Dystopia Chapter 20: First Encounter

No one was currently about; the stable was 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 was clear, the sun setting. 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 had called it a day.

Fossil fuels, once predicted to last another 50 years, could now generate less than 15 percent of global power — available only to those fortunate enough to control them. The power brokers, the affluent, controlled everything. Wind power was unpredictable; replacement parts were nearly impossible to find. Mechanically inclined people and artisans with marketable skills were in short supply, especially medical professionals.

I first encountered an outbuilding. Inside, a blacksmith was stoking a fire as he completed a project. A quicklime lamp spilled light out of the entranceway 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, wooden shutters pulled down to hide the interiors. Barred windows and doors keeping undesirables out.

Continuing, I saw individuals with beverages at concrete tables scattered throughout common areas and walkways. More peaceful than I expected, considering the number of gunshots I would hear overnight seemingly from this direction. This all appeared 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 were now the currency of choice. I hired the guys to tend to my mount. Paid up front, here’s hoping I wouldn’t get ripped off.

I 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, the best I could in the dimming light. 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 was bug-based. Then again, not exactly sure what was drifting in the grub, figuratively or literally.

My eyes adjusting, focusing, the server stepping into my circle of light startled me. I thought I saw. Could it be? My throat tightened, hands clutching the table. Of course not. Get a grip. “What can I get you?” she asked.

I 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 asked.

“Ah, yeah, thanks,” I mumbled.

The room was silent; folks were still watching. I really needed to get out more. Conversations slowly popped up, in whispers and side glances.

While waiting, I sat back, trying to look unapproachable. I noticed across the room index cards tacked to a bulletin board currently being reviewed by a dust-covered guest. I approached and inquired why the cards were there. Irritated, I was imposing on his time and space.

“Folk looking for folk,” he said simply.

“Thanks,” I replied.

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

The cards looked old, and they didn’t include any dates. Most cards had printing, but a few included handwriting in cursive, a skill that typing and speech recognition had now largely replaced. 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, and needed to return to my seat, considering, should I? Should I not?

Then I saw one in cursive. A name I knew: Susan Tucker. A brief description, a location. I removed it, slid it into my shirt pocket, heart pounding, and turned back toward my seat.

That's when the room went silent.

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