Dystopia Chapter 49: No Hidden Agenda

“I’ve seen wanted posters. He’s wanted, you’re wanted. Seems folks are hunting for your crew,” said Susan.

“Proves nothing. Today, this is about you.”

“You know folks in the room are watching… waiting… wondering why I would chat with a wanted killer. Especially one with a reward on his head.”

“Focus, please. Do you know the source of these posters? Who’s offering the rewards?” asked Cord.

“Sandra.”

“Close enough,” Cord replied.

“I’ve shared what I found, with no hidden agenda, evidence, my words, handed to you, for you. I’ve made a promise to seek the source of your pain. To find answers. I can empathize. I can recognize your desire for revenge, for retribution. It’s your play now.”

“Everyone has an agenda. Their truth,” she stated.

“My part is done,” Cord said, “and it’s up to you to contact Jesse and perhaps Sandra, meet on neutral ground and clear the air.”

Cord stood, stepping back. “I’ll share this conversation with your dad. Time for you to consider your next steps.”

Susan remained seated, not knowing what to believe. What is the truth? Years of hate harden the heart. Abused. She believed her father caused her pain. A hatred that bound her to her sister. Sitting, she looked into the faces of the room’s occupants, each filled with pain, sadness, greed, pleonexia, hell-bent on evil that permeated every member of society.

Why trust Cord? For the moment frozen. If only she had not survived! Molested. Instead, scarred. Hatred had been easy, had become a companion.

Cord’s voice dropped. “When we stand, you take my arm firmly, and together we walk out the front door. I’ll do the talking. We get your mount, walk to the edge of town, and after that you’re on your own.”

“Not sure this is a good idea.”

“Guess you’ll have to trust… me.”

They both stood. Two men entered the room from the kitchen with shotguns and spaced themselves out, each with a view of the cafe floor and entrance way. Cord took Susan’s arm firmly, pulling her toward the exit. One cowpoke interceded. “He’s not leaving, Susan. Step away.”

Cord flinched. “Don’t,” Susan whispered. From beneath her apron, Susan drew a Colt 45, raised it and cocked it. “My establishment, Joel, stand down now.”

Joel evaluated the situation. He checked to see if anyone was supporting his move. He paused, a mistake.

“Sandra will hand me my—” Joel began. A shot rang out, nicking Joel’s ear.

Joel grabbed his ear as blood trickled down his neck, quickly sat, eyes to the floor. Everyone, avoiding eye contact, returned to their business.

“My house. My call. You all know me, so don’t be a hero. The next round of drinks is on me.”

The walk to the exit seemed eternal. They retrieved his mount and hurried to the edge of town without incident.

“I’ll be in touch.”