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.