Dystopia Chapter 44: Exit, Stage Right...

We entered the ranch-house; our eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. Everything looked neat as a pin, strangely spotless, and almost sterile as we surveyed the area. We walked down a short hallway that eventually led to an empty room, sparsely furnished: a table surrounded by a dozen metal folding chairs, a fake potted plant in the corner, and a small metal bookcase with several well-aged books. The walls were white.

Pointing, someone ordered, “Sit there, in front of the window, hands on the table, palms up.”

The two from the roof were now stationed at the doorway. Emotionless, watching their leader.

Sitting across, she began, “I’ve got maybe five minutes. I’ll say this once. They watch your gang every day. The regional government employs… spies. Every day observed. They watch your community. We were advised or threatened. Told you would eventually approach us, make some kind of offer, a deal, whatever. If we reciprocated, they, the militia, would crush us. A woman not to be trifled with directs this cabal, lacking compassion and not fond of you. Whatever you had done has left her with an intense desire to garner revenge.”

“For now, think of us as a ‘honey pot,’ a lure designed to draw you in. And here you are. My advice, stay away!”

“Do you want us to stay away?” Addison asked.

I could see by the long pause that there was more. Were they detainees in a ‘prison’ subjected to mistreatment? Physically or mentally abused? Or taken care of. If so, I wondered at what cost. The words ‘honey pot’ still echoed in my mind. Addison broke the silence once again.

“Again, do you want us to return?”

Silence. The situation was surreal.

“Your name?” I asked.

“Claire.”

“How many occupants?”

Without hesitation, she said, “Twelve. Time is up. We will escort you to the end of the drive, at which time you need to exit stage right quickly. Do not look back.”

“One last time, do you want to leave?” Addison repeated.

Claire and Addison made eye contact for mere seconds, and I wondered what had passed between them.

Intervene? It will be a drain on our resources that will wear everyone down. The escalation, potentially deadly.

Withdrawal? It will anger many, especially the committee seeking expansion. Is this it — just sit and stare? A warning, or what? This all made no sense.

Raising my hand, I said, “I have a question.”

The guards responded to my movements.

“We’re done. Stand up,” Claire ordered.

“What’s the —”

“Shut up! Get up.”

I stood and headed out. I noticed the smell of wet soil and light shining from an attached room — perhaps a garden. Did I hear a moo? On the table lay a torn scrap of parchment, scribbled with a single word: la ayuda. Outside, I approached our mounts. When I turned to ask something, I found myself doubled up on the ground, clutching my solar plexus, gasping for air, eyes watering, a rifle barrel at my head. I heard a gentle voice whisper, “Sorry.”

Struggling, I mounted my horse and, with Addison, headed toward the exit, the guards following close behind. Without looking back, we headed home. As we rode in silence, recent events cluttered my mind.

Was this a well-rehearsed ruse? Outreach, a plea for help?

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