“We have to start wearing those black PSF uniforms too,” continued Cannon. “Tan uniforms are soothing, you know. People see you as one of them, a local. Black ones are scary.”
“Maybe that’s the idea.”
“Yeah, maybe. I know we’re getting a lot of pressure to start enforcing all these new rules. I thought the new constitution had free speech in it too, but I’m not sure they meant it when they put that in. You know – don’t tell anyone – we’re supposed to be looking for people who are illegally organizing political groups. Supposedly from the US. Infiltrators.”
“Illegally organizing political groups? I thought this was supposed to still be a free country after the Split.” said Dale. “Maybe freerer.”
“Yeah, I’m not so sure. Just watch who you talk to about politics. They seem a lot more interested in pointing us at people saying the wrong things instead of real criminals. This is your stop.”
The cruiser idled in front of the Chalmers Insurance storefront office as Dale thanked the deputy for the ride and got out onto the sidewalk. Cannon pulled back into traffic and headed down the street. Many of the businesses were closed – the town had never been particularly prosperous even when he was a kid in the 1990s, but now it was worse than ever.
Clumps of sullen young men hung out on the corners, probably either transferees moved in from the cities to take over the houses of people who had picked up to go south to the United States, or refugees from the former red states who had moved north. The post-Split welfare reforms in the US – essentially, a policy of not giving money to people who did not work – had finally motivated the hardcore dependent population to take action. And that action was to move to the People’s Republic, where the new government had massively increased social programs once free of the constraints imposed by their former co-nationals.
Cannon ignored the loiterers – it was clear they were up to no good, but proactively interacting with them was not worth the hassle of the inevitable complaints that would follow.
A blue pick-up truck pulled ahead of him and the stars and stripes sticker on the lower right quadrant of the back window caught his eye. He knew that truck, and he knew the driver was often his own worst enemy. Cannon flicked on his cruiser’s light bar.
After a few tense moments, the truck pulled over – Cannon was grateful for that – and the deputy got out, approaching slowly and at an angle, just in case.
Larry Langer lived outside of town and his whole family had a reputation as troublemakers – not dishonest, but just rowdy. The Langer brothers, first to fight, first to get drunk, first to tell anyone who tried to tell them what to do to go straight to hell.
Cannon peered into the bed of the pick-up and the back of the cab as he walked – not really expecting anything, but he always said you aren’t really a cop if you aren’t a little paranoid.
“Hi Ted, how’s it hanging?” Larry asked. He had a short beard and a ZZ Top cap. It took Cannon a moment to remember what a ZZ Top was.
“I’m fine. Why are you causing trouble, Larry?”
“Now how am I causing trouble, Deputy?”
“The sticker.”
“You mean the US flag?”
“Yeah, the US flag.”
“What about it?”
“Well, it’s going to offend a lot of people.”
“Is it illegal?”
“Not officially, but like I said, it’s going to offend a lot of people.”
“Well, then fuck ‘em.”
“Come on, Larry.”
“Come on what? I fought for that flag and I’ll damn well put it or any other flag I want on my truck if I damn well please.”
“Okay, things have changed, Larry. This isn’t the United States anymore. This is the People’s Republic of North America and you need to get that sticker off your truck before someone who isn’t as patient as me pulls you over. I’m telling you for your own good.”
“How about I choose what’s for my own good like a damn American?”
“Because you aren’t an American anymore,” Cannon said, then immediately felt strange.
“Ted, they’ve been pushing and pushing and pushing and they better understand that some of us are ready to push back.”
Cannon did not like the sound of that.
“You got something in your glove box, Larry?”
“You sure you want to look in there, Ted?”
“Nope, because if someone has, say, a .38 in his glove box, that’s five years, and I wouldn’t want to be the guy to bring someone in for that.”
“You want to look, Ted? You want to bring me in?”
“No,” the deputy replied. “No, I don’t. I just want you to… get along. Just take it easy and everything will work out. You know?”
“I’m a Langer, Ted. Hell, I’m an American. You ever know us to just get along?”
“Look… Larry, I’m trying hard to keep this town calm and peaceful. That’s all. In all this, I just want to keep my little town and my people safe.”
Larry Langer smiled. “Someday, you’re going to have to pick a side, Ted.”
And he drove off.
The coffee tasted tired and thinned out, which it was. “Responsible coffee” they called it – running the water through the wet grounds a second time to minimize the devastating impact upon the earth of a decent cup of Joe. Deputy Cannon drank it anyway, creamless even though he liked cream. There was none to be had in the stores this week for some reason. Part of the new normal.
The station was crowded with unfamiliar faces, strangers from elsewhere in black People’s Security Force uniforms mingling with the local deputies still wearing tan. On examination of the locals’ uniforms, one could see the faint outline on their right shoulders of where something rectangular had once been sewn on and later removed. That was the US flag they had all worn up until the Split. The new People’s Republic flag kept changing, so they never bothered sewing it on to replace the Stars and Stripes.
Sergeant Dennis Dietrich was standing outside his office, a banker’s box filled with the mementos from his 20 year career in hand.
“Denny, what’s up?” Cannon asked.
“I’ve been kicked out of my office.” The Sergeant nodded his head at the new occupant, a short, angry woman in PSF black busy hanging a rainbow flag on the wall behind her new desk.
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, they’re coming in in force and I don’t know why. We got twenty new officers assigned in today.”
“Twenty? The whole department has never had twenty deputies total ever. What the hell for?”
“I don’t know, Ted. Most of them don’t look or act much like cops. I think they have some sort of shake-and-bake school to turn out PSF officers. Look at them. Half these guys we’d stop if we saw them in civvies walking down the street. That one has a skull tatt on his neck.”
“Can’t the Sheriff tell her to step off?”
“I don’t think he has any juice anymore. The Sheriff’s still the Sheriff, at least in theory, but this Lieutenant Kessler has got him spooked. She told him she needed my office and bam! I was packing my shit.”
“I don’t know what to say, Denny.”
“Shit’s changing, and I don’t like it. Not sure what I’ll do.”
Cannon said nothing; it was obvious that to “do” something meant going south – and this pumping up law enforcement on the border was not a hopeful sign that going south would be an option for much longer.
The sergeant put his box down on an adjacent desk.
“She’s calling a meeting in the assembly room at four,” the sergeant said.