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Riding hard, choking on the dust, I pull up my mask. Wondering what next? Our reputation grows and stories will be told. Many will claim to have been there, in the room, and share their versions, undoubtedly hyped. We will face vilification and undoubtedly bounty hunters will seek us out. Surely Sandra will send her hooligans after us. Nothing of value accomplished today, absolutely nothing!
We arrived at the Well through the north entrance and quickly dismounted. For a moment, we let down our guard. Dust covered and soaked from sweat; we catch our breath. Bad news travels quickly and criticism would soon follow. Returned our mounts to the stable. Watered them. Gathered around to review the hole we have dug ourselves into again. Everyone was silent, so I stepped back and announced, “We will have a conversation,” and stormed away. Brushed and fed our rides. I struggle to contain my anger. Turning, I approach Addison wondering what the hell she was thinking, when Cord steps in between. Others circle around. Tensions mounting.
“What was that?” I shouted.
“You’re welcome!” she replied.
Was there a touch of sarcasm in her reply? Since arriving at the Well, my plan was... my current goal, simply to remain under the radar, do what I’m told while, following directions, avoiding scrutiny. To cook, to serve meals, clean up... then Emily and Earl changed the course of my life. Everything I attempt since backfires. Suddenly, from the main gate, we heard a commotion. A gun shot catches our attention.
Realize folks are yelling, “everyone to the main entrance, troubles headed our way.”
I repeat, “We will have a conversation.”
We quickly arrive and find Mr. Maddox shouting directions. Folks running about, weapons readied, seeking defensive positions. At the ridge, we see a small army of riders. They were settling into the house on the hill where we encountered the women and met with resistance. Where several of our Scout Team members died, those injured, still recovering from wounds. Thinking back realized that could have been us, except I walked away. Some community members called us cowards and blamed us for the deaths. Even now I could feel their stares, ‘hear’ their thoughts.
Mr. Maddox approached with several Committee members close behind. Angry. Thinking, Oh crap, this will not be good. “The WTF did you all do?” Addison pushes me forward. I’m sure each Scout Team member took a half-step back. I was about to be the target of his wrath. If lucky, a verbal target, but standing, exposed, a human target with few admirers.
“I said WTF did you all do?”
“We had an encounter with town folk?” I replied.
Realize there was a touch of sarcasm in my reply!
“You mean FAMILY? Your family. Our family is here within the Well. Your only job is to provide for us, not put us in danger, for which you receive payment, special consideration, special privileges... But now you have brought the powers to be upon us. Their demand is to turn you and your posse over to them, or else they will pick us off one at a time. We are prisoners within our own walls.”
What could I say? He was right. My leadership makes everything I touch get all tangled up. And every time someone is pulling my ass out of the fire. Still, here I stand while the team is drifting away.
About to speak, we hear a thud, then an echo follows. We turn toward the thud, a slight moan and see the Committee Leader appearing unsteady. He cocks his head, then slowly his knees buckle as he drops to the ground. Face first. Within seconds everyone scatters, seeking cover except me. I feel frozen in place, realizing I did not know this person’s name. If he had a family, anything about the slain man lying at my feet? Voices warning me, telling me to run, to hide. But I just stood there.
Looking at the house on the ridge thought there was no way they would shoot me. That would be too easy. Sandra wanted retribution to release her anger. To destroy all those around me.
Speechless, incoherent, I mumbled something; I turned and walked toward the stable. Wondering if they would shoot me in the back? I pass the community flagpole where a weathered, torn American flag hung. Next, the team table where the Scout Team met each morning served breakfast, sharing stories, appearing perhaps pompous. Nearby the kitchen and Mrs. Bishop, finally the ladder to the roof, my home for the past several years. My sanctuary. Where I occasionally entertained guests on a cold, wintry night. Warm bodies with a bit of conversation to break the stillness.
I realized I was being followed. Whispers, which I ignored. At the stable turned and there they were. “What do you want?”
Brett spoke first. “Time for that conversation?”
And of course, Frank inquired, “What’s the plan?”
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