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Awaken by the warmth of the sun, no rain, cool for now. I could hear movement nearby and felt the whispers. I laid quietly, eyes closed, inhale and exhale, repeat, 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 is not dead. A bad dream. Staring at the blue tarp, I replayed the events, the sounds. He fired, first hitting the roof, then silence. Seconds passed as I pull the trigger, slow, knowing I had one opportunity to hit center mass. I felt the recoil and saw the shock on Earl’s face, Dr. Earl? Time passed, and I shot again and watched him spin, heard Emily scream while Earl crashed to the rooftop. Again, silence. It happened.
Quietly slipped out of my cranny, took a minute while my eyes adjusted to the blazing sun, and noted the cleanup team did 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 with plenty to do. Ms. Bishop was not interested or willing to entrain such 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.
Today’s head count, now, one hundred thirty-four.
Ms. Bishop controlled all the food. There were to be no hidden stashes of food. Any found outside of the kitchen was to be confiscated. No questions asked. Everything eatable was in the kitchen, shelved, accounted for. Get caught hording, and you are gone, no excuses accepted, goodbye. 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 or placed under sky lights. Some seeds placed in jars of water for a few days swirled, drained, then placed on mats to dry, eventuality stored in envelopes in a cool, dry location. Nearby, a file holding seeds held for future crops.
One Scout Team returned this morning, empty. Alive, with a few scraps of wood, odds and ends, nothing eatable.
Breakfast prepared, then doled out with care. Every day is the same. Cafeteria emptied and cleanup staff for the week on the job. And should you wonder, yes, Ms. Bishop literally lives in the storage room. This is her home, a cot, an old metal file cabinet serves as a dresser, and a few candles to illuminate the space. On the “table” a key chain, 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 zombie like, and move on. Another day. Not sure how I felt about their reactions. What if he gunned me down? Would my unit already be occupied? Would they 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. No eye contact, no acknowledgment.
Emily walked by, refusing to look up. Another day. Another memory flushed. Heart as cold as a winter night.
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 do what you have to do,” and walks away.
As the day slips away, hut mates, curious, concerns shared, but I must admit I wondered how many looked at my space, my corner and desired the “unit.” 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, jerk 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 was a marked man.
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