Ain't Talkin'

It was shortly past midnight. The soldiers had spent the better part of the night pumping air into the most patchwork-looking rafts that Roche had ever seen. The plus-side was that the rafts had wide-blade motors for speed and silence. They wouldn’t be rowing across the bay.

The hardest part of the night was patting Lucky on the nose and handing her a bundle of dried grass saying; “I’ll be back for you, you bitch. Damnit but you’re growing on me. When all this is done, I’ll be back for you. Just sit tight.” The mare nickered in response and Roche pulled his revolver on the next Resistance soldier who walked past and made him swear on his own life and the presence of his balls that he would watch over the bay mare with the single white fetlock on pain of a slow and terrible death. When the soldier leaked a little bit of piss and agreed, Roche was satisfied. He patted the mare on her neck with a gloved hand and made his way to the rafts.

Weren’t like they were too small for the choppy night-waters of the bay. Each raft seated eight or ten men proper, and was high-sided.

Roche, Markus and six soldiers took a raft, They lifted it into the surf and hopped aboard amongst the softly rushing bay waters and moonlight. As far as anyone could tell, the fortifications at the Bay Bridge had not been alerted to their presence, and no one in New San Fran would be expecting them.

Seven or eight or so rafts in all went into the surf, the walkers divided among them. The wide-blades of their motors made a good deal less noise than a conventional boat motor, and Roche and the others were glad that someone in the equipment department had the foresight to consider entering the walled city silently and over the water.

A soldier manning the rudder and another on hand with the motor set the raft going. Two soldiers at the prow with guns up and one to port and starboard equally ready. Markus sat center with his .45 in his hands, safety off. Roche tucked a chaw of tobacco from one of the soldiers in the space of his bottom lip and spit. It was worth it, he’d traded the remainder of his whiskey for some dip. Two bottles of the soldiers own had gone ‘missing’ somewhere along the line.

As quiet as the motors were, they sounded to Roche as if they were making far too much noise, but no shouts or alarms from the bay bridge went up, and no spotlights triggered, searching the waves for approaching boats. As far as he could tell, they were moving softly, and silently across the waters beneath the bridge towards New San Fran.

“When we get there kid, you stick with me. Whatever happens, you get me to the college.”

“You’re thinking about the girl.”

“If nothing else, I’m getting that one out. And before we get back out of the city I want the doctor dead. Not laying bleeding dead, caved-in skull dead. Dead as dead can. Got me.”

“Quiet there!” One of the soldiers hushed them.

“Right.” Markus whispered back. You got it. Just gimme the heads up.”

“Got it, got it.” Roche spit over the edge of the raft. The shore was fast approaching.