Dystopia Chapter 30: Message Delivered

Daily, a line formed at the front gate. Layers of protection ensured the safety of those hidden within. Dual gates at the entrance point, guards, backup guards, and protocols. As the world continued its downward spiral, tribalism grew; danger and death followed. There were a few pockets of sanctuary. Somehow, we had held it together, with a few exceptions. Minor rebellions were quickly extinguished.

The problem: as a community, we were now maxed out, supplies and resources in short supply. The rules were unchanged. To enter, you must surrender everything and promise to be a fully engaged component, accepting whatever assigned task. Yes, a component, not a person.

Over recent months, there had been a transition: assignments, once randomly drawn from a jar, had become systematized and codified. Once I spent my time in the kitchen. Now, I was a member of an identifiable team — Scout Team — permanently hunting down provisions. With a price on our heads. Recent success expanded our reputation.

Still alone this morning, sitting, eating, minding my own business, wanting nothing to do with anyone, when a runner approached with a message: “You’re wanted at the gate.”

Me? Could this be the source of the letter? I’ve done my best to remain invisible, a stranger among strangers.

As I approached, I saw one male in the cage. A visitor temporarily confined, waiting to interview for entrance to the campus. I have a disability, mild prosopagnosia, otherwise known as “face blindness.” When I say, have we met before, it’s a legitimate question.

“Morning.”

“Do you remember me?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“I have a message. So, look carefully, because the next time you see me, you're a dead man and, FYI, I knew your wife. I know where your daughters are. And there’s a price on your head.”

I stuttered. “How? Who are you? What’cha want? Someone send you? Who sent you?” Questions followed, unanswered.

“Tell whoever is in charge of this dump, the next time we arrive, expect trouble unless they turn you over.” He turned, mounted his horse, then waited for the exterior gate to be opened, and rode away, followed by several others. They never looked back.

Questions flowed. We? Who was he and why me? I did not recognize him, and I knew not why he had hunted me down. A wanted man? What the…

Here I stood, stage center. I pulled the letter out of my pocket. In my hand, an envelope addressed to Mr. Jesse Tucker. I opened it again, unfolded a once-crumpled sheet of paper and read:

I know who you are; I know where you are; I knew your wife, and where your daughters are, sincerely. Unsigned.

The words I knew your wife burned into my mind. An ache I often felt returned. I had done my best to bury the past. To run from it. Yet feelings still lingered. Searching to find someone I likely would not even recognize.

Slouching, avoiding eye contact, I trudged back to the patio. Thoughts jumbled. How do I confront what I cannot recognize?

My daughters, alive, where are they? Are they nearby? After several years, would I recognize them? Of course I would!

I sat down, closed my eyes, and sighed. Quiet reigned for the moment. Around me, I could hear songbirds singing their stories, then the sounds of pots and pans and voices from the kitchen preparing for lunch, and muted voices at adjoining tables sharing gossip. “Did you hear? He’s a wanted man. A reward offered?”

Another: “He’s the one that murdered our doctor.”

“He leads the Scout Team, a bunch of hired guns.”

“Shh — whatever, they returned last night with a wagon full of provisions.”

“Yeah, but left a dozen dead, and now the law is huntin’ ‘em down.”

“Trouble a coming.”

The gossip continued. A past unrequited conversation surfaced. “You all have stories, consequential encounters. Some day we can sit around and reminisce. For now, I’ll just say it’s about family.”

Then Addison left, angry. “Family, look around. Today, this is family.” She walked away. They all walked away.

Team members arrived, each selecting their favorite seat. “Seems like you have a knack for finding yourself in a bind,” Addison suggested.

“It’s not my fault. Given the choice, I’d be in the mess prepping lunch, not creating a stir.”

“Are you familiar with prosopagnosia?” Frank stared. “Also known as face blindness. A mild case. What that means is, because I see you daily or certainly weekly in the same setting, I can recognize you, recall names and shared history. But let’s say Brett leaves for several months, then returns and greets me. It’s quite possible I would not recognize him. Now, after meeting, if we interact, it is likely I will have a revelation and, oh yeah, remember our shared histories.”

“Damn,” Frank said.

Addison snickered. “Simple solution. The next time someone asks if you remember them… shoot them.”

Muted laughs followed.

As I looked at the note, the word “knew” haunted me even more.

“I got this note.”

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