Dystopia Chapter 20: First Encounter

No one was currently about; the stable empty, all chores completed for the evening, workers headed homeward, dinner with ‘family’ or consumed alone, and then preparing for the dark. My mount prepped as requested. The coast is clear, the sun now setting. It’s time to saddle up. Think incognito. Low profile. Decamping through the north gate, but circled around to the south side, then headed east along an aging roadway. The valley below was already fading into the shadows.

Thirty minutes later, I entered the westernmost end of the settlement, mostly shut down for the night, a few lanterns shining through cracked, grime-covered windows. The few solar sources scattered around now. The day was coming to a close. All the fossil fuels predicted to last 50 years at the turn of the century currently capable of generating less than 15 percent of global power. We can tap into these energy sources, assuming you are among the fortunate. The power brokers, better known as the affluent, or ‘richly’ controlling everything. Wind power, you ask, is unpredictable. Replacement parts are nearly impossible to track down. Those mechanically inclined and artisans who possess marketable skills sought after, like medical professionals.

I first encountered an outbuilding. Inside, a blacksmith was stoking a fire as he completed a project. A quicklime light spilling light out the entrance-way onto the street. He never acknowledged me as I continued to look unsociable, slumped over, plodding forward. Home-like structures lined the avenue, serving as family-owned businesses molded onto the front, now closed, wooded shutters pulled down to hide the interiors. Barred windows and doors keeping undesirables out.

Moving on, folks seated around concrete tables on walkways and in various common areas, beverages in hand. More peaceful than I expected, considering the number of gunshots I would hear overnight seemingly from this direction. This all appears unremarkable. Could it be my lucky day?

A ways up the road, I noticed a couple of youngsters tending horses tied to posts, with some feed and water being provided. There was more activity in that area, a bar/restaurant establishment. Silver rounds are now the currency of choice. Hired the guys to tend to my mount. Paid up front, here’s hoping I won’t get ripped off.

Shuffled, with a fake limp, to a nearby eatery to investigate what they offered. Entering, the voices ceased. Eyes following me as I limped along the load-bearing interior walls. Eventually choosing a seat where I could watch those coming and going, viewing the room the best one could in a darkening space. A few folks scattered around. Locals astutely aware I was a newbie. Once seated, a server provided a candle. Lit it. The menu: a chalkboard. Soup or stew over rice or potatoes, maybe a chunk of meat, maybe, and bread with a slab of butter. Beverage extra. A feast considering over half the world’s protein source is bug-based. Then again, not exactly sure what might float in the grub, figuratively or literally.

My eyes adjusting, focusing, the server entering my circle of light startled me, catching me off guard. I thought I saw. Could it be? My throat tightens, hands clutched. Of course not. Get a grip. “What can I get ya?” she queried.

Sat tongue-tied, searching for words, trying my best to see clearly, bewildered.

“You okay? How about the day’s special and a brew?” she offered.

“Ah, yeah, thanks,” I mumbled.

Room silent, folks were still watching. I really got to get out more. Conversations slowly pop up in whispers and side glances.

While waiting, sat back trying to look unapproachable. I noticed across the room three-by-five cards tacked to a bulletin board currently being reviewed by a dust-covered guest. I approached and asked, “Why are the cards here?” Irritated, I was imposing on his time and space. Simple, he noted, “Folks seeking folks.”

“Thanks,” I replied.

He continued, “Looking for someone, grab a card, fill it out, tack it up, and hope.”

The cards appeared to be old, no dates included, most printed, few written in cursive, a skill that is no longer common because of the advancement of technology — typing or speech recognition software. I don’t know, being both paranoid and overly cautious, do I really want to tie myself to a wall? I’m not famous and no one knows my last name. This could be the only way to connect with family, but what are the odds? So, totally unlikely. I spent a few minutes reading, thinking dinner would arrive soon, needed to return to my seat, considering, should I — should I not?

Then I saw one, in cursive. A name, S. Tucker, I recognized. A brief description, a location. Removed it, slid it into my shirt pocket, heart pounding, now prepared to return to my seat.

When.

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