Retribution Chapter 2: Broken Promises

Dare I say, déjà vu? From the wall, I watched as the clouds formed over the valley. Sandra would be twenty-one now. The oldest, a natural leader. Take-charge personality, fearless. Hardened by the times. By abuse. Now a self-proclaimed “Regional Governess” with a daughter. The father, unknown. She never had the chance that day to hear the truth. The facts. Her security team, eliminated. Betrayed, she is now determined to find me, seeking retribution: my death, the end of my team’s existence. Now the boss with a small army. A militia. Or, more accurately, a gang. Living six miles away in a secured facility, behind a high wall topped with barbed wire, watchtowers manned by armed guards. Is she also on Mrs. Eldridge’s payroll, paid to eliminate me? Why? Mr. Eldridge already sends Sandra a “stipend” to support her child. Susan received the cafe.

And the possibility of a child somewhere in the picture remains unclear. If the child is in Sandra’s care and the stipend supports them both, where is the child? Not with Susan. Possibly with Max or Mr. Eldridge. Could Mrs. Eldridge be hiding something from Mr. Eldridge? Or vice versa?

Spies nearby, hiding on the ridge, observing the community’s every movement, following the Scout Team every time we exit the Well. Agents, bounty hunters, professionals watching and waiting. And a standing order: kill anyone daring to wander about the Well. It’s crazy: people killed while hustling across the campus. Innocent bystanders, collateral damage.

Once, a business venture: guests invited in for an evening of rejuvenation, a meal, and entertainment. A source of capital. Supplies or silver rounds to barter. Word spread quickly. Enter the Well at your own risk. A catastrophic misadventure for all. Especially me.

Our neighbors to the west, once approachable, now keep their distance.

Our most recent acquisition, a small plot of land now home to the medical cage, our makeshift clinic, has increased our numbers. Establishing it to save lives cost lives. We’re pariahs now. A reputation gained, just not the kind anyone wants.

Sandra, set up by her sister. Susan, herself a pawn undone by a broken agreement. What resulted from that botched meeting? “White flag” stained with blood. Lives taken. Even I was a victim of the ruse.

Has Sandra reached out to her sister since? Is that relationship now dissolved? If so, the message, the facts, truth, any trust, whatever chance they had: crushed. She will continue to hold on to her disdain, her hatred. I doubt, to be honest, my death will, or could, ease her pain. The lie will haunt her forever.

And what about Susan? Nineteen now. Quiet. Thoughtful. Industrious. We blindsided her by imposing our plan, or, more specifically, Addison’s plan, the team’s plan, on hers. What happens should I appear at her doorway? Sandra would shoot first. Susan might hesitate. Might. Perhaps Cord should reach out. He seems to have made a connection. Awkward, considering the age difference. More father-daughter than anything else.

Life is complex at the best of times. A world broken, filled with broken promises, lives broken, everyone seeking something concrete to grasp. An ideology, a community, a hope that can sustain their existence. A social calendar.

For me, a group with a common cause. We follow directions, traveling about and finding scraps. Each of us carries a pain that, by chance, brought us together. Each escaping a past, attempting to add value to the Well, while oddly willing to crush anyone who objects to our intrusion. What are our options? Our goal, survival? Addison’s words drift to the surface. Family. This is our family. True for now, but change is inevitable. We all live on borrowed time.

Then there is Addison. After losing my family, I’ve done my best to keep everyone at arm’s length. Women like Emily: just a warm body. But Addison is slipping into my heart. A warmth not felt for years. Feelings compartmentalized, locked away, now squeezing under the door. This should not be. I cannot handle more loss.

The storm moved closer, the wind rising. Voices behind me, urging everyone to secure their possessions. Tie it down. Lightning cracked on a nearby ridge; sparks flew, and the air vibrated. The scent of creosote filled the air, musky and earthy, released from the resin on its leaves. Its Spanish name, hediondilla, loosely translates to “little stinker.” More memories.

Raindrops plopped to earth. A warm body pressed against my back, arms wrapping around me, pulling me close. “We need to get inside.”

Another deep breath. A sigh. “We do.”

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