Retribution Chapter 3: The Storm Within

We retreated to our cubicle, the sky darkening, cloud cover thickening, hail tapping on the tarp, the worst of the storm still to come. Outside, the temperature was dropping. Inside, we held ropes attached to our makeshift ceiling, the wind tugging at our lives. A wind gust can last minutes; the rain for hours. With luck, the wind will subside quickly. We collected rainwater, but it was often toxic, filled with “forever chemicals,” perfluoroalkyl and polyfluoroalkyl substances, considered by scientists unsafe for long-term consumption. “Treatable,” but only with considerable effort. These chemicals in the air we breathe, the water we drink, the rain that falls on our community, and now found in our blood. We created them. Followed by regret.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Addison said.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

A pause. “The past… the present… what’s next for us?”

I could feel her waiting for an answer. The wind subsided, but the rain continued. Voices from nearby merely muted whispers. Options few. No doubt she already knew.

“And?” she asked.

“I need to deal with Sandra and her animosity. She’ll keep coming until she finishes what she started. My presence endangers everyone,” I whispered. “Either I move on or confront her.”

“We move on? You mean, run away?”

“Call it what you will. I need to move on.”

Silence as Addison pulled closer. I sensed her sadness, her desperation, at what she believed I was suggesting. But for a moment, only quiet, then... Lightning struck close, a flash — one-one-thousand — a clap of thunder. We felt the blast. We flinched and instinctively hunched down, pulling closer together.

The wind howling again, the polyethylene snapping, we each held fast to the tarp, a thin membrane separating us from the downpour. Minutes ticked by. The center of the storm moved on. Still, the rain pummeled our shelter. Beneath our pallets, water sought escape through narrow slits in the wall’s base. Not quickly enough. It rose, covering our floor, soaking our wood and belongings, and soon our bedding. We waited; we watched. In our laps, the essentials: sleeping bag held high, weapons, timber, and burnable scraps. Whenever we thought the rain was letting up, the steady patter on leaves and earth resumed as Mother Nature answered back.

Outside, rivulets filled, streams rose, washes overflowed; somewhere downstream, runoff consumed anything in its way. Ms. Bishop would be at work, waiting for the workers to appear. The night shift. Rain or not, people would expect a meal to be ready.

“I need to go now.”

I pulled away. Leaving her with her thoughts, I exited, dashed across the roof, pelted by raindrops. In the kitchen, as expected, Ms. Bishop was directing her staff. Food in short supply. No one happy, the preparers, the eaters. Grumblers all. Poor nutrition, toxic air, viruses doing well, aging masks worn. Even then, in the dark, despite the ultimatum, lines formed at the front gate, seekers begging for entrance. Rebuffed. They set up makeshift shelters, waiting for sunrise. Only to be denied again.

Spirits crushed, I said, “Ms. Bishop, I fear I need to give notice.” I heard the words; they sounded stupid. In my mind, I heard her answer before she gave it. Hoping to hear a spot of encouragement, hoping she would care.

Without looking up, she said, “You do what you have to do.”

That was it? A few workers quickly glanced up, then returned to their tasks. I slowly backed away, turned, and left. I walked to the medical cage to see Diana, share my decision, and wish her well. At her door, I heard a familiar voice. Frank? I retreated. I wandered under the cover of night, feeling abandoned. Waiting for morning. Seeking a dry spot to huddle, wondering if the world would be, or will be, a better place should humankind become extinct. Sunrise. Back to the serving line for the last time.

After breakfast was served, I waited at our table and looked around. That morning, gray and gloomy, the air thick and damp, I stared into space, considering my plight.

One by one, the Scout Team members arrived, all looking frayed, having seen better days. What did I know about these people? I searched my memory and found only bits and pieces and speculations. For now, they had united in thought and purpose, ready to plan together and execute those plans for the betterment of the unit. Since the ultimatum, no one dared leave the Well. Even the Scout Team members struggled. Looking around now, I avoided making eye contact.

Brett arrived first. Late forties, six-two, a ready smile. A former PI and sometime bounty hunter who tracked the missing, the lawbreaker, the runner. Capable of engaging and communicating with others. An investigator, by nature, a rule-follower. A believer that there is good in most, he listened, quickly picking up clues others missed, able to build trust but equally adept at spotting lies and BS, while smiling. Quick to build friendships. A natural father figure. A role I seemed unlikely to play. Neither looking for nor running from peril. Seeking stability, not necessarily a permanent home. Next…

Joshua, tough as a kid, had a special talent for trouble. In his early years, he hooked up with shady characters, often finding himself one step ahead of the law. His parents had dropped him off to be raised by an aunt and an uncle, both of questionable character. Supposedly, a misunderstanding led to his uncle’s death, and his aunt, a smooth con artist, eventually conned the wrong person. Meanwhile, Joshua was out and about making friends and living on the wild side of the street, like his aunt, a hustler. She taught him well. He became handy with a gun and a skilled gambler, often in the mix on nights scamming our visitors. Unlike Brett, not fond of rules. Lately, tired of running from the law. Heading for Mexico, maybe? Hiding here for the moment. His wanted poster placed his age at mid-thirties. No formal education, self-taught, a reader with social skills and street smarts. An eye for detail. Once he figured out the difference between bad trouble and good trouble, he ended up at the Well in security with Mr. Maddox.

Frank, the youngest, was the looker in the group. Carefree with an eye for mischief, his capacity to overplay his hand had a definite downside. A smooth talker, and the ladies, well, he attracted them. Which, again, had a definite downside. He was everyone’s friend, chatty. Well-educated, apparently raised with money. He claimed his parents, tired of his lavish lifestyle and of buying him out of difficulties, had cut him off. He knew how to insert himself into the social scene with ease. His age? I’d guess early twenties.

Cord looked young, but claimed he’d served in the U.S. Army for twenty-five years in reconnaissance and undercover assignments and as a scout. If you believe his story, late forties. Skilled horseman, accomplished marksman, preferred to stay in the background, never one to overstate his position or talents, and loyal to a fault. Running from his past and the nightmares that haunted him.

Addison arrived, completing the original six. Blonde, blue eyes, well-educated, and lethal. She spoke her mind and was decisive in all situations. A daddy’s girl raised to be self-sufficient socially, academically, and, as a preacher’s son found out, deadly.

Her age, thirties. Our growing relationship, I feared, would not end well. Something we were not seeking. It just happened. I had promised myself it would not.

Forced into a “leadership” role by a mistake, then a series of unfortunate events, stories claiming skills I do not possess, lies. It was time to face reality. To own my failures. A fraud.

Addison looked around at us. “Well, guys, what’d I miss?”

We had spent a bit more than a year together, facing multiple challenges and trusting each other. What next? A year sitting around this table in the rain, blazing heat, struggling against an invisible foe, nature, humanity determined to self-destruct. Continually blaming others. Surrounded by packs of survivors. All fearful, lacking in… a tangible future, hope. Doing what needed to be accomplished in the moment to reach the next moment, hour, day.

“Mr. Eldridge has gotta know the entire story,” I said. “I need to go. Once I’ve vacated the Well, you can all continue your ‘duties’ here.”

Cord stood and looked about. “To be honest, it’s time for me to move on, and I made a promise.”

From the shadows came a familiar voice. Diana, our seventh, late to the table as always. “What promise?” she asked.

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