He knew almost everything there was about the old place. He knew which stacks was the oldest, he knew which crane had the most worn lifting rope, he knew which section of the wall that was starting to crack and could be broken down to make a hole big enough to squeeze through and just which crate to use to cover it up.
His knowledge extended to the people as well, like when Old Conney's take his patrol and checking up on the lads when not stuffed in his office reading old papers or taking a nap, how long those naps tended to be, and just how early Old Coney thinks he can slip away.
How Davidson, a fellow who worked a slong as Francis, would the time to take a nap or layabout behind a particular stack of shelves just roomy enough when he thought no one was looking, but that refreshed look would give him away to those who spoke with him enough.
Francis reckoned he knew this place by heart indeed, but today felt like a strange day. Thus building felt like a stranger despite familiarity, and some faces he knew were gone.
“Alright Francis, ‘bout to lower the crate on the wagon” Spoke Arty, a human fellow too skinny to look like he'd work hard labor, dressed in overalls, boots and nothing but. Francis nodded as he stood aside on the wagon, hands outstretched as Arty turned the cranks that turned the gears that turned the crate and caused it to lower and carry the heavy crate it usually lifted.
“Careful with that now, lads. In there's equipment thats worth ten of your wages for years” Muttered Old Coney, a portly figure with wasps of hair long gray, in hand a cane that may have been fine once yet like the suit he wore shows that Conny himself was not once the prestige he held with his peers.
“Ain't nuttin’ ta worry about Boss, we's done this times before, an’ with bigger stuff”. Francis said with a winning smile as he glanced briefly at tye older fellow who simply snorted.
“If I'd doubts of that I'd have fired you lot before now...no, thats not what concerns me at”
“Bit to the left Arty, an’ not too fast!” Francis bellowed as he watched the heavy crate being lowered.
“Bad business that hanging, bad enough those accursed riots occurred. Three of our boys dead in the riots, another two run out”
Francis held his tongue, not wanting to add his coins to the matter. It was indeed bad business after all, faces he'd known for years now were simply... gone.
With a creaci of the wagon, the crate reste don the bed whilst Francis distracted himself by unhooking it and pushing it to the far end of the Wagon before jumping off.
That was the biggun, now was time for the smaller boxes….