gig partying.

  “Right on time,” Turnbull said without elaborating. He leapt out and pulled on his pack.

  Along the perimeter of the parking lot, which was largely empty, there were crude tents and shelters. The denizens looked over the pick-up truck sullenly; the driver did not wait for good-byes before accelerating out and away. Wearing their packs, the pair walked around the lot and over to the front entrance. A dead palm tree dominated the dry landscaping of the street side facing; it smelled like it was a popular field expedient latrine.

  There was no hostess. You just found a seat yourself and sat down. A crudely drawn sign made of cardboard warned “If you don’t have your rat card, don’t bother.” The place was hardly full, even at the dinner hour. A couple of waitresses, one with a Mohawk and the other a blonde who looked like she’d seen far too much use stopped gossiping long enough to check them out.

  “You got cards?” snapped the one with worse hair.

  “Yeah,” said Turnbull, walking past toward a booth in the back. They set down their packs and Junior picked up the dirty plates and glasses left behind by the last customers, depositing them on a nearby table. They sat. The noise from the TV was distracting; it was reporting on the prevalence of sexism at the Port of Los Angeles and concluded by reading a statement from the mayor promising to crush all forms of hate.

  “Remember,” Turnbull said. “No menus. They’ll tell you what they have.”

  “Facilitators,” said Junior.

  The facilitators took their time, apparently not imagining that anyone would actually want to get the slop they served any sooner than absolutely necessary. Turnbull took the opportunity to examine the clientele. Some Hollywood weirdoes, some regular working folks, plus some musicians, judging by their instrument cases, which they tied to the table post in case someone decided to try and snag them. And an older man, maybe 50, in a brown suit coat that had been carefully patched in several places. He held a paperback book, open about half-way, and was nibbling a piece of bread as he read.

  The TV went to a logo reading “SPECIAL REPORT” and a young Hispanic announcer began reading a prepared text. “Because of the success of our agricultural plans while still fighting the threat of climate change, the People’s Assembly has announced that the minimum wage has been increased to $55 per hour effective today. Workers’ representatives and union leaders have been unanimous in their praise for this major step toward fairness and equality. By contrast, in the Racist States the rich continue to prosper while the poor and the working class fall further behind.”

  The old man betrayed no expression. He looked back down to his book. No one seemed to pay much attention at all.

  “Guess a raise doesn’t mean much if there’s nothing to buy,” Turnbull said.

  “They call us the Racist States?”

  “Among other things. They never call us the USA. They couldn’t wait to change their own name, but they are steamed we kept it. I think they picked People’s Republic because they knew it would piss off all the normal people who were still here, and us too. It was kind of a way for them to show us who was boss by rubbing our noses in it.”

  “Sure looks like it worked out great,” Junior said. “I’m hitting the head.”

  “Take some toilet paper. Trust me.” Junior pulled a roll out of his pack and went to the restroom. No one seemed to find that odd.

  The used up server eventually wandered over.

  “You got coffee?”

  “Responsible or real?”

  “Irresponsible. Gimme two. Any food?”

  “Meat. And potatoes.”

  “What kind of meat?”

  “Meat meat. You want it or not?”

  “Yeah. Two meats, well done.”

  “You got rat cards for meat?”

  Turnbull produced a pair of Series As, which she took and pocketed.

  “That’s well done,” he reminded her.

  She turned and left. There was a commotion out in the street. A group of maybe a half-dozen men was at an intersection on Sunset trying to pull the driver out of a food delivery van. He hit the gas, sending several flying off and bouncing across the asphalt as he shot through on the red light. One man shrieked, holding his foot, which had likely been run over. He limped over to the sidewalk by himself, his associates paying no attention to his cries.

  “It’s getting ugly.” The old man was sitting in Junior’s seat, the book on the table underneath his folded hands.

  “It’s been ugly for a while.”

  “Not like this, though. Can you feel it? People are hungry, hopeless.”

  “You can get arrested talking like that, Mister.”

  “Not if you talk to friends.”

  “Friends are in short supply these days,” replied Turnbull.

  “I’m a friend of Abraham.”

  “Which one?”

  “More than one, as it happens. But Abe Lincoln is certainly one of them.”

  “Well, you look like your picture and you said the magic words. What now?”

  “I suppose you can eat your dinner.”

  “We’re having meat,” said Turnbull. “You want to join us?”

  “No, the bread here was pushing it. The meat would be well over the line. But you can enjoy it and I’ll wait.”

  “Somehow I don’t see us enjoying it. We’ll roll.”

  Junior returned, puzzled, the toilet paper roll in his left hand.

  “Ah, he’s learning,” the older man said.

  “Who’s this?” Junior asked.

  “A good friend. His name is…what’s your name?”

  “You can call me David.”

  “Get your stuff, Junior. We’re leaving now.”

  “What, no food?”

  “For all practical purposes, food wasn’t going to happen anyway. Let’s go.”

  The worn out hostess watched them step out, holding a cup in each hand. “You don’t want your coffee?”

  “Crisis of conscience,” Turnbull replied. “I can’t drink coffee while the polar bears are melting.”

  They headed west on Sunset, trying not to make eye contact with any of the locals, faces down by habit. There were occasional cameras; the men all knew not to face them.

  They moved at a quick pace, but not so fast that it would draw attention. It was still light out, so they had some time left to get off the streets.

  “How far? “ Turnbull asked. David shrugged.

  “Not too far.” They turned north on a side street lined with old apartment buildings.

  “Interesting juxtaposition,” Turnbull observed, looking at a poster stuck on a teetering wooden fence. It featured the Star of David on fire and the words “Smash Zionism!” And across it someone had spray painted “G-D Rules.”

  “Somebody has a little fight left in them,” Junior said.

  “Yes, a little,” David said. A shape rushed out of the bushes and tackled him onto the dry patch of dirt between the sidewalk and street. Three, maybe four shapes followed, preparing to face Turnbull and Junior, but they were too late. Turnbull’s pack was already falling to the ground thanks to the quick release on the shoulder strap even as he was accelerating into a run.

  They were in their late teens, maybe early twenties, wearing denim or leather jackets, thin and tatted up on their necks and arms. The sight of Turnbull charging them simply did not compute – people were supposed to run away or beg for mercy – and the second of indecision as they tried to figure out how to respond cost them dearly.

  Turnbull punched the closet one in the throat, the force multiplied by his 200 pounds moving at sprint. The thug went down, gripping his throat, gasping.

  Turnbull rushed past him toward the next one, connecting the thin punk’s chest with his right shoulder and taking him down to the sidewalk flat
on his back. Turnbull was past the other two, who simply stood gaping. Turnbull stopped, turned on his heel, and charged back; they broke and ran.

  The punk who tackled David did not notice any of this; he was too fixated on his victim. “Hey fucker, where’s you rat-“

  Junior grabbed a hunk of greasy hair and yanked backwards, pulling the punk off to the rear and laying him out flat on his back. The punk looked up in terror as Junior’s boot came down heel first on his gonads. He screamed like a little girl, a harbinger of things to come considering the damage Junior did to his testosterone farm.

  In the meantime, Turnbull dispensed with the one he tackled with a kick to the face that shattered his jaw, spewing blood and teeth across the concrete. Walking back to his companions, he paused to viciously bring his heel down on the groin of the one whose throat he had punched. The punk uttered a silent scream of agony. Satisfied the enemy was gone or incapacitated, he extended his hand and pulled David to his feet.

  “You okay?”

  “I’ll be okay. Them, maybe not so much.”

  “They’re lucky they’re not dead,” Junior said. “Believe me. This guy is a one man mortality rate.”

  “We need to go,” said Turnbull, and they left the three rolling, groaning thugs behind.

  8.

  There was a metal sign at the corner that read “Neighborhood Watch In Effect.” Someone had used a black marker to announce, in oddly elaborate gothic script, that “VAG ‘14” had marked his territory. Underneath, in the same color marker but less gothic, was a crudely rendered male member spraying the word “Watch” with some unspecified but readily identifiable fluid.