The loading took 30 minutes, plus another ten inside as the crew argued with irate travelers about their luggage, demanding random pieces be checked because of “luggage privilege.”
Turnbull was on an aisle seat next to some pale college age kid who was on his cell talking way too loud with a buddy.
“D-Yazzy? For realz? His rhymes are lazy and derivative.”
This was not Turnbull’s wheelhouse. He was vaguely aware that there was a rapper named Kanye West who was married to some Kardashian and whose 2020 third party presidential bid had evolved from a bizarre joke into a serious threat to Hillary Clinton’s electoral coalition. Kanye had dropped out of the race after the first three-way debate had turned into a profanity-laced, incoherent screaming match, a decision he claimed he made because, “God told me I should heal the world with my music instead.” Turnbull later read that West had immigrated to the red states as a post-Split tax refugee, telling reporters, “I gotta keep my money. Plus, Hillary is gonna kill me with polonium.”
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.