Mark

Behind the glass, in the rain-streaked haze, dark figures in cloaks hovered. The produce depot—once huge and alive, full of sturdy women and perpetually drunk riggers who supplied all the city’s stores with agricultural goods—now seemed lifeless and empty. Long ago it had been handed over to small warehouses, auto workshops, and offices of unclear companies, one of which Mark had just received goods from. Seven crates of fiberglass, as listed in his invoice. Rusted frames of Soviet machinery from thirty years ago stuck out everywhere, the husks of burned-out and stripped machines, broken coils of high-voltage wire, and heaps of unknown scrap metal. Wet stray dogs wandered across the yard, trailing after any passerby with loud barking. From a crack in the tall gates of the second block, distant profanity could be heard. A grim old man in a dirty padded jacket warmed a smoldering brazier, burning lead-acid battery plates, stacking the valuable metal into a dented bucket.

A guard wrapped in a cloak approached the car and held out a pass to Mark.