They were in there for about ten minutes. Junior was getting uncomfortable on several levels, and he was relieved when the trucker came out. Turnbull came out a minute later and sat back down. The facilitator had left the bill - $278.65 and two Series A rat cards. Turnbull fished around for his cash.
“Do we tip?” Junior asked.
“Oh hell no. It’s racist or something. Let’s get out of here and wander over to the truck. Don’t be conspicuous, or at least don’t be more conspicuous than you can help. We’ve got our ride to Vegas.”
5.
The trucker didn’t say a thing as they got in the back of the cab. Turnbull handed him a wad of bills, and he started up the rig and off they went to the west.
They did not see much huddled in the back of the tractor’s cab. Occasionally, in the distance a cloud or the top of a bluff would pass by, but during the long drive that was about it. The truck rarely got over 45 miles per hour – too many bumps and it wasted too much gas to go any faster.
They were stopped at one check point, but only for a moment. The People’s Security Force officer did not even bother climbing up to the cab’s window. He yelled something from the ground that the passengers could not make out, and the trucker replied “Coming back empty. Want to see my manifest?”
Apparently he didn’t. The cop said something and the truck rolled forward back down the highway. Turnbull and Junior put away their weapons and went back to resting as comfortably as they could on top of their packs.
The trucker let them out at the eastern edge of Las Vegas, on a side street in a residential area that looked like a minor tornado had ripped through it. Turnbull handed the driver the other half of his pay for delivering them and off he drove without another word; the empty backhaul would now not be a total loss.
The street was lined with cars, and the cars themselves were almost uniformly dirty, many with broken windows, and most with desert detritus built up against their cracking tires. Occasionally an operable one would pass by on the street. Mostly, at least in this part of Vegas, people walked, either all the way or to bus stops. It was already 90 degrees.
The high rise casinos of the Strip in the distance poked up over the rooftops. They walked that way with their packs, and they drew little notice from passers-by. Just more transients coming through. A couple thuggish young men with tattoos and morning beers sat on a porch and briefly considered the pair, then thought better of it and turned up the hip hop on the old battery operated radio beside them. There was no point in plugging it in; the power would not come back on until five.
There was not a house in the neighborhood with a living lawn. Instead, their yards were all long ago baked dry. Most of the houses could have used a coat of paint; the ones that were still occupied – maybe a third – had bars on the windows. From somewhere, there was a string of obscenities in a woman’s voice, and then she went silent.
After a few blocks, they came to what looked like a church. At least, it had the shape of a church, including a spire, but what looked like it had been the cross on top was sawed off, leaving a lonely foot-long stump. A sign hanging over the door read “People’s Shelter.” A couple bums lounged on the front steps in front of the open door, laughing and drinking something out of a paper bag.
“After they got rid of the tax exemptions for churches, most couldn’t pay and the government took them to pay the tax bills,” Turnbull explained. “Let’s go in.”
“Why?”
“Because no one ever asks who you are in a homeless shelter.”
The manager was a sweaty, balding man in a t-shirt that read “HUMAN SERVICES.” He sized up the pair as they approached, clearly displeased.
“Can we get a couple racks? Nice ones. Maybe kind of private?”
The manager scowled a little, but then saw that Turnbull had produced a $50 bill. That was an hour of work at the minimum wage. “Yeah, there’s an office you two can have. Just keep it quiet. Don’t wake anyone up doing your thing.” He leered a little.
“We aren’t—,” Junior began, but Turnbull cut him off.
“We’ll take it.”
“I don’t want to see any hard shit. Booze and pot are fine. No hard shit. Do what you want, but I don’t want to see it or I’m calling the cops.”
“Sure,” Turnbull said, passing him the bill, which the manager stuffed into his dirty cargo shorts.
Any reminder that this had once been a house of worship had been deliberately stripped away. Even the pews were gone, replaced with a mosaic of cots and tattered lean-tos occupied by a cast of wretches who either shot them suspicious glances or chose not to notice them at all. On the walls were a variety of posters, some extolling the prosperity of the People’s Republic, some soliciting reports on the activities of its internal enemies.
They went through what had been the sanctuary and up a flight of steps someone had mistaken for a urinal to the second floor. On one side was the manager’s office; it was secured with a padlock. On the other was their room, bare except for a couple of cots.
“You better leave the windows open. It’s going to get hot and the last guy in there didn’t like to go downstairs to piss at night,” the manager said. “Don’t piss in my room, understand?” he added. Turnbull nodded.
The manager left, and Turnbull shut and bolted the door. Almost immediately, the smell rose into their nostrils. The room was pungent with the tang of ex-beer.
“Ah, shit,” Junior said, scrunching up his nose. He went to the west-facing window and forced it up and open. The hot air rushing in helped, but only a little. From the second floor, he had a better view of the Strip, glittering and shiny even at mid-day. Evidently, the casinos did not have brownouts. And in the sky beyond them, there was a stream of small planes flying into and out of Harry Reid International Airport. The elite loved their Vegas adventures.
Turnbull’s voice brought Junior back. “Let’s get some sleep. Tonight we need to find a way to LA.”
When they woke up it was dark outside; the oddly-shaped bare bulb hanging from the ceiling was giving off a weak, pale light.
“What the hell is wrong with the light?” Junior asked.
“It’s a florescent bulb. Supposed to save the world from global warning. If it was incandescent like ours back home, someone would have stolen it by now – they go for a lot here.”
“I can’t even see,” Junior replied, then his eyes were drawn to the window. There was no such problem seeing the Strip. The casinos were awash in light, their glow illuminating the night sky. Red, blue, yellow – a glittering jewel in a field of coal.
“Brings in the foreigners. Chinese, Japanese, Euros. And they bring their cash. They call this Sin City and that’s Sin Central.”
Outside there was a shrill whistle, then a crash like a cymbal, then shouts. Junior went to the window. Down the street there was a crowd marching up the road, shouting and chanting, blowing whistles and smashing cymbals.
“It’s a parade!” he said.
Turnbull joined him at the window and stared for a moment. “No, it’s a protest.”
There were about fifty of them. The marchers were generally young, with a few fossils thrown in – probably from the University of Las Vegas. The long white banner the front rank held before it said “PEOPLE DEMAND AN END TO CLASSISM AND RACISM NOW!” in bright red letters. Others held signs: “PEOPLE’S CONGRESS FOR JUSTICE,” “ACTION FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE” and “UNITED TO DEFEAT ZIONISM!” The transients occupying the former church who were milling about in the front yard smoking pot barely looked up as the protestors chanted: