Dystopia Chapter 18: The Swap

“We have injured members who badly need medical care, perhaps a doctor, which are few and far apart, so we’re hoping you, as a larger, self-contained community, might have medical personnel. We have no medical staff, but we have a cache of medical supplies. So…, you take three injured needing care, and a trainable community member with several boxes of materials, address their needs, teach her, and return all safe at which we will provide additional medical materials, capeesh?”

“Medical supplies, such as?” I asked.

“Medical supplies… bandages, splints, ointments, a first aid kit, stuff,” Luke responded, irritated.

“Okay but you need to understand, I’m but a bottom feeder, a professional gopher, because, believe it or not funny story, I had an unfortunate encounter with our highly qualified surgeon, who is no longer, ah, with us which, may have been my doing. So anyway, I’m a fan of no one, more of a marked man. So… give me a moment to confer with my colleagues. Hold those thoughts. I’ll be right back.”

Whispering, “Well, folks?”

“Like you said, you’re as low as you can go,” they replied in no particular order.

“Sounds like a plan. Let’s make it so,” Brett concluded, while others shrugged their shoulders in agreement.

“Okay, let’s give it a shot. Oops, sorry, poor choice of words. Let’s make the exchange, but no guarantee we can save the injured, but we will do our best.”

“We expect them returned, healed.”

Buggy pulled forward, patients moved to the wagon, injured all in distress, hanging on to life, along with supplies and one twenty-something female, I guessed — Diana. Red hair, dark brown eyes, about 5 ft. 6 in. slender, trusting, confident, wearing aged jeans, a T-shirt, and, really, a white smock. Transferred. The wagon moves out slowly, with care. Luke, now moving near, watching the wagon pull away, leans in. “That’s my daughter, and if anything happens to her, anything, I will hold you personally responsible and promise to hunt you down, and you will pay,” a stark warning rendered.

“See that building, the easternmost end? I’ll hang something over the side. We can meet the next day. I would not recommend just dropping by unannounced,” I replied.

In that moment my heart betrayed me; I felt my daughters, my wife, apprehensive as I left home that fateful night. Hired by a ‘power broker’ with a questionable reputation. A ranch owner controlling limited resources, wealth in the hands of the 1%. Tutoring his three children to make a bit of income.

I assured them I would return before sunset.

Promises broken, arriving, fed the horse. Secured it for the night. Rushed to our studio above the restaurant. Bounding up the deteriorating staircase, I sensed something amiss. No light in the window. No voices from within. The door was ajar. I stopped.

I have worked to avoid those thoughts. Past compartmentalized. Feelings stuffed.

Never to see them again, wondering, thinking, I couldn’t protect my own. I stopped hunting for their attackers.

Wrapped in guilt, slumped forward, hated memories while doing my best to escape the past.

Frustrated, the exchange is taking too much time. Sitting here is dangerous. Exposed!

Moved with care up the pathway as gently as possible, Diana riding at the rear of the wagon, holding tight, holding a broken umbrella, swaying side-to-side, trying to keep the sun off their faces. This trip seemed to take forever. Meanwhile, Frank, watching the pack retreat, heading away, was visually familiarizing himself with our new guest.

Looking toward the stable, I was not expecting a warm reception.

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