Dystopia Chapter 15: The Plan Unravels

We follow 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 at night revealing life. Now moving slowly, hoping to be seen, hoping to draw attention to our group. Not wanting to be ambushed. At the bottom of the pathway, Brett turned the wagon about, heading back toward the trailhead, our entrance pointing homeward, and paused. Nearby buildings, possibly filled with debris, already pilfered. Trash or treasure. We are not alone. They have observed us. Our goal, look like a down on our luck pack of scavengers. Vulnerable to those looking on. Aware of our surroundings without making it appear, we are aware. We are approaching a crumbling roadway beyond our “claimed” boundary. There is movement ahead. Perhaps a quarter of a mile to the west.

We came to a standstill. There are seven or eight bodies, as far as I can tell. Armed. Clearly a leader pacing the pack. Approach, the gang spreads out, forming a single line, each one front row visible. 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.

From where I sat, I could see Frank already getting antsy.

“My name is Jesse.”

No response as a person peeled off each end of the line, moving forward with their weapons ready. They guided their mounts toward the wagon, likely seeking a better view. Several seem competent, while a few are a tad jumpy. Thinking steadily, relax.

“Wagon, they got some stuff,” one member declared.

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

“Well, Mr. (hoping for a name),” I inquired.

“None of your 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 our neighbors. They might consider what we could barter, trade, or return later for a swap.

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

They spun around and sped off.

A new mob headed toward us at a full gallop; no time to run, the other group scampering away, soon gone, leaving behind warning and dust.

Facing the oncoming pack, “Afternoon,” I yell waving.

Same plan, same conversation, same outcome, or not. They pull near; dust fills the air.

Again, greetings. Afternoon. I’m looking for someone interested in trading this for that.

“Trade, no, 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, 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, recently 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. Unlikely to get involved.

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

Final thought: ‘Schade’ translation ‘what a pity’.

Hands up, as if surrendering, hands open. Made my horse turn 90-degrees, grabbed the saddle horn, slowing slid my right leg over its hindquarter, leaving the left boot in the stirrup, dropped, touched the ground, immediately pulled myself up, collecting my extra gun, looked over the seat, stay composed, first shot, dropped the leader, surprised, confusion reigned, second shot dropped the man to his right, within seconds it was all over. The Scout Team followed. Everyone performed their roles as practiced, over and over and over.

Motionless bodies scattered on the ground; the wounded groaned; horses fled. The rule: 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 up, 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.”

I remounted, Frankie still monitoring behind us. Motion Brett to move out. The wagon leads the way; the team follows. I look back; bodies, horses grazing, up the road, I wonder.

Everything I touch builds an unwanted reputation.

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

What have we become?

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