Dystopia Chapter 29: The Evening's Entertainment

Watch as the wagon, our livestock, extra harnesses, miscellaneous junk, and concealed cash recede from my view into the darkness. The immediate challenges are to stay dry, keep out of sight, out of the wind, and find boots. And 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. Closed my eyes and sat back. The sounds and smells from the eatery were calling. Can’t unwind, too cold. Still on an adrenaline high.

Trying to sleep. Impossible. Screw the rest, 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, move, sloshing through puddles along a darkened street.

Memories surface through the exhaustion. The missing wagon with the money, the crew, Addison, my wife, my girls, and months searching for the attackers. Failure, then hiding from the past. I stumbled on the uneven surface, nearly falling forward. I kept my eyes ahead, moving toward the sounds.

The lights ahead pulled me closer. I can hear voices; the smell of cooking reminds me of my hunger. Not thinking all that well as I cross the cracked sidewalk, entering through a partially closed door with no plan in hand. Lights temporarily blind me, stop to take in the room as my eyes adjust. Tables with a few customers scatter about. Here I stand, shoeless, drenched, center of attention, grab an empty seat at a nearby table, sigh, and with head in hands wait, resting, exhale. Hoping a server would soon arrive. Conversations cease. I feel someone is approaching; I hope it’s a server.

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

Don’t look; maybe he will just walk away. A bad dream. He now stands just beyond the table, gun in hand. Place my hands gingerly on the table, pushing myself away from the table to a standing position, looking up, taking a moment to focus. “I’m sorry. Have we met before?”

I can 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, kind of.”

“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.”

A shot rang out. The front window shattered, glass dispersed across the room, and a mug exploded at a nearby table. Attention focuses on the window.

A bewildered customer fell back onto the floor while the drink in the mug took flight.

Frank stands to my right, weapon drawn. Cord enters through the kitchen door, moving to my left. Attention returns to me. “I remember now. We have met before.” Tension heightens as two others stand a few yards behind my challenger.

Addison steps from behind, placing a gun in my hand, then steps into my peripheral vision.

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

Addison approaches the threat. “Hands behind your back, please,” he turns slowly, where she places handcuffs on announcing, “I’m a US Marshall” a lie. A few customers grin as a five-foot, strawberry-blond cuffs, a six-foot brute.

Brett enters from the back with a sack carrying cash. “Gentlemen, 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 enters with a sack, collects the boots and weapons, and warns 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 grabs our handcuffed guest. A hostage for now. Throws a handful of silver rounds across the room, then tosses the sack onto the floor, while pulling our antagonist outside, forcing him onto the wagon. Followed by Cord and Frank. Finally, Addison and I hustle out the back. Now all mounted and riding. At the town’s edge, seems no one is following. Mile up the road, we drop off our hostage. “Where’s the key?”

“Oops, brilliant question, bummer to be you,” Addison answers.

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 Ms. 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 go our separate ways; for now I drag my fatigued body up a ladder, across the roof, into my corner, which better be empty this chilly night. Empty it is.

Hat off, belt off, confiscated boots off, I smiled when I noticed…there on my sleeping bag, an envelope addressed to Mr. Jesse Tucker.

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