Solace & Taproots

1.11

Courtesy warning and pre-emptive apologies: Incoming... 

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The alley out back was primarily trash and refuse service for several businesses, many of them food related.. so it stank to high heaven. Bex sought refuge back in her mask, and Rhonda continued carrying the M249 since the next drain system was much more spacious. They proceeded even more cautiously now, concerned their recent encounter was part of a larger group, but they didn't see any further signs of other people as they moved between buildings. It was good to focus on something though, rather than spiraling off into unpleasant thoughts in the wake of all the disparagements and subsequent gunfight. The combat had been decisively one-sided, but some of Rogelio's remarks would probably sting for a while, and linger toxically like an unflushed poison. Asshole. But hey, he might have gotten the last word, but she'd been the one to end the argument rather definitively. She tried to tell herself that her misgivings about pulling the trigger just meant she was human, and that Ronnie was right, they would've been a threat anyway.

Just before they reached the manhole descending into the next set of passages, they spotted a stray dog — most were, these days. Bex knelt down to try to lure him or her over with friendly overtures an octave or two higher in pitch than normal, but the pup had already been hesitant in the first place (maybe from the reverberating shotgun blast) and scampered off after a moment's indecision.

She sighed and pouted for a second, which got a little smirk from Ronnie. "Shut up. Life sucks. I want a puppy. All those video game trailers with the adorable dog companions after the apocalypse, or even John Wick... why don't I get an adorable, loyal and bloodthirsty little sidekick?"

The smirk leveled up into a mocking grin and a chuckle. "Honey, what do you think YOU are?" Ronnie shook her head and gestured onwards to the underground entrance with a tilt of her weapon.

Dammit. So much for the winning streak.

**

This section of the tunnels seemed to still have power to their cage-and-dome enclosed lighting. That and the better sight lines in this area made for easy going — probably part of the selection of the bolthole's location. It gave Bex some hope that it would also be easier for the folks they were looking for... but... she was growing concerned they might have run into Rogelio. There was some comfort that he hadn't been carrying anything of theirs, but maybe there were still other unpleasant types that he'd been roving with? She played her light over stretches of the tunnel occasionally, but neither of them caught sight of any tracks.

Before long, they reached a fork in the tunnel. The right side ran a few yards, but then ended in sturdy looking bars and grating, beyond them only shadow, while the left branch continued the main tunnel onwards. They went right.

Tucked behind a thoroughly normal looking pile of rubble and detritus was an inset steel door. The tiny brush bristles hiding in plain sight at the bottom were intact - nobody had opened the door. Bex plucked them up and set them aside, and then placed her hand on the doorknob, nodding to Ronnie.

Rhonda nodded back, Bex opened the door, and pivoted in behind and above Ronnie after she went in low. The room was illuminated by a few overhead fluorescents, one flickering. All clear.

Bex keyed up her radio to report. "Control, Sierra Charlie. Pulling up to the... " Ugh. Dammit. "Pulling up to the hotel now. Parking lot empty. Lots of vacancies." Someone back at Broadway replied back with an acknowledgment and she declared themselves as done transmitting, grateful that there was no sign Ronnie had noticed her brief stutter. She was always so patient with her, but the self-consciousness never really went away.

The room smelled faintly of ozone and dampness, but most of the funk from outside was blocked by the door. After they cleared the room, Bex stood on an inverted bucket to twist the flickering bulb a fraction of an inch to shut it off, and set the bucket under a trickle of water from somewhere up in the tangle of pipework. The wrench-types back home suspected the preponderance of supply lines for the boilers is what provided the outpost with steady fresh (if questionably potable) water, but made doubly sure the local and building gas lines were shut off!