Dystopia Chapter 28: My Boots

It was getting late, and unfortunately the heat was ever-present. Rain clouds were forming, the smell of rain in the air as we headed along the south side of Main Street. Most businesses were now closed, each filled with vagrants. Every city, large or small, was a heat island. At least the rain cooled the ground as the temperature dropped quickly; meanwhile, the humidity became stifling. Breathing was an effort; clothes soaked with sweat. Lights ahead marked the restaurant, now filled with memories, drawing closer. From within voices, laughter, storytellers telling of their conquests or whining, or stories of loss. A small crowd gathered outside, a musician entertaining a group with his guitar under the cover of a porch. Several others watched as we passed. Could be trouble as they whispered among themselves, nodding in our direction. Each with a red band on their upper arm, identifying them as members of some group. We just appeared lost.

At the end of the lane, an automatic car wash, now deserted, offered cover for the night. We pulled in and lit a lantern, watered and fed the horses, and settled in for the night. Until Frank and Addison checked out the restaurant. They had a point. The purpose of this trip was to seek resources. Get a lay of the land. Unknown to them, I once lived here. At the back of the restaurant, in a small apartment with my wife and two daughters, and memories. Good times, until. Until that fateful night.

I watched as they walked away when I felt the barrel of a gun press against the nape of my neck. My heart skipped a beat. A voice confirmed my predicament, “Sh, just relax, place your hands behind your neck.” A bearded, smelly male walked around and stood within my personal space. On his right arm, a red band.

“Remember us?”

“I recognize the smell.”

“Funny guy, now have a seat next to the wall and remove your boots, please.”

“My boots?”

“Did I stutter?”

I complied. Here I sat, bootless, drenched with sweat; lightning flashed, exposing their faces, missing teeth and all. Armbands were red. And there went our wagon. One tied his horse to the wagon and boarded; ass-hole placed his gun on my forehead, pulled the trigger, snickered. “Psyche.” Away they went, with everything… including my boots.

Reminded me of an old song, “If it were not for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.”

I sat shivering with wet socks and one toe exposed when a single shot startled me from across the roadway where Frank and Addison had recently ventured.

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