Dystopia Chapter 19: Hostile Reception

They saw us coming. Slowly approaching. Midday, hot, most hunkered down, the heat today unbearable, triple digits. Despite that, a waiting entourage; someone from the roof yells, “He’s bringing people.” Interest piqued; there was a procedure for adding to our population with strict rules. Pulling into the yard, the Scout Team surrounded the wagon, holding back the audience. I approached one of the community leaders, who appeared distraught and immediately demanded an explanation. Compassion has become a defunct human attribute, everything seen as a cost to the powers in charge.

“We met a group whose members needed medical help. They will make an exchange for medical supplies. We heal, then our collaborators will provide additional supplies.”

“What about her, and how will you feed these folks, and who put you in charge? Take them back.”

From behind, a pair of enforcers stepped forward.

“Initially, she will gain skills to help her companions and, for the time being, our medical staff; next, regarding food. That’s between me and Ms. Bishop. Finally, as for your hired help, they need to back up.”

The hired enforcer took a step back to save his reputation. He scanned the crowd, thinking, then frantically waved his arms, ordering everyone to resume their usual tasks.

As the crowd dispersed, the committee leader stepped forward, seeking to sound formidable. Fingering his weapon, he scowled and declared, “They got three days, then gone.” He turned, stepped away, followed by his personal escort — a reminder that I was the reason we lacked an actual doctor.

The crowd disbanded, and some helpers assisted us in moving the injured to our ‘hospital.’ We also ensured that the injured received a warm welcome and understood the expectations. Ragtag medical staff, a welcoming group. Having intimidating ‘thugs’ pressing around the entrance was, oddly, helpful — that plus a container of supplies, with the promise of more to come.

Settled in, offering Diana, “lunch? I know the cooks, which means zip, but who knows, and we have our special reserved table?” Offer tentatively accepted.

“Addison, would you give her a quick guided tour?” And before she could answer, Frank, pushing forward, interjected, “Allow me.”

Diana smiled. I’m sure Addison and I shared a common thought: trouble.

“Excuse me, I got an errand to run and will meet all back at our special table.”

I quickly checked with Ms. Bishop to arrange a meal, a deal, with a promise to bring back food next time out, and not more mouths to feed, then returned to stables where I asked my mount be prepared to leave later that evening, at dusk. Received a quizzical look from all while avoiding eye contact or offering an explanation.

I had a new plan. While spending time with Addison and Luke, memories of my daughters again intruded, forcing me to think and now wonder, hoping they were well, curious if they ever think of me or care. They could be anywhere: across the road, or miles away.

The Well, a self-contained community, with dozens of factions surrounding us — informal gangs, some no larger than a household, others multiple buildings banded together, much as we had.

To the east, less than a mile away, a community larger than ours existed. Inhabitants often heard late at night, with music playing, arguments brewing, and the occasional gunfire. A long shot that I need to visit, without involving the team members. What could go wrong? Slip in after dark, look around, then exit. Simple.

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