Dystopia Chapter 13: Wear Gloves

Sunrise. I found Brett already inspecting the wagon. Satisfied, he climbed aboard and looked around. The weather was clear for the moment. Everyone prepared their mount. Brett confirmed, “I’ll handle the wagon.” Brett seemed a tad older. Weathered. On the tall side, confident, armed with a shoulder holster, on the wagon seat, I spotted a high-powered sniper rifle with a scope resting on a black drag bag. I understood he was an investigator working for anyone willing to hire him: the militia, private individuals, a hunter of people.

“What brought you here?” I inquired.

“Karma.” Silence.

“Wagon master, it is.”

Everyone was silent as they completed preparations and headed back to the table.

Breakfast prepared, delivered, but no one with much of an appetite. Frank asked, “So what’s the first assignment, boss?”

“Don’t know. I’ve yet to open the assignment. And don’t call me boss.”

All eyes were on me, waiting.

In silence, I opened the yellowing envelope, read it, and then tore it into small pieces. The return rate of the scout teams was always piss poor. The committee kept its cards close. Putting my life in their hands wasn’t a gamble I wanted to accept. Also, the whole beg, borrow, or steal policy, not the wisest strategy.

“Why did you tear it up?” Frank asked.

“Simple… should I choose not to comply, you have deniability,” I answered.

“We’re not looking for deniability,” Brett said.

“Here is a plan. Looking north into the valley. You see that area beyond what we consider our territory? The area lacking buildings, filled with boulders, and objects that conceal trouble?”

“So, Brett, do you think you can scope out a route through those washes and overgrown trails? Something we can move along quickly?”

Brett considered the question. “Well, the overgrowth is prickly, but let me find a high perch and scout out a potential pathway.”

My goal is simply to exit the Well, then return fully intact. Empty wagon, likely, but with all six team members. Brett slipped away to scout out a trail.

Upon finishing breakfast, Brett returned and declared, “Doable.”

“Tomorrow, we’ll carve a pathway to the clearing—broad enough to provide passage. We’ll move with purpose. We’ll collect what we can on the way to the open ground, making sure not to slow ourselves down or attract notice. Then we turn for home.”

Steady in, steady out. Quickly gather what’s useful, then return home safely.

Keep it simple.

“That’ll take days to clear,” Frank moaned.

“Maybe, but for now we get some exercise, exercise our horses, get some ‘fresh’ air, get to know each other, and avoid confrontations. A week where no one shoots at us.”

Clearly, Frank was not a fan. Small steps. And I suspect it irritated many members of the committee. Tomorrow, manual labor.

That same afternoon, Brett and I walked along a potential route. Checked out the pathway, getting a feel for troublesome areas, obstructions to work around, meanwhile getting to know each other, and shot a couple of critters for Ms. Bishop. Apparently, Brett was very good at finding people; eventually grew tired of being put in questionable/uncomfortable situations. A man with a conscience. A job left undone, his previous employer was unhappy, wanted his contingency fees back, and was now hunting him down.

“Folks are watching us,” Brett noted.

“I’m sure we’ll meet them.”

Later that afternoon, I met the team at the table, dinner, more tedious conversations. Finally…

“Get some rest. Wear gloves.”

I watched them disperse and wondered.

As a teacher, I often evaluated the strengths and needs of my students. A habit built over years of interacting with their unique personalities and home life. These were adults. I contemplated their origins and how they enlisted for the scout team. No one volunteered for this assignment. Deals made?

I noticed Addison remained seated and silent.

As if she could read my mind, she offered, “They each have a background, running from something or someone, like you.”

“Me? What about you?”

“Someone.”

“Brett?”

“Someone.”

“Joshua?”

“Someone.”

“Cord?”

“Someone.”

“Frank?”

“He’s looking for adventure.”

“Not helpful.”

Addison, standing, “What we all have in common, you ask? We have taken a life, or lives, and we are running from our past. Redemption, maybe. Understand this: others will die at our hands.”

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