"Here's the venue, Turner” "What hit it?" Rectangular expanse of concrete spreading to uneven walls of weathered cinderblock.
"Economics," Conroy said. "Before the war. They never finished it. Ten klicks west of here and there's whole subdivisions, just pavement grids, no houses, nothing”
Turner found his point team crouched in the shade. Three of them; he smelled the coffee before he saw them. He was meant to smell it, of course; they were expecting him. Otherwise, he'd have found the ruin empty, & then, somehow, very quietly & almost naturally, he would have died.
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