Joshua Gayou - Commune - The Complete Series - A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Box Set (Books 1-4)

I started out by trying to keep track of where we were and where we went, but there were so many twists, turns, and switchbacks as we continued on a gentle but increasing grade that I soon abandoned the practice. I heard a few people behind me comment on how beautiful the landscape was and, taking a minute to just glance out the window and see it all, I had to agree. It was subtle and crept up on you as you traveled. At first, the landscape all around us was brown; dotted by barren scrub brush and yet, as we got in deeper, we learned that this was really only the case for the largest mountain faces aiming south and taking the biggest brunt of the sun and wind. Once into the heart of the mountains, much of the landscape was shielded from the elements, and we began to see vast expanses of tall evergreen trees spreading out over and covering everything.

Our battered, janky bus was doing alright, for the most part, until we came to the point where the paved road ended, and we were forced to venture onto dirt. The vehicle swayed like an old drunk as it stepped down off the asphalt, making me and a lot of others sit up in our seats. The grade increased even more so I began to baby the hell out of the gas pedal, certain I could feel the tires trying to slip loose and stutter on several occasions. I was on the edge of blowing the horn at Jake and offloading everyone into his truck for the rest of the trip when the ground leveled off, we broke through a narrow, tree-lined cleft, and emptied out into the bowl.

That was a surreal experience for me. I’m not ancient, but I am old enough that they were still having the kids read Laura Ingalls Wilder books when I attended elementary school (God knows what they had them reading at the end, if they had them reading at all). Driving into the valley made me think of those stories, especially with the cabin socked back into the tree line. Jake led us directly toward it over the dirt road that ran along the center of the field. As we went, he began to honk the truck horn several times. The cabin appeared to be about a kilometer or so from where we emerged, positioned as it was on the extreme opposite edge of the valley entrance, yet I could tell it would take us a bit of time to get there based on the speed we traveled over the dirt trail. It became rough along the way, and I started to worry about the missing tire on the rear axle. It had held up pretty well so far, but I had to assume they stacked four wheels up on the rear of the bus for a good reason; I didn’t have any clue how long we could drive like that before we ran into trouble.

Voices began to filter up to me from the rear of the bus; I heard Barbara’s in particular as she described dreaming of just such a place for her retirement (a dream, I expect, she may have let go of when her husband died of a heart attack years ago; she flirted relentlessly with me, but I’m well aware that she never stopped loving him).

As we pulled up in front of the home, the larger garage came into view, although at the time we didn’t realize it was a garage. Well, we knew it was garage-like, of course, but there could have been anything in there when we first clapped eyes on it. I may have begun to dream about floor to ceiling rows of long life food supplies. Such a hoard would keep us fed for an incredibly long time; maybe even a year or two. We could pull back from the daily grind. Day to day life wouldn’t have to be about digging through heaps of trash trying to find something we could eat. There was no such hoard in there, unfortunately, or at least, not in the capacity I wanted. I didn’t know this at the time, though. As I put the bus in park, set the brake, and killed the engine, that building hid unlimited possibilities. It was like a giant present under the Christmas tree.

As I was stepping off the bus, I heard Jake ahead of me (who had already exited his vehicle) call out, “It’s okay! I brought them back on my own. Come out.”

I looked to the entrance of the house expecting his buddies to come out, but no such thing occurred. One hundred yards off to the left of the home, a small figure emerged from the trees and began walking our way at a fast march. I could tell she was female right off from the long hair and the way she moved. She didn’t waggle her hips around like a stripper or anything; maybe it was the way her body was shaped or, perhaps, maybe her long hair programmed me to see the movements of a female.

She wore clothing that would blend in well with the surroundings; not exactly woodland marpat but using the same color scheme, each article was a solid color rather than a camo pattern. It looked like the kind of outdoor gear you’d buy from rei if rei was still a thing that existed. A small, angry-looking little rifle was strapped to her chest. As she came closer to Jake, I was able to see that it was a bullpup of some sort, though I was unfamiliar with the manufacturer. I hated (and still do hate) bullpups. I tried shooting a buddy’s once at the range; reloading the thing was just slow, uncomfortable, and awkward for me. I had years’ and years’ worth of muscle memory stored up in expecting the trigger group to be aft of the receiver. Reversing their positions was, for me, like trying to teach an old dog quantum physics. Having that one experience with my buddy’s old Bushmaster, I had decided to happily disregard the design ever since.

Without looking at us, she walked directly up to Jake, positioned herself with her back to the rest of us, and leaned in close to talk to him. Sensing some trouble in paradise, I held out a hand to my group, who were just stepping into the open, to signal that they should stay back and give the two some space to chat. On a scale of Spring Break Florida to Mogadishu, I’d have to rate our welcome somewhere around Detroit. They stood like this for a few minutes, heads close together, probably arguing over our very presence. I began to think about loading everyone back on and leaving as I watched them.

In the end, before I could look back at the group and signal that they shouldn’t get too attached to the area, I saw Jake nod towards us with his eyebrows while the woman was in the middle of saying something; which I could tell only because I could see the back of her head shaking from the motions of her jaw moving. She turned to look over her right shoulder, showing an attractive profile in rich, brown skin and features that might have been either Mexican or Native American. It’s usually really hard for me to tell, actually; I grew up classifying people by color (black, white, brown, red) before all the various groups started marching every time an apparent dinosaur like me stuttered. I don’t know what the hell happened. Towards the end, I started feeling like I wanted to carry around an application form that people would have to fill out before I could talk to them—one of the entries would have said, “Please list those labels that you’re okay with and any others that are likely to trigger you into a frothing rage.” I have mixed feelings about the world ending, honestly. On one hand, I don’t miss the fact that one wrong word taken out of context on social media could potentially destroy your private and professional life. For a guy like me (your average jarhead, in other words), that could be every other word!

On the other hand, given enough alcohol I’d suck start a she-male for a donut, so badly do I miss those little sugared morsels of fried bread.

Where the hell was I?

Right: the woman was looking back in our direction, first with an expression that suggested that someone somewhere was getting an ass-chewing, followed by a complete softening of said expression. I didn’t realize what had happened until I saw the angle of her gaze; she was looking low rather than high. I followed her gaze to see Maria standing very close to her father, Oscar, and looking all around the area with wide, intent eyes.