UnSouled

Co

Among the medications in the dashboard pharmacy are Motrins the size of horse pills and hydrocodone caplets almost as big.

“Great,” he tells Grace. “Give Lev those two. One of each.”

“With nothing to drink?” asks Grace.

Co

“Don’t make him do that!” Grace complains. “It’ll taste bad.”

“I’ll deal,” Lev says. Co

Lev works up some saliva, pops both pills at once, and manages to swallow them with just a little bit of gagging.

“Okay. Good,” says Co

Co

But even after they get ice ten miles down the road, Co

“Stay awake, Lev!” Co

“You heal when you sleep,” Grace tells him.

“Not if you’re going into shock. Stay awake, Lev!”

“I’m trying.” His voice is begi

Co

“Another joke?” asks Co

“I hope not.” Lev takes a few slow breaths before he can build up the strength, or perhaps the courage, to tell them. “Get me to the Arápache Rez. West of Pueblo, Colorado.”

Co

“Sanctuary,” Lev hisses. “ChanceFolk never signed the Unwind Accord. The Arápache don’t have an extradition treaty. They give asylum to AWOL Unwinds. Sometimes.”

“Asylum is right!” says Grace. “No way I’m going to a SlotMonger rez!”

“You sound like Argent,” Co

Co

“How do you know all this about the Arápache?” Co

Lev sighs. “I’ve been around.”

“Well,” says Co

11 • Rez Sentry

In spite of all the literature and spin put forth by the Tribal Council, there is nothing noble about being a sentry at an Arápache Reservation gate. Once upon a time, when the United States was just a band of misfit colonies, and long before there were fences and walls marking off Arápache land, things were different. Back then, to be a perimeter scout was to be a warrior. Now all it means is standing in a booth in a blue uniform, checking passports and papers and saying híísi’ honobe, which roughly translates to “Have a beautiful day,” proving that the Arápache are not immune to the banality of modern society.

At thirty-eight, the rez sentry is the oldest of three on duty today at the east gate, and so, by his seniority, he’s the only one allowed to carry a weapon. However, his pistol is nowhere near as elegant and meaningful as the weapons of old, in those times when they were called Indians rather than ChanceFolk . . . or “SlotMongers,” that hideous slur put upon them by the very people who made casino gaming the only way tribes could earn back their self-reliance, self-respect, and the fortunes leeched from them over the centuries. Although the casinos are long gone, the names remain. “ChanceFolk” is their badge of honor. “SlotMongers” is their scar.

It’s late afternoon now. The line at the nonresident entry gate just across Grand Gorge Bridge is at least thirty cars deep. This is a good day. On bad days the line backs up to the other side of the bridge. About half of the cars in the line will be turned away. No one gets on the rez who doesn’t either live there or have legitimate business.

“We just want to take some pictures and buy some ChanceFolk crafts,” people would say. “Don’t you want to sell your goods?” As if their survival were dependent upon hawking trinkets to tourists.

“You can make a U-turn to your left,” he would politely tell them. “Híísi’ honobe!” He would feel for the disappointed children in the backseat, but after all, it’s their parents’ fault for being ignorant of the Arápache and their ways.

Not every tribe has taken such an isolationist approach, of course, but then, not many tribes have been as successful as the Arápache when it came to creating a thriving, self-sustaining, and admittedly affluent community. Theirs is a “Hi-Rez,” both admired and resented by certain other “Low-Rez” tribes who squandered those old casino earnings rather than investing in their own future.

As for the gates, they didn’t go up until after the Unwind Accord. Like other tribes, the Arápache refused to accept the legality of unwinding—just as they had refused to be a part of the Heartland War. “Swiss Cheese Natives,” detractors of the time had called them, for the ChanceFolk lands were holes of neutrality in the midst of a battling nation.

So the rest of the country, and much of the world, took to recycling the kids it didn’t want or need, and the Arápache Nation, along with all the rest of the American Tribal Congress, proclaimed, if not their independence, then their recalcitrance. They would not follow the law of the land as it stood, and if pressed, the entire Tribal Congress would secede from the union, truly making Swiss cheese of the United States. With one costly civil war just ending, Washington was wise to just let it be.

Of course, court battles have been raging for years as to whether or not the Arápache Nation has the right to demand passports to enter their territory, but the tribe has become very adept at doing the legal dance. The sentry doubts the issue will ever be resolved. At least not in his lifetime.

He processes car after car beneath an overcast sky that threatens rain but holds its water like an obstinate child. Some people get through; others get turned away.

And then he gets a car of AWOLs.

He can spot AWOLs the second they pull up. Their desperation wafts out at him like a musk. Although no tribe supports unwinding, the Arápache is one of the few that gives sanctuary to AWOL Unwinds, to the constant consternation of the Juvenile Authority. It’s not something they advertise or openly admit, but word gets around, so dealing with AWOLs is just another part of his day.