Dystopia Chapter 11: Scout Team Three

I’ve heard about these teams, selected 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. And bounty hunters, crude wanted posters with attached rewards. Dead or alive.

An unspoken reason for assigning individuals to these units, they are freaks, thrill-seekers, often unpredictable or expendable. I killed the doctor. I’m expendable. Add to that the recent confrontation and the stories that followed.

We currently have two scout teams, each team comprising six individuals ‘willing’ to exit the safety of the community, the Well, to seek resources. Among each group was a wagon master, capable of handling a team of horses. A sundry, a mixed 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 have existed as a self-contained community. Unfortunately, scarcity forced us outward in search of resources, especially wood. Crude maps divided the surrounding territory into sections, and every few days a team would scout its assigned quadrant, begging, borrowing, or more often plundering what remained.

Success was rare. Membership changed frequently — casualties from skirmishes, altercations with predators much like ourselves. Volunteers? Occasionally. Rotating assignments? Never. Once chosen, it wasn’t a tour of duty.

It was a life sentence.

Once on an established team, there were advantages: prestige, a place of honor at the table. Better weapons, choice of a horse, an assigned table where servers serve your meals, no standing in lines. Extra portions of grub. Both ‘honored’ and ‘avoided’, often challenged by individuals seeking a reputation. Members often criticized and mocked behind their backs.

Next Monday, as I approached the jar, I noted three men stood as if waiting. As I neared, 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 on my space, full beard likely unwashed for days. The smell. Missing teeth. The other two, one on each side, were 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. In three days, meet the team on the north side of the main campus. At the assigned table. You have three days to get your affairs in order. Good luck,” again the grin.

“Those are my options?” I inquired.

“Option… sure, we’d gladly 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 outdrew three men, you get the idea.”

I feel someone standing behind me. Across the room Addison readied, gun drawn hanging at her side. Why is she standing there? Helping whom? Them, me?

“Go see Max.”

The third grinning, “and go see the mortician, preregister.”

Turning, making eye contact with Addison. I wondered?

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