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I’ve heard about these teams, men and women sent out to steal anything not nailed down by any means necessary. Once outside the fence you are vulnerable, facing roving bands of thieves competing for control of territory, hunting for materials, sellable supplies, and wood. An unspoken reason for assigning individuals to these units, they are freaks, thrill-seekers, unpredictable or expendable. Me, I killed the doctor. I’m expendable.
We had two scout teams, each team comprising six individuals ‘willing’ to exit the safety of the community to seek resources. Among each group was a wagon master, capable of handling a team of horses. A sundry, a mix bag of talents, each with a history. Some just pulled the wrong slip from the jar. Some, like me, “volunteered.”
It would have been nice if we could, as a community, exist totally self contained, unfortunately scarcity required seeking the area for resources, especially wood. Crude map sectioned areas out and every few days, a team would scout an assigned area and beg, borrow, or steal supplies. Success was rare and team membership changed because of skirmishes, altercations with like-minded hunters. Volunteers, sure, but rare. Rotating assignments, nope. A life sentence.
Once on an established team, there were advantages, prestige, a place of honor at the table. Better weapons, choice of mount, an assigned table where servers serve your meals, no standing lines. Extra portions. Both ‘honored’ and avoided, often challenged by an individual seeking a reputation.
Next Monday, as I approach the jar noted three men stood as if waiting. As I approached, one man placed the lid on the jar. The second placed a slip on the lid. The third said, “it’s decided that slip is yours.” I had heard stories that sometimes choices predetermined. No one had ever refused. For several days, since my encounter, waited, expecting to be called. Looking up beyond this trio standing in my personal space, observing was a familiar figure: Addison.
“I appreciate the…”
“It has nothing to do with appreciation. We hear you volunteered to serve. Time to step up.”
He stood there, slip now in hand, an arrogant smile encroaching in my area, full beard unwashed for days. The smell. Missing teeth. The other two, one on each side, antsy.
“Of course, volunteered,” pulled the slip already opened, read Scout Team number three.
“See Max for weaponry and ammunition. See the corral master and select a horse and saddle. Meet the team on the north side of the main campus. At the assigned table. You have three days to prep. Good luck,” again the grin.
“Those are my options?” I inquired.
“Option, sure, we escort you to the front entrance and wave goodbye as they close the gate behind your ass and then you are a marked man. Never come back. Seems you have resilience combined with a dash of creativity and, dare I say, luck on your side. Maybe you’ll survive, or maybe not.”
Number two adds, “And why you, cause you brought unwanted attention, some looking for the gunslinger, or the man that out drew three men, you get the idea.”
I feel the presences of someone standing behind, and across the room Addison readied, gun drawn hanging at her side. Why? Helping whom? Them, me?
“Go see Max.”
The third grinning, “and go see the mortician, get measured.”
Making eye contact with Addison. Wondered?
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