Dystopia Chapter 30: Message Delivered

A line forms at the front gate every morning. Mr. Maddox and his security team put safety measures in place to keep everyone inside safe. There are two gates at the entrance, plus guards, backup guards, and procedures. Walls of cactus all about.

Everyone’s just trying to save their own skin. There are a few safe places beyond the fence. Inside, we’ve kept it together, mostly. The committee dealt with the troublemakers swiftly.

We’ve hit our limit as a community, and there’s a shortage of supplies and resources. The rules are still the same. Ditch everything and follow orders without question to get in.

Yes, each member is merely a fixture, not a person. My goal was to be a nobody. Invisible. This has not worked out well, fate or bad luck.

Over the recent months, there has been a transition where assignments, which were random, drawn from a jar, have become systematized and codified. Once I spent my time in the kitchen. Now, a member of an identifiable team, a Scout Team, permanently hunting down provisions. With a price on our heads. Regrettably, our reputation has been growing recently.

Sitting alone this morning, just eating and minding my own business, not wanting to deal with anyone. Then a runner shows up and says, “They need you 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 approach, I see one male in the cage. Visitor temporarily confined, waiting at the entrance to the campus. I approached and asked, “Have we met before?”

“Morning.”

“Do you remember me?”

“Not really.”

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

No one knew I had a hidden disability, mild prosopagnosia, otherwise known as “face blindness.” I heard his words but struggled to find anything familiar in his face, voice, or mannerisms.

I stuttered. “How? Who are you? What do you want? Someone send you? Who sent you?” questions flowed 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, and never looked back.

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

Here I stood, center stage. Pulled the letter out of my pocket. In my hand, an envelope addressed to Mr. Jesse Tucker. I open it again, unfold 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, burn into my mind. An old wound opens. I have done my best to bury the past. To run from it. Yet feelings still linger. 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 sit, close my eyes, and let out a sigh. Calm for the moment. The nearby kitchen is noisy with pots and pans as people get ready for lunch. Whispers from nearby tables are spreading rumors. Folks say he’s a fugitive. A reward offered. And a bounty on the bunch.

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 continues. An old conversation replays. “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 walks 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 suggests.

“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 stares. “Also known as face blindness. A mild case. What does that mean? 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 remember our shared histories.”

“Damn,” Frank said.

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

Muted laughs shared.

Looking at the note, what haunted me even more was the word “knew.”

“I got this note.”

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