Dystopia Chapter 3: The Price of Admission

Appears for now enough talent and muscle on site. Men and women prepared to share their specialized skills in the establishment of a robust operation. I arrived late to the game, as an ex-teacher, a competent cook, carrying a tragic story, willing to follow directions. Evidently, there was some discussion about my added value to the community. My acceptance was not unanimous. I’m in and plan to remain under the radar, do what I’m told while avoiding scrutiny from select members of the establishment, the ‘committee’.

To the kitchen I went, working under the direction of Ms. Bishop. Gray-haired, grizzled, demanding, able to generate edible meals out of nothing, and did I mention controlling? She presented herself as a follow-me and keep your thoughts to yourself. Not a skilled conversationalist, then again, neither am I. This I could do. She was not one to take criticism well, nor fond of whiners. And since access to food was critical, and she controlled the ladle, it was wise to oblige her distinctiveness. Smile and eat whatever hits the plate. In my case, a plus for working in the mess, in a place where meals are served… scraps always within reach.

Ms. Bishop offered her culinary skills to oversee a not so well-stocked kitchen and empty pantry. When the new arrivals showed up, she cheerfully greeted them at the main gate. Let’s just keep in mind it’s about food for now. At this “meet and greet” session, she announced with vigor, with specificity, “To join the commune, you will need to leave all food items and cooking-related utensils with her.” And any beasts of burden and/or pets. This was not a well-received request, and excuses flowed freely. But… sorry, no buts, either drop off all food items or leave. The price of admission. Like I said, if you sought access, you needed to add capacity, value, a talent/skill, food, or, “sorry, move along.” And she expected your contribution to offset the number of members in your clan.

Some just left mumbling, a few countered her proposal, while others were foolish enough to challenge her position. Weathered. Gruff. No exceptions.

She politely exposed the handle of her pistol. The “security team” adjusted its posture. Besides this, on the nearby roofs, sharpshooters stood at the ready. Tough decision, no doubt, while Ms. Bishop waited. Her smile was now gone. This was not negotiable. Begging would not help.

Ms. Bishop nonchalantly under her breath mumbled, “Think this through.” She was not patient and would quickly break eye contact, shake her head, and turn away. Next. Exiting, some in tears, some angry, some threatening retribution, all broken.

Ultimately, if they chose not to ascribe to the expectations, sent on their way. Watched - no second chance. The choice was obvious; decisions were final. If they agreed, search teams stood at the ready to collect and break down all backpacks, search luggage, hidden compartments, and, to the owners’ dismay, watch as horses and wagons, led away by stable hands. Everything was now prescribed. Locked in. Welcome home.

Don’t argue with Ms. Bishop, single, never married, the oldest child of a large family responsible for the cooking and raising the younger offspring.

Mr. Maddox, assigned security, is a broad-shouldered man in his late forties, his build still solid from years of construction work. His hands are large and permanently scarred—knuckles nicked, fingertips roughened—telling a truer story of his past than he ever does. He speaks in a measured and economical way, as though every word costs him something.

Married with three children, Mr. Maddox carries himself with the guarded steadiness of a man accustomed to responsibility… and scrutiny. Once a contractor, later a handyman, his professional path narrowed until it intersected with controversy. Allegations that he stole and sold materials trail him still, the suggestion being that those materials were his “ticket” in.

He performs his duties with calm efficiency, but there is always the sense that he is calculating, weighing risks, tracking who notices what. Whether his vigilance comes from loyalty, self-preservation, or something more transactional is difficult to say. What is certain is that Mr. Maddox understands control and is unlikely to surrender his authority.

He established watchtowers. Negotiated mutual pacts — a truce to the west, a non-aggression agreement to the south. Mother Nature, indifferent as ever, handled the east and north — acres of cacti and critters doing what no fence could. Security post constructed. His team, supervised by Mr. Maddox, located and installed fences around the vulnerable section of the perimeter and built barricades.

The most mysterious member of the community, the mortician, his name — no one has a clue. Someone died; he appeared with his two helpers, collected the body, then left. Married? The two helpers, sons? We are not a close-knit family. Housed away from the main campus. A slight odor emanated from his workshop, his home. Smoke often rose from his place. Traditional burials… a lost art. On the positive side, someone delivered all their meals. They ate well. Nobody wanted his job.

The feared members of the community, members of the Scout Teams, currently two groups of five/six, charged with ‘liberating’ necessities, ‘acquiring’ donations, like wood or food, medical supplies, pretty much anything of value. They were the only members of the community who were free to leave, be gone for a few hours or a couple of days, then return with nothing or stuff, supplies, provisions delivered to the main workroom, headquarters. Distributed by the ‘committee’ housed in their building, protected. Being invited to their venue… not good. There are always ‘those guys’ in any institution. My aim was just to steer clear of them. But…

I digress. The Scout Teams. They received preferential treatment.

There was no guarantee that if five left, five would return. And if fewer returned than left, you hoped and prayed your slip did not say, SCOUT TEAM. Once in, assigned, there was no exit. Well, not totally true, defect, or meet the mortician. The rumor, ‘selected’, having irritated someone, or one of the ‘committee’ members. That’s why I keep my head down.

They all have a history: men who served in the military or law enforcement, wanted by the “law” or just a tad nuts. Heroes weirdly. Upon returning from a peregrination (fancy word, right?), a journey, met at the stables to display their bounty (and quickly taken to the building) for evaluation and distribution. They were sometimes successful, but they certainly knew how to tell a tale.

Duties to attend to, cuisine to be served, avoiding eye contact… stay invisible.

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