The neighborhood watch concept had changed significantly since the Split. Before, it involved neighbors reporting to the police on suspicious criminal behavior by outsiders. Now, designated residents reported to the PBI on the activities of other neighbors. Racism, sexism and deviant behaviors like religious activity were of particular interest.
They crossed the street to a weathered, multi-story apartment complex. The outside revealed nothing of the interior; all the facing windows had blinds drawn. Flickering lights indicated candles. This particular city grid was in brownout.
A high, wrought iron fence with sharp spikes lining the top barred the way into a corridor that led inside. They waited for David to find his key, which he did after a few moments. From the second floor, Turnbull could see the corner of a blind drop back into place. They were being watched.
The gate creaked open – it could have used a spritz of WD-40, if that had been available to regular people anymore – and they hustled inside and down the corridor. The gate clanked and locked behind them. Turnbull seemed relaxed, which relaxed Junior a little, though he kept his hand on the Glock under his shirt.
The corridor led through the width of the building to a central courtyard which was entirely enclosed on all four sides. There were trees and grass, though most of the interior was taken up with a garden, where kids played, laughing and running, out of sight and safe. There were adults too, eyeing the newcomers. The men wore kippahs.
“Welcome to our home,” David said, pulling a skullcap from his pocket and fitting it on his head.
“We’re Jewish,” he said helpfully.
“I didn’t think any of you were left,” Turnbull replied. A boy of about 14 ran up and hugged David, then looked at the strangers.
“My son, Abraham.”
“I think we’re already friends,” Turnbull said, extending his hand. The boy took it cautiously, and shook firmly. Then he did the same with Junior.
“We should go inside,” David said. “Come.”
The apartment was up three flights of stairs – Junior had been in the blue long enough not to bother asking about the elevator. It was modest in size, but comfortable and warm – the first such place they had experienced since Utah.
And there was food, rice with some chicken and boiled water – no one drank straight from the tap. The visitors ate it gratefully; both understood how, as guests, they were certainly eating better than their hosts.
“Just curious, but how do you keep kosher?” Turnbull asked. The kosher butchers and grocers had been targets early on of the anti-Zionist protests. At least, the government called them protests; “pogroms” was more accurate.
“We do what we can,” David replied. “This is nothing new. In fact, what it was before in America, that was something new for us. We could live openly, our own way, not bothered, not frightened. This is how our ancestors lived, so we can’t complain.”
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“This was our home. We thought it would pass. Some of us even welcomed the Split. They thought it would make for a fairer, more just society. After all, you red people were supposed to be anti-Semites, and anti-black, and anti-everything else.”
“A lot of Jews came over early on. They seem to be happy in the USA.”
“We waited too long and got stuck. That’s not unprecedented. We try and keep to ourselves, live our lives as He wishes. When they ended the religious tax exemptions, we lost our temple to the state. Most of the Christian churches were foreclosed too. Only a few are left, the ones they wouldn’t dare not give exemptions too. Black churches, some Catholic churches in the Latinx areas. But the ones in the suburbs? All closed down. There’s still one temple left in Beverly Hills, so we couldn’t get there even if we wanted to. The Jews who declared themselves non-believers still go and play at Judaism on the High Holidays. No prayers, no Torah, no Lord. Less a temple than a social club. The rabbi would probably eat bacon cheeseburgers if there were bacon cheeseburgers anymore.”
They continued eating. Abraham came in and sat by his father. Turnbull looked quizzically at his host.
“He’s a man now, at least since last week,” David said. “We had his bar mitzvah on Sunday. We were very quiet. Anyway, he should know what we do since someday he will be helping us do it.”
“And what do you do?” asked Junior.
“Whatever we need to do to survive: buy, sell, trade. Perform tasks for our friends on the other side.”
“Do you know what we need?” asked Turnbull.
“Help. What kind they did not see fit to let me know. And then there’s something I have to give you to take back.”
“The hard drive.”
“The hard drive. It was very hard to get to.”
“And the PBI is looking for it.”
“Certainly. Which is why it is not here. It’s too dangerous to have here.”
“We can get it on the way out. But we need to find our target first.”
“And who is he?”
“She. His sister, in fact. You might have seen her. She’s a defector. Blonde. On billboards. Maybe on TV.”
David shrugged. “We’re not much on television here. Too much talking about how things are wonderful and we and everyone else they hate are terrible. What’s her name?”
“Amanda Ryan.”
“Do you have any information on where she might be?”
“We think Los Angeles. Where, we don’t know.”
“Can I see a picture?” David asked. Junior handed him one he kept in his pocket. David examined it and handed it back.
“She’s pretty. Pretty girls, they…powerful men like pretty girls, if you see what I’m saying.”
Junior glared. “She’s not a whore.”
“I didn’t mean that. It’s just that we all use whatever we have to survive. If she is on billboards and television, then perhaps she is running with the crowd in the Secured Zone. The rich people. The powerful ones. It can be hard to get in there.”
“We need to find out where she is first,” said Turnbull.
“We have a man, Jacob, who works in the PBI center downtown. He can find out.”
“Isn’t he a little conspicuous?”
“He doesn’t wear his kippah and eats whatever they put in front of him. He passes. It’s a sacrifice, but we all do what we have to.”
“And we’ll need transport.”
“Sure, a car. Gasoline. You have money for the car? It’s not free.”
“We have money. Now, what do we need to pay you?”
“Pay us?” David was confused.
“Yes, you’re taking a risk. How much money do you need?”
“No, you don’t understand. We have an arrangement. You’re a small part of it. But after we help out here for a while, your people over there will get us all out.” He patted Abraham on the head. The kid had not been able to live a normal life since he was a toddler.
“All of you? How many are you?” asked Turnbull.
“Twenty-seven. And a half – we have a pregnant lady. That’s our deal. We help your people here, they get us all over there.”
“That’s a hell of a price.” Turnbull’s mind began running through the logistics of getting 27 ½ people over the border; it was daunting. And, to his relief, it was not his problem.
“We do a hell of a job helping people like you. Now, you need to rest.”
Turnbull nodded, and they followed young Abraham to an empty apartment where they quickly collapsed into sleep.
9.
They slept until almost noon the next day, then spent several hours cleaning their weapons and double checking their gear. Their hosts left them largely alone. Life went on inside the complex; the children were quiet most of the day inside the empty room the community used as a classroom. The curriculum was English reading and writing, math, and history, as well as Hebrew and Torah. If they had gone to one of the grim schools within a few blocks away, all half empty thanks to the plummeting birthrate (but full
y staffed because no unionized government worker could ever be let go), the curriculum would have been much different. They would take “Language and Writing” instead of “English” – English was no longer privileged over other, equally valid languages. Mathematics had been scrubbed to remove the sexist and culturally-biased concepts of the past. It consisted of, essentially, group work that amounted to exercises that involved counting. The science classes spent much of their time on global warming, though the global temperature averages had not increased since the late 1990s. And People’s History focused on the wicked legacy of oppression of the red states, and the new dawn of freedom in the People’s Republic since visionary President Hillary Clinton had cast away the backward red states that were holding back the forces of social justice.
The children also learned how the United States had broken the Treaty of St. Louis, forcing the People’s Republic to cut off all relations with the poor, backward red states. And it promised that someday the People’s Republic would liberate the oppressed masses trapped between the two blue masses on the West Coast and the Northeast that made up the People’s Republic. How it would do that with only the shell of a traditional military was never explained; while it spent generously on internal security to stamp out dissenters, the PRNA Army had withered into almost nothing. The People’s Republic chose to spend its money on other things, knowing its boasts about liberating the red were lies and secure in the knowledge that the United States would never bother trying to recover its lost territory.
At six o’clock, Abraham retrieved them and brought them to David’s apartment. Another man was there, nervous and quiet.
“This is Jacob,” David said. “He works for the PBI as a civilian. He has the information you need.”
Jacob offered a weak handshake.
“I assume you got the hard drive out?” Turnbull said. “How did you do that?”
“It was difficult,” Jacob replied, uneasy.
“He found your Amanda Ryan for you,” David said. “You may find this more complicated than you imagined.”
“Why is that?” Junior asked.
“She is a minor celebrity, like you thought,” David replied. “She is also a partner with the senior People’s Bureau of Investigation official in Los Angeles. A man named Martin Rios-Parkinson. A very bad man.”
“She’s a PBI agent?” Turnbull asked, mentally preparing to pull the plug on the whole thing.
“No, not that kind of partner. A domestic partner. A girlfriend.”
“That can’t be,” Junior said.
“It is,” Jacob said. “Her name was blocked on the system. I had to use a special authorization to access it. She lives with him.”
There was a rumble outside the complex, yelling and then honking. Something made a crashing sound. The men in the apartment kept perfectly still for a moment, listening. A siren sounded. It was some distance away.
“These things are happening more often,” David said.
“Yes, things are getting worse,” said Jacob. “More violence. Looting. The news won’t say it but the police in San Francisco had to open fire on looters yesterday. They killed many of them. We expect it to get worse when they announce a food rations cut tomorrow.”
“So how do we get to her?” asked Turnbull.
“She takes graduate classes at UCLA during the day at the Department of Social Justice. I printed her class schedule,” Jacob said, handing them a sheet of paper.
“What about her home address?”
“I couldn’t get that. I’m sure the Director’s address was flagged on our system, and that if I had enquired it would have alerted the Internal Security Division.” Jacob said sheepishly, looking down.
“I need to go, David.” David nodded, and Jacob rose, then made his way to the door.
“Be careful,” David said, then Jacob left them.
“He seems edgy,” Turnbull said.
David shrugged. “The pressure he’s under every day is very hard on him. But he’s helped us tremendously. He got you your hard drive. There is a great deal of suspicion within the PBI. When they discovered it was gone, he was suspected and interrogated, along with dozens of others.”
“Seems like he got through it. When do I get the hard drive?”
“On your way out of town. It’s too dangerous for you to carry it around more than necessary. You stop by here after you get Amanda and we will go get it and give it to you. It’s nearby, but only Abraham knows exactly where. Not even I know. Not even Jacob knows. It’s more secure that way.”
“Come back here? I don’t like going out the way I came in. It’s dangerous.”
“As I said, carrying it with you around is dangerous. You get caught, it’s gone. Come back here and we’ll give it to you after you get the girl. Assuming she wants to be gotten.”
“She does,” said Junior.
“Maybe,” said Turnbull.
“She’s not his girlfriend or his whore. He’s making her do it,” said Junior.
David looked at Turnbull, who rolled his eyes out of Junior’s eye-line.
“Of course she’s not,” David replied patiently.
“UCLA is in the Westside Sector. How do we get in there?”
Somewhere outside, blocks away, there was another crashing noise, more yelling, and what sounded like gunshots. It subsided.
“What are the privilege levels on your identification papers?”
“Sevens,” replied Turnbull.
“I would not chance it. You’ll need passes.”
“From you?
“I know someone. He’ll have your car too. I have to send a runner – we have no cell phones here for obvious reasons – but this man is very efficient. He’s full service for people like you.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Thursday. Then Friday you do what you have to do.”
“We’ll be coming back here on the Sabbath then. You can help us on the Sabbath?”
“We can. After all, the Lord understands that sometimes we must be a little flexible.”
David and Abraham saw them off at the gate to the complex, hanging back for the little group was out of sight of prying eyes along the street. They had their instructions to the three kilometer walk west to their next rendezvous; Turnbull and Junior had ensured that they looked derelict enough to be mistaken for just two more transients wandering through the unfashionable part of Los Angeles.
“Thank you,” said Turnbull.
“Our pleasure,” said David. “And be sure to forget us if you happen to end up meeting our friends from the PBI.”
“I have no intention of getting caught,” Turnbull said. “At least not while I have a bullet left.”
“I think you’ll appreciate Mr. Jackson,” David said. “He and his group seem to feel much the same way. He’ll have your car and be able to outfit you with papers for Friday. But he will want his money. He’s very business-focused.”
“If you can’t make some money while you’re having a revolution, then what’s the point?”
David smiled.
“Now, the hard drive,” Turnbull said. “How do we get it?”
“You are right about not coming back here,” David said.
“We might be followed. We might be in a hurry. A big hurry.”
“Abraham will have it, but you won’t rendezvous here. About a half kilometer west is an old, empty fast food restaurant. I believe it was a Del Taco – obviously I was not a customer, but I remember it was very popular before. He will be there starting at five o’clock Friday evening until dawn waiting for you. He will have it.”
“Sorry about spoiling your Sabbath, kid.” Abraham smiled.
“Good luck to you. And when you get home, please make sure our mutual friends remember their commitment to bring us out. This is no place for our children to grow up.” He tousled his son’s hair beneath the kippah.
“I’ll make sure they remember. Thank you.”
Junior led the way through the gate and
onto the street. They took a right, walking north on the cracking sidewalk past abandoned cars, dying trees, and boarded-up homes.
There was a low stucco retaining wall holding up a patch of dead grass. Someone sprayed “FUCK USA” on it in black, and someone else crossed out the “SA” in red.
No one was walking on the street, though a few blocks south they could see buses passing east-west on Sunset. A 20-year old Ford sedan passed them heading north. What was probably a Toyota headed east a block ahead.
“I always feel like I’m being watched here,” Junior whispered as they turned west and drove on. He glanced around. No cameras here, at least none he could see.
“Maybe you are being watched,” Turnbull said, eyes darting around the street. Still empty, except there was one old lady walking aimlessly a couple blocks ahead. They kept going. “Do you notice the total lack of assholes?”
“Yeah,” replied Junior.
“There’s usually a higher shithead per block ratio around here. Or maybe they’re all still sleeping off last night. Let’s go.”
After some walking, the old Del Taco came into view – you could still read in less-faded paint where the neon words had been pried off the side of the building. None of the glass had survived, and the inside was pillaged. Even from outside, you could see that, ironically, someone had tried to set fire to a fryer. A red picnic table sat empty out front, the benches broken. There was a parking lot around back and an empty cinderblock enclosure where the long-lost dumpster would have been kept. Both warily surveyed the empty husk of the fast food restaurant as they passed it by, but not too obviously – it would not pay to show too much interest in their rally point if they were being surveilled.
Two more blocks and they came to an alley running north toward the hills. Turnbull grabbed Junior and pulled him in.
“Run,” he said, and sprinted north as fast as his pack would let him. Junior followed.
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