Dystopia Chapter 41: Stand Off

I could feel my heart racing. Her breathing returned to normal. A shared warmth settled over our protective cocoon, comfortable even as the temperatures outside kept dropping, like in the high thirties with a light breeze, the air damp. She took my hand and slowly placed it on her outer thigh. Something stirred within. She pressed my hand and returned her hand to my other arm wrapped around her chest. My hand slowly traced the contour of her leg, from her bottom to her firm stomach. I felt her heart beating, breathing speeding up. She rolled toward me, now face to face, my hand now gently pulling on the small of her back. I nuzzled in her neck, her head pulled back while I continued to caress her softness. My hand slipped between her thighs, squeezed my hand, pulling herself closer. No words needed, nature at work, an act of intimacy in a world filled with heartache.

Indeed, the sun will rise, but for now we pushed the world away, holding onto a shared moment.

Tranquility broken, someone yelling, crawled in, entering my unit, “Jesse, are you here! We’ve got trouble at the front gate. Have you seen Addison? Oh, shit, sorry, didn’t know you had company. Mr. Maddox wants you now. I’ll go find Addison. Hurry, front gate.”

Surprised, I asked, “What the…”

“Someone claiming to be a regional Marshal with a posse, here to arrest you, claims to have your daughter and granddaughter under house arrest,” he said, leaving me holding alarming thoughts.

Head fuzzy, Addison peeked out, “Is he gone?”

We quickly dressed, leaving one at a time — Addison first, to the stables for our steeds and weapons. I headed to the main entrance, where a crowd had gathered. There stood Mr. Maddox, appearing peeved. Scout Team members headed our way; trouble. Walked slowly, evaluating the situation. Outside the entrance, about a dozen armed men, wearing some sort of “official” looking badge, had gathered. Armband. Each in a black button-down shirt with a matching kerchief. Several holding rifles aimed skyward.

I approached, stopped at the gate, and greeted our visitors. “Morning, I understand someone may be looking for someone?”

Wearing a black duster and black boots, standing about six-two, tipping the scales at approximately 250 pounds, a black hat, rifle in his right hand displaying a badge. Sizable target.

“I’m the regional Marshal. You’re under arrest. You’ll need to come with us.”

“Have we met?” I asked. “Who exactly are you looking for?”

A stuttered response. “Ah, you, ah, Jesse… you fit the description.”

“Description?”

“Yeah, the one on the wanted poster.”

“This person you’re seeking, does he have a name?”

“I already told you,” he said.

“Ah, so you said, and a last name?”

“Tucker.”

“By whose authority are you arresting this, Mr. Tucker?”

“Regional Governor.”

“Sorry I never met this Regional Governor. His name is?”

“Her name.”

“Whatever.”

“Asshole. You’ll either come with us or we'll have a major problem, and some here are likely to get hurt.”

From behind, I realized Frank, Joshua, and Addison now mounted approached. Addison, with my horse, handed me the lead, and I mounted. The posse was getting antsy. Folks scattered while I considered my options.

“I’d like to invite this Regional Governor to a meet-and-greet here. Is that possible?”

Raising his rifle and leveling it at me, he said, “Last warning.”

“Guess not. Just one last question, if I may.”

“Who is second in command?”

“It don’t matter.”

“It will be for him.”

“Okay, let’s meet this, Regional, whatever.”

Meanwhile, I saw the second Scout Team behind the posse, to their left, and the other team behind them, to their right. The posse, now surrounded, was nervous. Outside the compound, tensions rose.

“Mr. Maddox. Please open the gateway.”

He was not pleased, but unlocked and opened the gate slightly. His security staff was at the ready.

We moved forward en masse.

“Whoa, where do you think they’re going?”

“We go together… this is not open for debate,” Addison replied.

I turned and asked, “You know this is most likely a suicide mission, right?”

No response. I shook my head, knowing if the boot were on the other foot I would do the same. Pulling on the reins gently, I gripped my horse with my legs, cueing her to move forward. I exited and approached the Marshal, not sure what was to come next.

“I said only you. The others need to stand down.” His voice was tense. Others behind him, bunched together, now surrounded, considering their situation, drew together, realizing their exposure. Confidence melting.

“Drop your weapons, all of them,” he yelled.

My response: “I will but first look to your left.”

Of course he did.

Without hesitation, I pulled my pistol and aimed, cocked the hammer, pointing it directly at him. Quickly, two members of the posse pointed their rifles at me.

Raising my pistol toward the sky, I said, “Whoa, whoa, relax, wait a sec,” — pulling out a second weapon partially into view, I continued, “To be clear, we will not disarm, and finally, your mob needs to stand down. They’re making me nervous, so let’s be cool. No one needs to die today. And I assumed you want this, Mr. Tucker, alive?”

“You think we’re joking,” said Marshal.

Pointing, I said, “Tsk, tsk, you see Ms. Bishop, she’s my boss, I’m but a cook’s helper, she’s the kitchen manager, and note she is armed, and on the roof, snipers, to your left and behind, and, the right… so, you have a decision to make, do so with care.”

“We have your daughter and granddaughter. You want to see them again, right?”

I cocked my second pistol, re-aimed the first.

“Calm down, Marshal, you’ve got a name, like Jones.”

“Marshall Marshal.”

“Marshall, Marshal, you’re kidding, right? Anyway, I’m thinking, hell no. I have one small request.”

“We don’t negotiate,” Marshall Marshal insisted.

“You see, supposedly, you have two or more of some family under arrest, so you leave a couple of young guns here and when we return, they get to go,” I stated.

“Never gonna happen,” replied Marshall Marshal. “We have your daughter and granddaughter, remember,” yelling now.

“My daughter?”

“Well, again, relax. You have options. We can go but we keep our weapons; and invite your number-one and number-two dismount and, hang out, have some breakfast, to be returned when we return… or you turn around and ride away; or turn this into an OK corral scenario and ruin everyone’s day.”

“I’ve about had enough of your lip,” Marshal replied.

“Question… how many notches on your gun? How many men have you placed in the ground? How many wives have lost their husbands, children, their fathers because of you? You see, this was my family: my wife raped and beaten, children kidnapped. You wonder what kind of person I am, broken. My family today, look around, here we stand.”

“So… I can offer one more option. Fetch this family and the Regional Governor. Bring them here and let’s talk. And if I may inquire, do you have a wife, sweetheart, wife and sweetheart, child/children, friends that will miss you cuz the wrong choice, or a careless action, and you’ll be terminated, as will your number two, that I promise, and surely missed by someone.”

“I have an option,” a smirk appeared on the Marshal’s face. “I’ll let your daughter know where she stands in my special way. Daughter like mother, get my drift, and your granddaughter will certainly pay a price.”

The Marshal lowered his weapon, pulled the reins to turn his horse, and motioned the deputies to retreat. Suddenly, a shot echoed across the campus. His body slumped forward; a deputy to his right pulled his weapon around and attempted to engage. From nearby, a second shot, fired, hitting its intended mark. Two bodies slumped to the ground; others were no longer interested in engaging in a lost cause, hands up.

I moved closer to the posse, now surrounded by the Scout Teams, and asked, “Anyone see their miscalculation, their mistake? No one? Then you’re all idiots. Okay, now who is in command? No one?”

“Okay, I’ll keep this simple. Our mortician will tend to the bodies respectfully. The Regional Governor has twenty-four hours to send someone to collect the bodies, or we will respectfully cremate them. Finally, let the Regional Governor know we would like to meet him, or… I’m think-en her.”

Turning to Addison, I asked, “Why?”

“I don’t take to threats so well, and he’s touching no one, ever.”

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