Dystopia Chapter 33: Fresh Gossip

I am not sure how long I huddled alone, drooling, perched in the corner. For most of the night restless, I slept poorly, stiff, until finally jolted awake. I was still alive. Wondering how? My disadvantage was clear. The egg timer, emptying, and my final thoughts. I’m a dead man.

My fault. I was there, at the gate, sensing trouble; in the room, my lack of fortitude and capacity to decide. Frozen. Was I brave or stupid? Or do I have a death wish?

The sun was now high in the sky, and hunger pangs announced it must be at least mid-morning. Eyes opening, adjusting to the light, taking a big breath, a quiet presence nearby. Slowly realized she was there, sitting nearby, reading. Easy on the eyes, educated, and likely born into wealth. Stop! I promised I’d never get involved again.

She said, “Folks have accused you of killing dozens — when in reality, a real gunfighter you are not; you killed one drunk doctor months ago. And… the best he could do in his defense was shoot a hole in the roof.”

“What about John Smith?” I asked.

Addison said dryly, “A dozen witnesses, a dozen stories. Imagine all the fresh gossip you have produced. Folks will sit around for weeks, telling how they witnessed you outdrew men that never actually existed.”

“What,” I mumbled.

“The recorders were writing your epitaph, the mortician building your casket, and grave diggers digging, and then you somehow miraculously walked away.”

“All the workers completed their tasks. Just for another.”

“And why are you here?” I said.

“For this chat and get you moving,” she answered.

“Give me a moment. I need to gather my thoughts.”

“Nope. We are gonna exit this shelter. Prepare to be blinded by the sun. Then walk to our special table and meet up with the team, have some brunch, and talk about the weather,” she said.

“I feel like…”

“And you look… ruffled.”

We headed off looking as invisible as possible, ignoring the side glances and muttered comments. Doing my best not to make eye contact. The team was already at our table with a little fruit and a basket of rolls with butter and tea. Wow, by most standards, a feast. Greetings all around, while Frank noted the sunny, warm weather.

Small talk while we avoided last night’s disruption. I felt like I was clueless, missing something, not fully aware of what had happened. Odd person out, unaware of events after I walked away. My weapon, gone. Noticed eyes no longer on me. What the… there it was in the middle of the table. “How?”

“Must’ve been adrenaline,” Frank said.

“Should anyone ask, you deny any knowledge of the evening, which in this case is likely,” Brett said. “Nothing changes; tonight, same place, same time, same duties.”

By now, stories had spread throughout the campus — wildly exaggerated, stitched together from fragments by people who’d scattered the moment trouble started.

From then on, we would need contingency plans — the unexpected, it seemed, was inevitable.

Brett asked, “Have you ever met that man?”

“No.”

“Okay, so let me enlighten you. He is or was a hired gun. He was most likely here for a reason. You being the reason.”

“Why?”

Then I recalled a recent threat… the note. I pulled it out and read, Mr. Jesse Tucker, I know who you are; I know where you are; I knew your wife; you are a dead man. Sincerely.

“What did he look like?” Brett said.

“Prosopagnosia?” asked Frank.

He could walk up and introduce himself, pull up a seat, and engage us in a lively conversation, and I would never recognize him, as if meeting him for the first time.

Time for a little transparency.

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