Dystopia Chapter 9: Ostracized

Heart racing as I attempt to catch my breath. A single shot echoed in my ears. Was I hit? Dying or already dead? Words now whispered from behind, “Leave.” The voice was familiar, soft. Pushed gently. I stood, then quickly and carefully stepped over the body and blood as I walked out the door, my revolver still holstered. Still hidden by my coat. Recent events, unclear. Hoping that in all the chaos, people running for safety, not aware of what just happened. I never looked back, never making eye contact with anyone. Seeking to conceal my identity. A wasted effort, to be sure, “the doctor killer” saga, mythos, spreading unabated. Hushed voices break the silence.

They say Max, the gunsmith, collected the visitors’ weapons. The mortician and team, on the spot, fulfilled their duties. His assistants carefully wrapped the stranger in plastic for disposal. Ms. Bishop received his saddlebags, emptied them, then trashed them along with his personal possessions. Several pictures, eight letters, one unread, a bar of soap, toothbrush, a clean set of clothes, flint, a few coins, ammo, and odds and ends. The stable hands made sure ‘mort’ entombed the saddle with the stranger. The horse, already brushed and fed, added to our stock. I scurry back to the roof. To my space. Knowing trouble will soon follow. I have no name, only an undeserved notoriety. Weeks where I will spend my time avoiding everyone.

After a rough night, I wake up to chatter, whispered rumors, and an inflated reputation.

Some will claim it was murder, others self-defense, and still others survival of the fittest. Everyone was just happy it was not their time.

“The one who killed the doctor? I hear the committee wants him,” voices said.

The law? A joke, I’m sure. I hear there’s been talk of some “martial law” committee overseen by a self-appointed “regional governor.” A gang to be avoided, seeking to control the resources, limited as they are, or offering protection for a price. A well-placed wanted poster giving bounty hunters employment and the governor a manageable staff. Should someone or a group undermine her authority? A fugitive recovery agent for hire. These units trounced our scout teams when encountered. Could this visitor have been an infiltrator, a stooge for the governor seeking information? What was happening in the Well? He appeared well-kept. Will they be looking for him? Expecting him to report back? What have I done!

Ostracized by many, except those few seeking to befriend my reputation. These were dangerous characters, reckless seekers of infamy. To be avoided! Young thugs.

Occasionally, someone will stop at the gate looking for a friend, family member, or even someone seeking to collect a debt. Or seeking revenge. There is a real possibility someone will miss the stranger and come knocking at the gate. What story will be told? A lie. It is also possible no one will really care or…

My current fear, that a witness will spread their version of the incident. Much of our current condition results from lies.

I hear my sobriquet bantered about simply “teach.” Could be worse.

Folks spinning yarns and chatting creatively this week’s entertainment. I was to be promoted, not based on any skill set, but on rumors. My skill set… scooping hash onto chipped plates, chopping and dicing, and following directions. I was about to receive an invitation.

Eyes covered, hiding from the world, replaying the evening. The surprised look, questioning how as his world darkens, hand pressing against the wound, knees giving way, slipping into darkness.

I had never pulled the trigger.

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