Dystopia Chapter 15: The Plan Unravels

We followed our semi-cleared pathway north toward several buildings, maybe a mile away, that appeared occupied. An occasional puff of smoke or a flicker of light revealing life. Now moving slowly, hoping to be seen, hoping to draw attention to our group. Should we need to leave, posthaste? At the bottom of the pathway, Brett turned the wagon about, heading back toward the trailhead, our entrance point homeward, and paused. Nearby buildings, possibly filled with debris, already pilfered. Trash or treasure. We were not alone. They had observed us. Our goal, look like a down on our luck pack of scavengers. Aware of our surroundings without making it appear so. We approached a crumbling roadway beyond our “claimed” boundary. There was movement ahead.

Let’s stop and pay attention. By my count, seven or eight bodies. Armed. Clearly a leader pacing the pack. Approaching, the gang spread out, forming a single line. Closer now. They slowed.

“You headed somewhere?” the lead inquired.

“Morning, we’re from up the hill looking for a group that might be interested in trading supplies, materials,” I offered.

“Not trouble.” Brett added.

“My name is Jesse.”

No response as riders peeled off, one left, the other right, moving forward with their weapons readied. They guided their mounts toward the wagon, likely seeking a better view. Several seemed competent; a few a tad jumpy. Stay calm, breathe, don’t lose it.

“Wagons got some stuff,” one member declared.

“You’re in our territory,” the leader announced.

“Well, Mr.—“ I began, hoping for a name.

“None of your f-ing business, answer the question.”

Tough guy, great, although I noted a tremor in his voice, hands twitchy.

“Thought a wagon with supplies would be tempting, hoping we would meet some folks. You might consider what we could barter, trade, and return later for a swap.”

“See behind you, that pack, not folks you want to meet. Claim we’re on their territory. For now, drop by in twenty-four hours to continue this conversation, assuming you get back to where you came from quickly. Good luck.”

They spun around now and sped off.

New folks headed toward us at a full gallop, no time to run, the other group scampering away, long gone.

“Afternoon,” I yelled, waving.

Same plan, same conversation, same outcome, problematic. They pulled near; dust filled the air.

“Barter, nope, but you can leave the wagon… and horses, and live.”

This group, eight, bunched behind the exposed leader, with most likely a second-in-command to his right. I moved between our wagon and their leader. And reaffirmed an interest in an exchange of merchandise. “Perhaps we could help build you a wagon?”

“Last chance, dismount,” he demanded, weapon in hand.

This bunch appeared hardened by time and life, boots worn, covered in a layer of dust, bearded, all ready to engage, just waiting for the word and unlikely to back down.

With the help of an artisan, I’d added a hidden leather pocket to each member's saddle. Out of sight, but accessible, a hidden firearm. Just stay calm.

Half a mile away, the other group watched, wondering if there was a tomorrow for our sorry asses.

Here’s hoping the team’s time together, our what to do conversations, and practice would pay off.

Final thought: ‘Schade’ — meaning, ‘what a pity’.

Hands up, as if surrendering, hands open. Made my mount turn 90-degrees. I grabbed the saddle horn, slowly slid my right leg over its hindquarters, leaving the left boot in the stirrup, dropped down, touched the ground, popped back up, then collected my hidden gun. Looked over the seat; stay composed. With a single shot, the leader slowly slipped off his mount, having never pulled his gun.

Everyone was confused and shocked. After that, without forethought, I shot his partner; the fight was done. Team members performed their rehearsed roles over and over and over. Including Frank.

Motionless bodies skewed on the ground, groans and moans expelling from those alive but wounded, horses scattered, the rule now: touch nothing, go. The count: four dead, two wounded, two hands raised.

Today’s bounty: nothing. Nothing will result from today's face-off; maybe tomorrow. To those alive, hands raised, still mounted, I directed them, “Collect the bodies, the mounts now roaming, and head back to where you came from. Don’t do something stupid.”

With Frank monitoring the action behind us, I remounted, motioned Brett to move out; the wagon led the way; the team followed. I looked back; bodies, horses grazing, up the road, I wondered.

Everything I touch builds an unwanted reputation.

Halfway up the trail, I turned back one last time to view the failed ambush. The other group, having watched, now gathered what they dared. It all seemed so senseless.

What have I become?

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