Dystopia Chapter 12: An Envelope

My plan: to hide. Stay in my cubicle. Get to the kitchen early, get my job done, never make eye contact, ignore everyone, then back to my nook. Be invisible. Lead a team, me? No way.

Hell, there was a long list of jobs I'd rather do than lead. Scooping poop, doing dishes, digging ditches, hiding behind an apron, taking orders, following mundane directions — all fine by me. All right, stop. Focus. The truth: A reputation I never earned chased me.

Take charge? No, I'd rather stay alive. End of the shift, I cleaned up, hung up the apron, tried to sneak out — turned to go, and shit. Met by the three, reminding me of the assignment, pointing at the table. Reserved. I selected a spot with my back to the room. Day three, and there I sat waiting.

"Afternoon," a soft voice greeted from behind.

I turned as she approached. Same attractive figure, new outfit. She made eye contact, offered a slight smile that warmed the space, and I was caught. "We have business to attend to. May I take a seat?"

Always… so polite.

She placed three items on the table. "A gift from Max." Three high-end pistols in excellent condition, with additional ammunition. "He wanted me to… wish you good luck." Something about her smirk I found disconcerting. "Ruger handguns have a reputation for being well-made, accurate, and reliable," she noted. "Try not to abuse them." I could only guess at the hidden meaning behind that.

"Follow me."

We visited the stables and selected a steed. I asked if anyone knew of a leather artisan, someone who could design and make a holster. "See Max."

She led me next to a staging area — a wagon built for hauling everything from crops and raw materials to bodies. The aim was simple: beg, borrow, or steal anything useful for the betterment of the community, and stay alive. "Tomorrow you'll meet the other members of your team, boss." She turned and walked away. A sight to behold.

I did not rest well. In the dark, I saw a classroom full of misfits, out of control and beyond reach. Then a gunfight — I couldn't find my weapon. Then I was pounding on a door, my family inside, attacked, screaming my name while I stood useless on the other side. Each time I woke exhausted, told myself it was only a dream, and stared at the blue tarp overhead. I might as well start my day. Rise and shine — what a stupid thought. I imagined the worst: surviving until dark.

I headed to the kitchen to find Ms. Bishop had replaced me. No words were spoken — just a look, a shoulder shrug, and she went back to her responsibilities. Then something caught my eye to the left. My daughter. My heart stopped. I turned — of course it wasn't her. I hadn't seen her in years; her whereabouts were unknown. The memories came flooding back: the event, the pain I'd buried along with my wife. I stood there a moment longer than I should have.

Addison waited nearby with a puzzled expression. "Time to go."

On the northeast patio, four men sat waiting. I arrived at the table and mumbled, "I thought these teams had six members?"

"They do," a voice said from behind.

I turned. "You're kidding."

"No joke. And you know what? We're having the same thought — like, we're supposed to trust you with our lives."

“Introductions,” Addison said abruptly, mostly for the others’ benefit. “Yes — if that egg timer had emptied, I would have put a bullet in your forehead. This is Brett, your wagon master. Frank, Joshua, and Cord. Get acquainted on your own time. This is Scout Team 3."

“Why us, you wonder?” Addison said.

“I wondered.”

“Apparently, we have a unique skill set that will be useful; we are expendable, and like you, volunteered.”

I see, but why have I seen none of you here before today? Sounds like there’s something going on.

“And,” I asked.

“And you selected option four,” Addison replied.

Sitting back, eyed each carefully. They offered no information. Just waiting. Looking at Addison, I asked, “Why are you the only one talking?”

“I was the first one to volunteer to shoot you. The envelope.”

An envelope lay in the center of the table with my name on it. I wondered if by ignoring it long enough it might simply cease to exist. Awkward, aimless conversation started up around me — small talk filling the void. Guarded. I hated these moments. A meal arrived. We ate in silence. I stood to leave when she said, "The envelope."

"I've no desire to embark on a mission devised by some faceless committee."

"The envelope."

"Seriously."

"The envelope."

I grabbed it. "I'm off to the gun range to get a feel for this… weapon."

As I walked away, I caught fragments of a conversation behind me.

"What do ya think?" Brett asked.

"It'll be a miracle if he doesn't shoot himself."

Everyone went their separate ways.

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