Of Wharfs and Weapons

A fiction piece that focuses more on setting than plot

The dock was quiet; the only noise came from the water lapping against the wooden, algae-coated walkways that webbed out into the water, and the ship currently moored. Delmas was printed on the side in block letters two stories high and as white as chalk. The line between the black and red paint was starting to vanish as rust spread across the hull. But despite her imperfections, the ship floated obediently: patiently waiting for the sun to rise and business to resume.

The docks had lamps, which weren’t on, or were malfunctioning: there weren’t any electricians working this late at night. A road lined with numerous streetlights ran by the docks, parallel with the water, but they weren’t bright enough to illuminate past the street. The light fell short of the chain-link security fence surrounding the area, marked Master Halco"and far short of the warehouse looming over the flat concrete courtyard. The half-moon was the only direct source of light.

The warehouse had seven doors, all of which were shut and faced away from the water. The roof was corrugated metal that used to shine, but was well past its prime. It hadn’t been cleaned in over four years and no one had any plans for cleaning it this year. The front and side walls were a different story. Those were cleaned every week and still retained that sterile white look. The water-facing wall was stripped, almost completely, of its paint. There were no windows to this warehouse.

There were no guards on duty tonight, no steady clunking of company-issued boots and the slow strobe of flashlights as they passed between the shipping containers stacked in rows. But the docks weren’t left unprotected: electronic guardians had been set up to take the place of flesh and blood. There were cameras mounted in several locations around the courtyard, but most directed their attention towards the shipping containers in order to protect the property of the countless businesses that shipped merchandise through this port. What was inside, no one knew except those who owned them. Even the mechanical watchers didn’t know why they were protecting them; they didn’t have the intuition of a human. They were much easier to outsmart.

A man crept through the hillside, skirting the fence until he was out of sight from the mechanical eyes. He wore dark clothing: nothing special, just a hoodie, black cargo pants, a ski cap without a bill and a tool bag. He crouched by the metal fence, which ended only a few feet above his head. The roving gazes of the cameras continued, oblivious to the intruder as he scaled the obstacle and rushed to the nearest cover: a lone dumpster which sat at the base of a camera-mounted pole. The automated sentry searched the horizon for trespassers in the forest of crates, not knowing that there was one beneath it.

The prowler vigilantly peered around the edge of the dumpster and spotted a camera fixed to the wall of the warehouse between two doors, swiveling on its axis, blind to his invasion. He waited for it to begin turning away before beginning his mad dash towards the building’s wall.

The lack of lighting prevented the cameras from getting a clear picture, but the man was a cautious sort and didn’t want to take any chances, just in case these models were outfitted with a night vision setting, or the lights had motion sensors.

He pressed his back firmly against the wall and sidled until he was directly underneath his silent watcher. He crouched down and carefully peered at the entrance to his left. The door was a metal shutter, with a regular door set into it, and was further back than the wall, creating an alcove which might have been deep enough to hide in. The shutter itself had no handle, so the door was the only option. Again, the man waited for the camera to face away before moving. He slid into the niche and zipped open his tool bag, revealing a lock picking set. He went to work and the door swung inwards in seconds. He slipped inside and closed it behind him.

Inside the warehouse was completely dark. There was a glowing light switch near the doorway, which the man flipped. The metal halide lamps, which were in long strips hanging a short distance from the ceiling, flickered for a moment and then came to life, illuminating the building and revealing its contents.

It was a jungle of vanilla-colored, wooden shipping boxes and red pipes, which were suspended from the ceiling by steel cables. The light mixed with the yellowish crates and created a glow which permeated every corner of the room. If there had been windows in the place it would have looked like Times Square on New Year’s Eve to anyone walking by. The red pipes hung above the packages without much purpose. Whatever the reason they were installed was long since forgotten, and no one had wanted to take the time to remove them, so they stayed.

Metal shipping containers lined the back wall. Their doors were left open by the afternoon crew; their work wasn’t finished, so they left everything in place for the morning shift. The area surrounding the openings was cluttered with unloaded boxes, all still sealed. The rest of the warehouse was sorted using an elaborate system, which only the dock workers knew. None of the stacks were alike. Some reached a height of twenty feet with ten boxes, while others reached the same height with only six. But despite the differences between stacks, the boxes all looked alike and had the same name stamped on the side: Bazalt. Luckily, the walkways in between each stack had to be big enough to drive a forklift.

The stranger slipped on a pair of gloves as he began touring the room, searching for a needle. He ran his fingers along the wooden boxes; the leather dragged noisily since it was going against the grain of the wood. The black paint of the manufacturer chipped a little as his glove caught a corner of a letter, but he took no notice. He kept on course, as if he knew which box had what he was looking for.

He stopped in front of a shorter stack, only two boxes high, and flipped open a knife. He pried open the lid and set it off to the side. The box was overflowing with brown, paper packing straw, which started falling out as soon as the lid came off. The man pushed it aside as he rooted around. He grabbed hold of a metal object about head-sized, but like a wrapped candy in shape with a stem about two-feet long, pulled it out of the box and carefully placed it on a nearby crate. The visitor sifted through the box again, this time discovering something much larger. The object was very long, a little over three-feet, and had a bell-shaped opening at one end and a barrel at the other. There were two handles, both on the bottom. One was for holding the weapon steady, while the other housed the trigger for firing. The man placed the RPG on the box next to the grenade, stuffed the paper straw back into the box, and shut the lid. He picked up both pieces and made his way back to the door. His phone beeped and he looked down to read the message that had appeared. He typed back: it’s done.