Ain't Talkin'

New San Fran may not have owed it’s allegiance to any faction or sect, and it flew the stars and stripes overhead, but it was a walled city all the same, and was reached most easily by the bridge. They’d taken advantage of this.

The eastern end of the Bay Bridge was fortified with concrete bunkers and gun nests. It was manned day and night by a volunteer corp out of New San Fran. Paramilitary maybe, but gun-toting and zealous all the same.

Ethercorp had set up shop in the college grounds in New San Fran, and padded the walled cities funds overly well in the interest of maintaining their secrecy and isolation from the world.

Infiltrating the city would be one problem. Reconnecting with one another once inside would be another.

The caravan settled for the evening behind a few stray sand and stone bluffs dotted with cacti and dead trees. The Resistance soldiers broke out a desalinator and traded turns getting buckets of saltwater from the bay and making it drinkable. It was the first time in weeks that Lucky had a full belly of fresh water, and her pleasure showed.

The ring of trucks kept the light from the campfire low and invisible to the world, and soldiers watched the perimeter.

Roche sat on the down tailgate of a transport and smoked. Markus leaned on the truck beside him, also smoking. Thomas sat on his bike and chewed thoughtfully on something while Leon paced a line in the sand. Miner spoke to all of them at once, leaning shivering on his cane, his military jacket seeming baggier all the time, as though the man inside were slowly shrinking.

“Tonight, when you’ve all had some hours rest, we make across the bay. There are inflatable rafts in store in the backs of the trucks and my men will begin working on them as soon as they’ve eaten.”

“And when we’ve crossed the bay into the city?” Thomas asked.

“That’s where our friend Doctor Weaving comes in. He knows the way through the college grounds to the research labs of the Ethercorp. From there we plant explosives, old-world recipe C-4, and bring down the laboratory on their heads. Walkers take care of the likely numbers of constructs they’ve assembled, soldiers handle other soldiers. None of that isn’t to say that you don’t give each other hands where and when you can.”

“Don’t want that rat comin’ with us.” Roche spat and swigged his drink. Somewhere a ways off coyotes yippered back and forth at one another.

“He has to, I’m afraid. I’m sending Markus along with you all to help navigate and decipher any Corporate linguistics and, or be of any help he can. He can help you keep the doctor in check.”

“So we’re bringing two civilians into a walled city likely patrolled by bounds of Corp soldiers bent on their mission of ether terrorism?” It was Leon Wellam’s turn to sound skeptical.

“I’m afraid that’s the plan, yes. If you have a better idea I am open to it.” Miner chastised, shaking with his age.

All were silent.

“Then that’s the plan. Everyone get a couple of hours of rest, drink and food if you need it.”

The rag-tag group of wasteland revolutionaries stood by for some minutes while Miner hobbled away to the cab of his transport truck to sleep while he could. When he was gone they looked to one another, exchanging looks of unease, confidence, what-the-hell grins and tacit acceptance.

Roche looked at Markus and Markus looked at Roche. Both men smoked their rolled cigarettes and shared a swig from the whiskey bottle Before Markus wandered off to find a bedroll near a campfire for the next hour or so.

Roche wandered from the circle of Resistance trucks and found a dusty knoll that overlooked the bay.

Lights from the walls and still-standing buildings of the city glimmered over the whitecaps in the surf. There was a far-off sound of music. The howls and yips of desert dogs calling at the moon echoed in. Roche inhaled deeply and blew his breath at the sky before he upended the whiskey bottle.

Tomorrow was the thirteenth, and the world had come too soon.