Primal Gambit

Chapter 54: Under the Docks

Early morning fog cast across the lake, layered just above the dark water. The location of the sun was apparent though the light struggled to pierce the dense dew. Each board of the dock creaked and moaned as the brute stepped over them, constricting the air pockets between splinters. Bubbles ascended from the murky depths and popped upon the surface as a murder of crows cawed from the dead trees. The drawn sound of the water pressing towards the shore and reeling back settled his stomach.

He didn't want to cause any harm to these people, but if they crossed him, the choices he had would diminish significantly. The brute had already hurt them once, eradicated them from their dwelling then destroyed it – now tracking them to the lake to obtain what was rightfully his. There was another way to leave with the professor, one dressed less in ruby-red and more in armistice. Vikhr was fresh to the idea but was willing to try any tactical approach once, had he gathered enough data on the idea.

There was no casual way to approach the domicile. He was fully aware that his presence in the Inner City as well as The Outskirts would come off as more than inexplicable coincidence. There was no other route for him to take, however, and as such he intended to make it appear as though he recalled Doerrman's whereabouts solely from the late-night conversations they had in the barracks on many sleepless nights.

The closer he came to the door the more anxiety built inside him. It never infiltrated his core upon outpost raids or tactical jumps, or having to pull the trigger. He was putting everything he had come to the States for at risk by attempting to sit down with these people: his cover immediately blown, his location known.

Dim light beyond the door danced from a lit candle and wavered within. As the Siberian approached he knocked on the door as gently as possible, removing his gloves and placing them in a cargo pocket that lined his bandolier. The rap of his fists against the chicken-wired wood startled the dwellers, one of which rang out jarringly:

"Fuck off squatter 'er I'll blast you."

He heard then the sounds of fleeting footfall as the mysterious voice shuffled around the room in search of something.

"I'm not a squatter, old man," he shouted through the door, "I am an old friend of Ridley Doerrman. We served together, and as I understand it he is here. Is that correct?" Containing or holding a soft tone in his voice was near-impossible, but he tried.

From within he could hear the frantic whispering of two men.

"What's your name, boy?" The old voice rattled again.

The first step into the deep end was always the hardest.

"Vikhr." All movement in the reformed shack came to a skidding halt. The expat could feel beneath his feet someone inching closer to the door. When it finally opened, Doerrman reacted with the same inquisitive breath Vikhr had initially expected.

"Vikhr?" he paused, "What are you doing here?" The skepticism in his tone almost clouded the air between them. The Siberian would not allow it.

"Business brought me to the States, The Dark City in particular. I remembered you saying you were from here – so I thought I'd pay a visit." He droned.

"What about the travel ban? You got past it?" The inquisition was unending.

"Have you ever known me to be a man put down by pesky laws or rules, Doerr? You used to say you lived in a shithole, but I never thought the States would be this bad. And here I was thinking America would be our last hope for saving the world!" He chuckled, putting on the best smile he could.

Then there was silence. The only sound between them was the black water's sway.

"Business. What kind?" Doerrman's suspiciousness was apparent.