Dystopia Chapter 8: You Judge

As the weeks crawl by, a few, usually unattached males, in various stages of wear gather at the main entrance, all in need of whatever we offer. What we will offer for a price. Clearly, we have little but will exchange, or trade when it severs our community.

How they gained their tradable “treasures” is of no interest to us, only that they possess a fungible quality.

They arrive and announce, “I’ve got a bundle of wood.” Or some groceries, or silver rounds; a few had gold.

Staff checked out the items. If barter is a possibility, they’re waved in, the individual (through a second gate). Security and sharpshooters are always on high alert. They would deal with gate-rushers without pause. Should the trade be unfavorable, the vagabonds redirection away… promptly.

If a deal achieved… their horse, should they posses one, taken to the stable to be fed and brushed. The bounty collected. The Guest, then taken to the main dining room. Enter. Stopped inside the doorway. Then directed to remove all firearms and/or knives. Agents will watch as guests place these items on the adjacent table. Receipt presented. Someone moved the weapons to an adjacent room.

Visitors are always upset. Complaints ignored.

“What the f……, no one told me.” Two security staff now approach our guest and repeat the request. Mr. Bishop is often nearby, supervising the collection.

“Place your weapons on the table; we’ll return them upon your exit.” Always a tense moment. So many ways this could go south. Trust no longer carries any weight, just an archaic word. Seconds pass.

Do or don’t — the only options. The plastic sheet covering the floor below has a purpose.

Finally, the hungry guest relents. Weapons collected and moved. The guest(s), directed to a poorly lit ‘dining’ area, seated, served the stew, a taste of alcohol, bread with butter, and peach cobbler. Actually, a tasty meal, assuming the evening proceeds without incident? Female servers chat up the guests while security stands about, ready to intercede if anyone gets out of line.

Weeks pass and the word spreads. Before sunset, a line forms. Using this process, we quickly reach capacity. A guaranteed ticket, wood or medical supplies. Considering the global state of affairs, it’s surprising what folks possess.

There are multiple points of conflict: the gate, the check-in, stabling the horse, and the entry where weapons quickly gathered and secured. Conflicts fortunately resolved, so far. Friendly welcome extended, physical warmth, perceived normality, a meal, interaction with people, time to relax. “Can I stay?” is always the question.

“Nope, sorry. Stop by again.” Finally, sent on their way.

My week had arrived to serve at the entryway, greet and meet. With a swagger, the next guest approaches. The hair on my neck stands up… adrenaline, a feeling? The guest, a young buck, had that look… cocky.

“Greetings, welcome.” I said.

“Evening,” spoken while surveying the room.

“Please place your weapons on the table. Secured then, we’ll return them upon your exit.”

“NO,” he said.

Silence. Waiting. An uncomfortable pause. Wondering his intention.

“Sorry, we cannot seat and serve you until you disarm. I assure you, we will return your weapons. And as you can see…”

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen. I’ll keep em, unless you think you can take em.”

There is a fine line between confidence and foolishness. His appearance differs from the regular arrivals. Clean-shaven, clothes clean, new boots… is that Old Spice I smell?

Why, during my week, would I get that one person who intended to choose to push back? He presented himself determined, ready to prove a point at someone’s expense, mine. I expected the threat to follow. I knew he was faster. Speed was not my superpower. Since ammunition was limited… practice… nonexistent.

“You noticed the two agents?” I said.

That condensing look. “You don’t appear to be all that skilled, likely never used your gun, surely faced no one down. So, back-off old man.”

Harsh, but true, and pretty sure no one would come to my aid, and best guess some rooting for this character.

“Well, for the last time, place your weapons aside, please.” As if.

“Better idea. I’ll let you draw first, then I’ll drop you and the guy to my left, then right.”

“You’ll never see those two topple. So again, shall we give it a go?”

So smug, the room was quiet, with the few standing behind slowly slipping away. Stepping out of the line of fire. I could disengage. What the heck. Confident that no one else would be intervening. Unlikely, the two additional guards were interested in stepping forward. Really, why die because they just drew a slip of paper? I swear the one was grinning. Assigned to protect me, the one that shot the doc? Did they just take a step back?

Stood slowly. Duster was open. Pulled the left side back away from my holster. Exposing my revolver. Slowly, don’t show fear. (I’m a dead man.) Put the right hand under the right side of the coat, reached behind to pull the left side of the duster back away to clear the left side, then used the left hand to push the duster back.

He adjusted his right hand. Twitchy.

Removed the strap of leather over the thumb break.

In one motion, I pulled a revolver from my back holster, SOB (small-of-back) holster, aimed center mass, and squeezed the trigger, all to the surprise of our guest. It was over. Buckled at the knees, dropped to the floor, yet to move his hand. No expression, just fell face first onto the plastic, the floor, as blood oozed out, absorbed by his shirt.

You judge, was this self-defense or murder? I was still standing, but alive.

I had never pulled the trigger.

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