Kurt Schlichter: People's Republic

“Move the fuck on, right now.”

“This is my street and you can’t just come here –“

Turnbull sighed and pulled back the left flap of his jacket, revealing his pistol.

“I’m counting to three…”

The rider remounted his bike, muttering.

“You think you can come onto my street and run me off? Motherfucker, I’ll show you what’s up.” He turned in a lazy half circle and pedaled away back where he came from.

Awesome. This guy would be back in a few minutes with his pals, or worse tip off the People’s Security Force that there was some guy with a non-government piece for the reward. Narcing out formerly lawful gun owners was a traditional profit center for lowlifes after the Split. They got a few bucks and the gun owners got stuck in the prisons the new government had emptied of real criminals.

Turnbull grabbed the empty cans and siphon and shut the trunk. There was no time to salvage the gas remaining in the Dodge. The Ford had half a tank, about enough to ride the 10 Freeway out to near Palm Springs. Unless they got ultra-lucky and found a station with fuel to sell before then – fat chance – he’d have to figure something out there to get them the rest of the way to the border. He would burn that bridge when he came to it. Now it was time to go.

After loading the cans in the Ford’s trunk, Turnbull got into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. It started, and he offered a sigh of relief. They accelerated down the street; there was no sign of the bum.

He went east several blocks, and at La Cienega, Turnbull turned right. He knew that up ahead was a freeway entrance, just a little ways south. And gas stations. At least there used to be.

“Keep a lookout in case there’s a gas station open,” he instructed his passenger.

“Like that one?” The kid was pointing. Parked in front of what had been a Shell was a white van, and snaking from the pump to its gas tank was a hose.

“No way,” said Turnbull. Usually a station that got a fuel resupply would have fifty cars lined up out into the road. Weird. Something was not right. But they needed gas. He turned off the road and pulled up behind the van. The van’s driver smiled.

“Hey there.”

“Hey there. They got gas to sell?”

“Well, no. This here’s a little bit of marketing. I got gas to sell, though. In back here.” He motioned to the van. “How much you need?”

“How do you know I’m not a cop?” Turnbull asked.

“You don’t look like a cop,” the entrepreneur replied.

“And how do I know you’re not a cop?”

The seller smiled. “Do I look like a cop? Three hundred bucks a liter. How much do you want?”

“Nah. Pass. Thanks.”

“Two-fifty.”

“Nah, I’m not feeling like being an economic criminal today.” Turnbull pulled around and past the irritated van driver and onto the street.

“What’s he doing?” asked Turnbull.

“Who?”

“That shithead. Look back, tell me what he’s doing.”

“Looks like he’s on the phone.”

“Fuck me. Okay, we just need to get to the freeway. It’s maybe two minutes.”

“I thought we needed gas.”

“We do. Except if he’s not a cop, he’s working with the cops, or that van was full of guys to rob us the second I flashed some cash, or best case, the gas in his cans was half water. Whatever his scam was, it was too good to be true.”

A beat-up black and white cruiser from the People’s Security Force slowly pulled in behind them from a driveway of what used to be a luxury car dealer. Written across the rear quarter panel were the words “Diversity Is Our Strength,” except the “v,” the “u,” and the “S” had peeled off.

“Di ersity Is O r trength.”

For just a moment, before the light bar came alive with blue and red, Turnbull had hoped that the appearance of the cruiser was just a coincidence. But it really didn’t matter. Whether they were working with the guy at the gas station or whether they just wanted to relieve a citizen of a working car, there was no escaping a confrontation.

“Oh shit, oh shit,” whimpered the kid.

“Put your window down.”

“What?”

“Put your window down all the way, put your seat back, and do not say a fucking word or I’ll kill you myself.”

Turnbull pulled over to the curb in front of an abandoned saloon. There were people milling about, and they had seen this little police drama unfolding in front of them before. No one paid much attention. Hassling people is what the PSF did.

The blues’ cruiser stopped maybe 20 feet behind them and idled for a moment, but not long enough to run his plates. Both occupants got out, approaching by moving up each side simultaneously in some semblance of the proper tactical template for stopping an unknown driver. They did not seem afraid or even cautious – they were almost arrogant as they came forward. Turnbull could not get a good look at the one on the passenger side, but in the mirror he could see the neck tats of the one moving up on his side. The PRNA was still hiring the cream of the crop, Turnbull noted.

The People’s Republic had decided that it needed to run the police force centrally, and it incorporated the local sheriffs and police departments into a national police force originally called the “People’s Internal Security Squads.” When it became obvious that acronym would not work, it became the PSF – the People’s Security Force.

Cops were key villains in the left’s rogue’s gallery, and most police officers and deputies quickly saw the writing on the wall and left, heading to the red states before the borders closed. That left just a few professionals to address a lot of crime from freed prisoners and the refugees fleeing the welfare reforms in the red states. They flocked to the blues, where the People’s government doubled benefits in an effort to fight inequality and racism, as well as, apparently, individual initiative and fiscal stability.

In re-filling the ranks, the People’s government decided to prioritize “diversity,” and evidently dirtbags constituted an important part of society that was previously shamefully underrepresented in law enforcement. The People’s Security Force long ago abandoned hiring standards, and they trained to somewhere lower than the lowest common denominator. But that was sufficient for the People’s Security Force’s primary task of bullying hungry, cold, disarmed subjects. The People’s Bureau of Investigation was a different story – the government ensured the PBI had the best of everything – but these PSF patrolmen were neither trained nor equipped to take on a professional.

Yet they were still dangerous. They both carried holstered, battered Berettas from back when their organization was still known as the LAPD.

“Where’s your ID?” the one at his window demanded. The other parked himself at the kid’s window, framing himself nicely.

“Got it here,” Turnbull handed over a very expensive fake he had prepared by his guy in Houston. The name on the card was Charles Schooley. He lived in the Western Sector and had a Privilege Level of “7,” a number that indicated he was not quite untouchable, but normally you would not mess with him. Apparently, today was not normal.

“You tried to buy illegal gas back there.”

“He offered it to me. I turned him down.”

“You calling him a liar?”

“I’m just telling you what happened.”

“You think you can come out here and do whatever you want? You think you’re special? I don’t give a fuck about your PL. You’re no fucking 7. I know you bought this shit. You think you can buy everything? And who the fuck is this little bitch with you? Your butt boy?”

“I’m just trying to drive home, okay?”