Ain't Talkin'
Chapter 97 - cs and singin

The old docks had gone to hell and come back as twisted remnants of themselves. Dead ships on risers stuck out like busted fingers, and the factory and storage buildings were burned out hulls.

The waters of New San Fran acted as their own type of wall, and nothing had been erected around the docks of the old cities east side to wave off interlopers except two watchtowers spaced a good ten city blocks apart. The raft hit the shoreline between the watchtowers, their’s was the first to make the shore, if it could be called a shore. The rocks and sands of the east side of the city were covered in a thick layer of garbage and tin cans, thick as winter snow.

Roche’s boots crunched over the ground and he kept his body low. Thirty meters down between two factory buildings were a series of concrete blocks, he made his way for them followed by the soldiers and Markus.

Behind them, two more rafts struck shore, and then a third. Soldiers boots hit the ground and moved an instant later, all shuffling and edging for cover against factory walls and the low concrete barriers. The walkers, the other two, moved quietly in tow with the soldiers.

Spotlights and lamps lit the street parallel to the docks, Roche, followed by Alex Markus and the Resistance soldiers slipped into hiding behind the barriers, helmets and hats pulled low and scarves pulled high. Their guns were all drawn and their safeties were all off.

“Roche, what’s the plan?” Markus asked either full of worry or adrenaline.

The sky boomed overhead and the air thickened.

“What the-”

The rumbling and cracking of the clouds ricocheted again and swelled through the streets, amplified by the bricks and the concrete. The piddling sound of rain followed, sparse, but there.

“Ain’t that just the way.” Roche spat.

Another dozen soldiers slammed up against the concrete barriers, hiding from the lights of the street. They had Doctor Weaving in tow, his wrists still bound and tied again to his waist by his belt and another length of rope. The doctor’s tooth-thick smile grimaced in the polluted light from the city.

“Gentlemen, please. If you would be so kind as to remove the bindings? I fear I’m rather a useless without even hands to move with.”

“Don’t need your hands to run.” One of the soldiers, Briggs it was, put a shoulder into the doctor, knocking him closer to the pavement.

“How far is the Corp’s place?” Markus asked the doctor, whose breath hissed through his teeth.

“Across most of the city, hiss.” Grin. “It’ll take the rest of the night if I’m bumbling along bound.”

The soldiers looked to Roche, and Roche looked to Markus. Sleazy-Pete wanted to be free, and they couldn’t none of them trust him as far as he’d like to be thrown.

“How far?”

“The center of the landmass. Miles, or so. Too far to get numbered and armed like this. New San Fran takes it’s toll well.”

Roche frowned and spit a brown stream of chew. The walker opened the cylinder of his Ruger and checked his shots. He looked the doctor up and down. Slimy piece of shit that he was. . .he knew the way.

“Untie him, and if he makes a wrong move, hey, listen up! You make a wrong move Weaving, and I put a round in the back of your skull.” Roche clicked the hammer of his revolver back and forth.

The doctor’s eyes brightened and that grin of his spread wide, wide, wide until it met around the back of his head.

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