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

It was like this, day in and day out, always taking three steps forward and another two back. It really started to wear a lot of us down.

We kept the jeep and dodge truck operating pretty much every day, trying to make the best use of our stored gas before it all went stale. We were still collecting fuel back then, too, because you could still pull usable gas out of vehicle tanks. We knew, though, that whatever we had after winter hit was going to be all we would ever have from that point on, so a lot of our scavenging runs were still being divided up between getting food and keeping the gas barrels filled. Like I said, it was a constant, never-ending race against our own need to consume resources. It was horrible. I can remember looking at some people with resentment for even daring to complain about being hungry. I’d think about all that food Jake and I had managed to store and how long it would have carried us (how long it would have carried Elizabeth) before all these other mouths had shown up. It makes me cringe to remember how I looked at a lot of them back then. The only thing that kept it from coming to a head with me was how hard they were all obviously working. Not a single one of them was lazy. Everyone was looking for things to do; ways to be useful… even George, who could only get around with his cane. I think all of the lazy people must have died off naturally by that point, honestly.

The routine we had fallen into was that half of the people who were physically capable of going out into the city for food (based on age and fitness of body) would head out for the day while the other half stayed behind and covered housekeeping duties. This concept of housekeeping was really just a catch-all phrase that covered any activity we could carry out in the Bowl that benefitted the group. If you were cooking the return meal for the scavenging party, it was housekeeping. If you were washing clothes (we’d constructed a kind of water processing and reclamation station with wash basins out on the north side of the garage), it was housekeeping. Even if you were reading one of the books from Billy’s library because you were trying to pick up some new, critical skill: housekeeping.

Small arms training with Gibs became just another aspect of housekeeping. It’s probably not surprising, then, that we use the phrases “fire team” and “cleaning crew” interchangeably.

He’d apparently been preparing this for some time because when he invited the first group of us out for the initial session, he already had a little shooting range set up along the north edge of the valley. Two of our folding tables were laid out with a small collection of rifles, magazines, ammo boxes, and what I assumed were cleaning kits on top of them. Twenty yards away, there were six wooden targets with human-shaped, hand painted silhouettes positioned just in front of the tree line.

This first training session included me, Wang, Rebecca, the Page brothers, and Oscar. The others were out scavenging with Jake while George and Barbara stayed back to watch the kids. Gibs had rounded us all up and led us out to the range like a group of ducklings while delivering a speech that felt as though he’d either rehearsed or delivered it a few times already before presenting it to us.

He said, “As some of you may or may not know, Jake has asked me to spend some time with everyone to get you all up to speed on small arms and tactics. Specifically, he asked me to get you all functioning as close to Marines as I could manage.”

He paused for a moment to let that sink in as we walked. A few of the others glanced back and forth, some of them looking at me. I kept my face passive and pointedly ignored them.

“The problem with that,” he continued obliviously, “is that I’m not really sure if that’s a reasonable request, or if it’s even realistic. By the way, this isn’t because learning to be a Marine is some mystical ability that only a small segment of the population is capable of achieving. Being a Marine really just consists of discipline, training, and repetition. It’s a lot more about desire than it is about aptitude. No, what I’m getting at here is that I’m not certain whether I’m equal to the task and, moreover, I’m not sure that turning you all into a bunch of Marine knockoffs is what we should be going for.”

As we approached the little impromptu firing range, Gibs turned to face the rest of us with his hands on his hips. “There’s a whole list of things that Marines learn that just aren’t relevant anymore. You guys don’t need to march in formation all damned day. We don’t need to spend a bunch of time on uniform regulations, inspections, or making your goddamned beds, obviously. As much as I hate to admit it, as much as it pains my old heart, the Corps is extinct. There’s no more United States military, and we’re simply not making any more Marines. I’d like to share some of the traditions that made me who I am with the rest of you but, for the most part, I need to be instructing you on those skills that will make you more competent fighters. I’m not treating you people like Marine recruits. You’ve all made it this far; you’re obviously survivors. I’m going to drill you like survivors. Recruits are treated like unformed maggots. I’ll assume you all have graduated from maggot status by this point; else you wouldn’t be standing. Consequently, let’s all just agree up front that I won’t be screaming at you like this is boot camp, fair?”

We all nodded to this, to which Gibs responded with a thumbs up and continued, “All that being said, I tend to let my mouth get away from me when I’m talking shop. I’m going to apologize up front for any blue language, okay ladies? We’re not men or women out here, now, we’re just survivors. I’m not wasting any time tiptoeing around feelings and sensibilities; I have more important concerns right now. Is everyone good with that?”

I didn’t bother to indicate one way or the other as Gibs had thrown all that out the window with me a while ago. Rebecca said, “Absolutely,” and bounced in place a little, which caused me to suppress an eye roll.

I’m sure this is going to sound petty, but she really rubbed me the wrong way when they first showed up. At the time, I attributed my reaction to all sorts of unflattering aspects of her behavior. She was always flipping her hair around or shaking parts of herself, or she was winking at the guys and puckering her lips out; always putting out her hand to touch the guys on their shoulder or arm. Everything she did was a flirt. On their first evening here, she immediately zeroed in on Jake like a man-seeking-missile. It was tiring… or maybe just boring.

I pulled my eyes off her and put my attention back on Gibs, who was already continuing his speech.

“…will find a selection of AR variant weapons. Now, these are all outstanding, standardized firearms that are easy to operate and maintain, with a few notable exceptions that are just garbage; mainly due to poor manufacturing. Those examples aside, an AR produced by a reputable manufacturer and properly maint… hey! Nobody told you to pick anything up, goddamnit!”

The word “hey” had come blasting out of Gibs mouth like cannon fire, causing all of us to jolt in place as though we had been electrocuted. I turned to follow the direction of his gaze and saw Greg and Alan standing by the table, both of them holding rifles. They stood frozen, staring back at Gibs like two preschoolers caught with their hands in the cookie jar. They were holding the rifles such that each muzzle was pointed directly at the other. I cringed inwardly, knowing what came next. Though I had never seen Gibs fully unload by that point, I had spent enough time with him out in Jackson to know how seriously he took this stuff.