Dystopia Chapter 6: A Marked Man

AAwakened by the warmth of the sun, realized the recent rain shower had subsided. Chilly for now. I could hear movement nearby and felt the whispers. I lay quietly, eyes closed, inhaling and exhaling, repeating, replaying last night’s events.

“Crap, what did I do?” My life was about to change, and not for the better. I’m screwed. Maybe he’s not dead. A bad dream. Staring at the blue tarp, I replayed the facts, the sounds. He fired, first hitting the roof, then, silence. Seconds passed as I pulled the trigger slowly, knowing I had one opportunity to hit center mass. I felt the recoil and saw the shock on Earl’s face, Doctor Earl. I shot again and watched him spin, heard Emily scream while Earl crashed to the rooftop. Again, silence. It actually happened.

Time to face the day. I quietly slipped out of my cranny, took a minute outside while my eyes adjusted to the blazing sun beginning to cook the earth, and noted the cleanup team had done their job. No visible signs of last night’s confrontation, but soon there would be questions to address. My goal now is to head quickly off to the kitchen, a few co-workers already there with plenty to do.

Ms. Bishop was not interested in or willing to entertain much chatter. We’re on the clock. Work to be done, meals to be served, no time for reviewing yesterday’s event, and absolutely no interest. That’s life, so to speak. Another day in the Well.

Today’s headcount is now one hundred thirty-four.

Ms. Bishop controlled all the food. She made sure there were no hidden stashes of food. Any found outside of the kitchen… confiscated. No questions asked. Everything edible was in the kitchen, shelved and accounted for. Get caught hoarding, and you are gone, no excuses accepted, adios. All food grown and harvested was to be delivered to the kitchen. Several vertical hanging planters line the back wall, where the sun slips through windows and doors — a mini garden under skylights.

We swirled some seeds in jars of water for a few days, drained them, and then placed them on mats to dry before storing them in envelopes in a cool, dry location. Cool? Nearby, a filing cabinet held seeds for future crops.

One Scout Team returned this morning, empty. Alive, sure, with a few scraps of wood, odds and ends, nothing edible. Residents of the Well, disappointed but ‘cheered’ the effort. You dare not criticize them. At least not face-to-face.

Breakfast, prepped and then doled out with care. Every day the same. The cafeteria emptied, and the cleanup staff on duty. And should you wonder, yes, Ms. Bishop literally lives in the storage room with a weapon hidden under her pillow. This is her home: a cot, an old metal two-drawer filing cabinet that serves as a dresser, and a few candles to illuminate the space. On the table, a keychain, a torn picture, and a Bible. Took a peek; Romans 12:19-21 highlighted. Interesting choice of verses.

As I doled out food, folks ‘greeted’ me with zombie-like stares and moved on. Another day. Not sure how I felt about their reactions. Condemnatory. What if he gunned me down? Would someone else already occupy my space? Would Ms. Bishop have replaced me? Someone standing in this spot serving mush? Would anyone notice?

Something was off. Most of the time, folks would at least be pleasant, a ‘good morning’ mumbled or an occasional ‘thanks’, but not today. Disdain.

Emily walked by, refusing to look up. Another day. Another memory flushed. Heart as cold as a winter night. Likely conflicted, HE’s DEAD… he’s dead.

Meals served and cleanup done, everyone heads out, leaving me standing with Ms. Bishop, hand on hip, a used bar towel in the other, watching in silence. Voice measured, “You did what you had to do,” and walked away.

As the day slipped away, hut mates, curious, concerns were being shared, but I must admit I wondered how many looked at my space, my corner and desired the “unit.” Envious. The treatment was to be expected.

I did not know what gossip was creeping through the community beyond earshot. But I could venture a guess.

“He killed him, our doctor, jackass or not, dead.” Everyone has a “value” existing on a continuum from peon to hotshot, kitchen helper to medical staff, especially a doctor, a surgeon.

I had become a marked man.

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