Ain't Talkin'

“The Resistance put feelers out here. We’re gonna be on our own the whole way. We have sympathetic ears but no support.” Briggs said in a low voice. He jogged beside Roche as they made their way towards the streets of New San Fran from the docks.

“Didn’t expect any. Easier to move with fewer people anyhow.” Roche grumbled, hands in the holes through his pockets on his Ruger’s. Doctor Weaving moved in the front, with Roche, Briggs and Markus behind. Palmer, Welkins, Riley and Torrence brought up the rear, watching their sides and their backs. Further back the other two teams of Resistance soldiers with the other two walkers moved quickly and quietly, stepping deliberately, guns trained in every direction.

“This is Third Street.” Briggs toned.

“Know this place well. You spend time here?” Roche was curious.

“Nope. Studied maps. My business to be prepared.”

“Good soldier.” Roche said.

The street opened up into a wide avenue. The city was cleaner than most. Garbage did not litter the sidewalks and the asphalt between the buildings was clear, though the docks had been something else. Seemed the people of the city liked their streets clean, but at the expense of the shorelines and the ocean. Street lamps glowed a dull orange, the kind of lighting fed by faulty wiring and half-fueled generators running below capacity. Down the street to the south a dozen people stood outside a saloon yammering to each other. To the north a solitary figure leaned on a brick wall and vomited. There was no one else on the street.