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Getting late, unfortunately the heat ever present, rain clouds forming, the smell of rain in the air as we head along the south side of main street. Most businesses were now closed, each filled with vagrants. Every city, large or small, a heat island. At least the rain cools the ground as the temperature drops quickly, meanwhile the humidity can become stifling. Breathing an effort while clothing soaked with sweat. Lights ahead, a restaurant now filled with memories approaching. From within voices, laughter, storytellers telling of their conquest or whining, or stories of loss. Small group outside, a musician entertaining a group with his guitar under the cover of a porch. Several others watching as we passed. Could be trouble as they whisper among themselves. Nodding in our direction. Each with a red band on their upper arm identifying them as a member of some group. We just appear lost.
At the end of the lane, an automatic car wash, now deserted, offers cover for the night. We pull in and light a lantern, water and feed the horses, and settle in for the night. Until Frank and Addison decide to checkout the restaurant. They have 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 watch as they walk away when I feel a barrel of a gun press against the nape of my neck. My heart skips a beat. A voice confirms my predicament, “Sh, just relax, place your hands behind your neck.” A bearded, smelly male walks around and stands 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?”
Here I sit, bootless, drenched with sweat, lightning flashes exposing their faces, missing teeth and all. Arm bands are red. And there goes our wagon. One ties his horse to wagon and boards, ass-hole places his gun on my foreheads, snickers. “Psyche” Away they go, 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.”
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