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Page 22.
Chapter 8. Korporate Freedomz
 In the morning, he washed his dirty jumpsuit and left it to soak in the sink. He would hang it up in the hot sun when he returned from work, and it would be dry in an hour. That saved a quarter to wash at the Mr. Bubbles Automat. He opened a small can of bland army rations from his locker and ate his breakfast cold. He didn't care to eat cold things, but such were the times. For supper, he could put a can on the window sill and let the sun cook it.
From his window, the morning looked foggy and cool—rather a nice change, and great for walking to work. By midmorning, the marine layer would bake off, and the sun return. This fog probably meant that the Santa Ana was over and the daily marine layer was back. He cleaned up the beer stain on the floor, and put the empty bottle in the little trashcan under the sink. He flipped the curtain up over the rod, so that air and light could freely circulate and take out the slightly stale, sweaty smell. Dressed in fresh overalls, he headed off to work. His mind was partly on the tour guide of Montana, partly on hoping he'd make it until payday with the $18 in his wallet, and partly on whatever interesting this or that passed him on the street. There were the usual slogans, the pretty women, the passing armored vehicles in which loomed shadowy, dark, bulletproof-vested police. Most of the police armored cars had a machinegun turret on top, manned by a policeman with white helmet.
As usual, there were few cars on the crumbling streets. People kept old cars patched, some fifty years old, but there were frequent shortages of hydrogen fuel. Unemployment was high. People survived by going under the radar, working under the table, and bartering on the black market. At least a quarter of the American economy was the shadowy underwater part of the iceberg. The so-called brand-name economy sold American-made goods to Americans only, behind the Border Wall that ran nearly 12,000 miles around the contiguous lower 48 states. The Border Wall was at least 100 feet high and topped with loops of concertina wire that carried a high voltage to kill any living thing that touched it. Behind the Border Wall, or Magnum Line, was the millions-strong Army of the Borders, distributed in 1,984 command posts from Florida to Maine, from Maine to Washington State, from there to San Diego, and from San Diego to Key West. Cameras and sensors were everywhere, and the slightest motion could invite a drone, or a helicopter, or a ground patrol. It was totally privatized, like everything else, and the Great Shepherd had once said it was 20% of the Gross Domestic Product. It was Business, and that was good for America.
He passed a slogan that read: Better Dead Than Red.
Kenny was jolted out of his reverie by a loudspeaker. "Citizen, stop." He stopped and looked at the police cruiser that had pulled up on the street near him. Two armed men in dark Kevlar armor and white helmets climbed out. A third man on top manned the roof gun. A fourth man was on the microphone inside the blocky van, continuing to give instructions. "This is a routine check. Nothing to be alarmed about. Turn and face the wall."
Kenny faced a brick wall on which vandals had made looping, cryptic scrawls of graffiti in white spray paint. On the wall above him, the attractive but not sexy hologram woman appeared briefly and said: Live Free or Die.
"Place your hands on the wall where we can see them, and spread your ankles apart." Kenny wasn't quite fast enough, and a steel-toed boot kicked first one heel, then the other, to spread his legs so he had to lean on the wall for balance.
"With one hand, slowly reach for your Citizenship Permit and take it out for an officer to inspect."
Kenny pulled out his wallet and started to open it with both hands.
"Keep your right hand on the wall," one officer said sharply, and Kenny did so.
The other officer took the wallet from Kenny's left hand, and extracted the card. Kenny watched through a corner of his eye as the card went under a gun-like scanner that analyzed all data on a chip buried in his photo.
"Turn your head to the left," said the man in the car.
Kenny complied, and the scanner-gun analyzed his facial features to compare with the photo. "Okay, pal," said the policeman. He stuffed the wallet carelessly into Kenny's pocket, which was unpleasant and invasive. He didn't like the man's touch, and wished he could hit him. He bit his lip and suppressed the urge, knowing it would end grievously for himself if he resisted.
The loudspeaker said: "Put both hands on the wall and remain there until we signal you can go. Congratulations, Citizen. Your papers were found to be valid."
Car doors slammed, and the vehicle drove off. Halfway down the block, the siren emitted a brief phhhwwweeeet!, signaling he was free to continue on his way. When he looked in his wallet, he counted $12 in bills. They'd taken most of his singles, leaving two fives and two ones. There was no way to fight it, so he resolutely kept walking. He was glad it had ended peacefully, and it looked as if he was really under the radar. That much was great in itself. Those cops, running their wireless check-scans as they had, would have instantly known if there were any warrants for his arrest from New York State and its subdivisions.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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