Dystopia Chapter 29: The Evening's Entertainment

Despondently, I watched as the wagon, our livestock, extra harnesses, miscellaneous junk, and concealed cash receded from my view into the darkness. The immediate challenges were to stay dry, keep out of sight, out of the wind, and find boots. Then plot our next steps.

Where are Frank and Addison? Likely sitting around a table, enjoying a warm meal. The other members of the crew? Settling in for the night? What happens if they inadvertently encounter the wagon and the thieves? What about tomorrow? Breathe and get some rest. I closed my eyes and sat back. The sounds from the eatery were calling. Couldn’t unwind, too cold. Still on an adrenaline high.

Trying to sleep. Impossible. Gotta move. So I headed toward the spot I saw the wagon as it slipped away. Toward town. I’ll head toward the light from the restaurant. Collar up, hat down, moved, sloshing through puddles along a darkened street.

Visions filtered through my weariness. The lost wagon, our cash, team members, Addison, my abode, my daughters, lost love, a dead doctor, and failure. I stumbled on the uneven surface, nearly falling forward. I occasionally took a peek ahead as I moved toward the sounds.

Lights pulled me forward, like a moth to a flame — close now. I could hear voices; the smell of cooking reminded me of my hunger. Not thinking all that well, I crossed the cracked sidewalk, entering through a partially closed door with no plan in hand. The lights temporarily blinded me; I stopped to take in the room as my eyes adjusted. Tables with a few customers scattered about. Here I stood, shoeless, drenched, the center of attention. I grabbed an empty seat at a nearby table, sighed, and with head in my hands waited, resting, exhaled. Hoping a server would soon arrive. Conversations ceased. I felt someone approaching. Good god, I hope it’s a server.

“This is just not your day,” a male voice rumbled.

I felt as if someone had just stabbed me in the gut. Don’t look; maybe he will just walk away. A bad dream. He now stood just beyond the table, gun in hand. I placed my hands gingerly on the table, pushed myself up to a standing position, looked up, and took a moment to focus. “I’m sorry. Have we met before?”

I could vaguely see others in the shadows, observing, waiting for the drama to unfold. I had become the evening’s entertainment.

“Looks like you lost your boots,” he cackled.

“Well, kinda,” I responded.

“Case you forgot, I’m the one that directed you to leave town, remember, and now I have a problem, or actually, you have a problem.”

“I just need a minute to warm up, dry off, not looking for trouble.”

At that moment, a shot rang out. The front window shattered. Glass dispersed while across the room, a mug exploded at a nearby table, the slug finally embedding in the wall. The window drew attention, then the mug as liquid filled the air and its owner fell, landing on his back on the floor.

Frank stood nearby, weapon drawn. Cord entered through the kitchen door, moving to my left. Attention returned to me. “I remember now. We have met before.” Tension heightened as two others stood a few yards behind my challenger.

Addison stepped from behind, placing my gun in my hand, then moved into my peripheral vision.

“Set your weapon on the table, carefully, and turn around,” Cord ordered.

Addison approached the threat. “Hands behind your back, please,” she said. He turned slowly as she placed handcuffs on him, announcing, “I’m a US Marshal” — a lie. A few customers grinned as a five-foot, strawberry-blond Addison cuffed a six-foot brute.

Brett entered from the back with a sack carrying cash. “Evening gentlemen, FYI, with the help of the staff, we have filled our wagon; we will soon leave. As previously directed, with a few supplies for which we are now paying. And we will take boots. Everyone’s. Remove them quickly and place them on the tables with your weapons. And don’t do something stupid.”

Joshua now entered with a sack, collected the boots and weapons, and warned upon exiting out the back, “If anyone follows, he or she will probably regret that career choice.”

“So as directed, we will leave, heading west, with our sharpshooters watching, waiting for anyone leaving the building while we remain in range. My suggestion: sit back down, drink, and relax,” Addison said.

Brett grabbed our handcuffed guest. A hostage for now. He threw a handful of silver rounds across the room, then tossed the sack onto the floor, while pulling our antagonist outside and forcing him onto the wagon. Followed by Cord and Frank. Finally, Addison and I hustled out the back. Now all mounted and riding. At the town’s edge, it seemed no one was following. Mile up the road, we dropped off our hostage. “Where’s the key?”

“Oops, significant question, bummer to be you,” Addison answered.

Another mile up the road, home in sight.

Brett drove the wagon, filled with staples and kitchen supplies, into an empty livery yard. Here’s hoping Mrs. Bishop will arrive to gather up the consumables and kitchen supplies. Likewise, hoping the Committee will be pleased.

Exhausted, I need sleep. So many questions, but not tonight. We each went our separate ways; for now, I dragged my fatigued body up a ladder, across the roof, into my corner, which had better be empty this chilly night. Empty it was. Hat off, belt off, new boots off, when I noticed…

…there on my pillow, an envelope addressed to Mr. Jesse Tucker.

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