Dystopia Chapter 28: My Boots

Getting late, as I struggle to move forward under the ever-present heat. Legs feel heavy, and each breath is an effort. A sense of overwhelming sadness carries me along. Rain clouds lit by lightning brighten our way; Mother Nature displaying her power and her disregard for humanity. The smell of rain in the air as we walk along the south-side of Main Street.

With most businesses closed, vagrants now fill the doorways. Every city, large or small, is a heat island, isolated. At least the rain cools the ground as the temperature drops quickly; meanwhile, the humidity can become stifling. The air feels heavy. Clothing soaked with sweat.

The restaurant ahead holds many memories. It was where we met. Inside, storytellers recounted conquests or lamented losses. There are a few people out front, and a guy playing guitar on the porch.

Several watched 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 and likely vulnerable.

At the end of the lane, an automatic car wash, now deserted, offers cover for the night. We pull in and light a candle, water and feed the horses, and settle in for the night. Until Frank and Addison decide to check out the restaurant. They have a point. The purpose of this trip was to seek resources. Get a lay of the land.

Unknown to all, I once lived here, where I fell in love, married, and brought two daughters into the world. Behind the restaurant, a tiny apartment brimming with memories. Good times. Until.

They walked off, and I watched. I rest my eyes, take a breath, and exhale. I feel the metal 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, reeking man walked around and stood within my personal space. On his right arm, a red band.

“Remember us?”

“I recognized the smell.”

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

“My boots?”

“Did I stutter?”

I followed the directions, drenched in sweat and without boots. Armbands are red. Could hear the horses being hitched, and there goes our wagon. One ties his horse to the wagon and boards; the other thug places his gun on my forehead. Cocks the gun. “Bang,” then snickers. Away they all 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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