Dystopia Chapter 10: A Promotion with Perks

My head was pounding and my stomach ached as if someone had punched me repeatedly. I stood on the roof, bent over the retaining wall, vividly recalling last night’s incident. So confident he was. Below, beyond the wall, workers digging, preparing for another victim of the times, lowered for eternity.

Lost in my thoughts, a soft voice breaks the moment. “Excuse me, Jesse?”

I slowly turn to an unexpected sight. Focusing my attention on a young, petite woman standing nearby. She had strawberry-blond hair, wore slightly worn but clean boots and jeans that fit her well. A gun holster hung from her right hip, and she had a tucked-in shirt covered by a leather vest. Ours eyes met. Confident, neither friendly nor worried.

“Excuse me, Jesse, I believe. They sent me with a request. The committee wants to meet with you. Follow me, please,” turning, she proceeds to the roof’s exit.

“Wait,” returning to reality, looking for words, trying to make a coherent sentence, babble, “Excuse me, the committee, me, why, where?” I must sound like an idiot.

“This way, please”, as she said softly, sauntered away knowing full well I would follow.

I have worked in the mess hall a long time and would have surely remembered her, still. Without another thought, I followed this stranger to… whatever she was selling.

Out the exit, down the ladder to the first floor, through the kitchen area, I followed. Head still spinning, quickly realized Ms. Bishop had replaced me.

Following behind, I asked her name.

“Not today. This way.”

Across the quad, she stopped at the main building, opened a door and directed me, “Enter, turn left, turn right and have a seat.”

I did. Inside, dark, the air stale, body odor, I found a table, one chair, a curtain separating me from the other side where a voice directed me to sit. A plastic sheet covered the floor. This felt way too familiar. My weapon back in my cubical.

“Good morning, Jesse. Based on your employment history, your observable skill set, and creativity, reassigned. Permanently.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Maddox has done an admirable job securing this facility. Still, on occasions, there are special circumstances requiring a more robust solution. You were once a teacher, correct? A tutor for the wealthy. Let me put this another way: situations arise where someone needs to be ‘erased’ and you will be… the ‘eraser’; consider this a promotion with perks.”

The curtain opened. There she stood, alone, maybe 5’ 5’’, blond, her eyes green, her complexion youthful, still not smiling. She sits. Places a revolver on the table. Next to it, an egg timer.

The nameless voice returns, “You will have 180 seconds to make a life-changing or life-ending decision. Unlike last night’s victim, you have some particulars to consider. Sit back and pay close attention.”

“Choice number one: you can stand, leave, and walk directly to the stable where your horse, saddle and saddlebag awaits, with all your earthly possessions. Get on your mount and leave and never, never return.”

Choice number two: wait for the timer to run out, and she’ll shoot you. She’s getting paid well for it.

“Choice number three: return to the kitchen and remain employed. One day soon, you will receive a slip of paper with explicit directions to erase someone. For the ‘good’ of the community. At that moment, you will have 24-hours to complete the task. Failure is not an option.”

“Choice number four: lead our newest Scout Team. Weekly seeking and doing whatever it takes to beg, borrow, or steal anything and everything of value for the betterment of our community and the Company. Scout Team membership is transient. Participants have a short tenure. To ensure you understand, I repeat: you will remain the leader of this team until you are no longer capable, as in ‘still breathing’ if you get my drift.”

“My dear, flip the egg time, please.”

“WAIT,” I reply.

“This is a prank, right?” She picks up the weapon and aims. We make eye contact as she takes a deep breath, cocks her weapon, and we both look at the timer.

The choices, now jumbled, I do my best to recall the options. Leave and enter society and chaos, survival, 50/50. Sit and wait for certain death. Would she really shoot? Become an assassin. Is she the eraser? Choice four. Leadership is not my thing, and it seems like a death sentence.

“Half the time is gone, maybe ninety seconds. Number two, an automatic,” she said.

My head still pounding, panic fogged my mind. I make eye contact and see no mercy, just commitment to complete her assignment, to erase me now with seconds remaining. In my mind’s eye, see my past flash and wonder which is my best option? A voice replaces my thoughts.

“Thirty-seconds.”

“Twenty-seconds.”

“Ten-seconds.”

Fear cloaked in panic. I shout, “Number four!”

The egg timer empties as the last grains drop through. She stands, pushes her chair back. “Good luck. My name is Addison,” she turns and exits the room.

I remain seated, my eye moist, my heart rate decreases, breathing slows, while my head pounds. I close my eyes for the moment until I hear the voice.

The hidden voice, “Return to the kitchen. Ms. Bishop is waiting for your return. In a couple of days, we will introduce you to your Scout Team and your first assigned task. You are the leader. You will find the ‘tasks’ loosely defined. We expect your creativity to be paramount to the team’s success. Success has its perks. Failure will prove problematic for all involved. Continued failure will lead to more complex and dangerous assignments.”

Alone. I fingered the timer, flipped it and made the first of many poor choices. Standing up, I slipped the timer into my pocket and, as instructed, headed back to the kitchen. Stepping into the light, my eyes slowly adjusting, I noticed the mortuary team across the campus headed away, disappointed?

Ms. Bishop noted my return with a look. Perhaps concern as she nods her head as we prepared for lunch.

“My horse, I need to…”

“Already taken care of, your stuff returned to your space,” she announced.

Stepping to my side, she whispered, “They never prepped your horse or gathered your stuff. Bluff. So predictable. Now get your ass moving.”

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