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

“Now, you two knuckleheads have demonstrated amply why it’s so important that we’re all out here today,” Gibs said. “Put the damned rifles back down on the table; you’ve already flagged each other and everyone out here a dozen times already.”

“These aren’t even loaded, man,” laughed Alan.

Shocked by his answer, I opened my mouth to tell him to just drop the thing, that he was about to be eaten alive, but Gibs was already moving through the group before I could draw breath.

“You ignorant fucking children, drop those fucking rifles on the deck right fucking now! Get your filthy fucking smug little fucking hands off of my fucking weaponry!”

The sheer volume of his voice was stunning. It bellowed across the valley like thunder. Birds dislodged from the trees overhead and flew away, calling back angrily in response to Gibs’s unholy tirade. Alan and Greg both dropped the rifles onto the ground, faces pale, and took two full steps away from Gibs as he advanced on them. The backs of their legs bumped into the folding tables and nearly knocked the rest of the assembled weapons into the dirt.

He was in their faces almost instantly, snarling, as he thrust out a hand to point to a spot several feet away from the table, growling that they’d best displace to that point before they were annihilated. They stumbled over each other to move where they were ordered. In the meantime, Gibs reached up to the dead branch of a nearby tree and, yanking for all he was worth, pulled it down with a dry, grinding crack. He laid the length of it up against the trunk of the tree and kicked into the center of the branch, snapping it in half, such that he had two three-foot segments. He picked both of them up and walked over to the teenagers. He thrust a stick into the arms of each boy, both of whom flinched as though they would be struck.

“Here are the only weapons fit for such as you two,” he barked. “You will both carry these around with you every fucking place you go, do you read me? You will sleep with them. You will shit with them. You will eat with them. On those occasions when you feel compelled to rub one out, your off-hand will be so occupied. Every time I see you two dumbasses, you’d better goddamn well be carrying those with you. And I swear to every deity that ever existed or will ever exist: if I see either of you assholes point the end of those sticks at anything breathing, I’ll jam a foot up each of your asses and wear you around the valley like a pair of autistic fucking flip flops! Is all of that perfectly fucking clear?”

Greg shook his head vigorously while Alan nodded with his mouth hanging open.

“Say it, shit-for-brains,” Gibs growled. “Say it’s clear. I want to hear your childish, mewling voices.”

“It’s clear! We got it!”

“Out-fucking-standing! Now get the fuck out of here and do whatever it is little children do. When I think you’re ready to try again, I’ll come and find you.”

The two of them literally ran out of the area back towards the safety of the teardrop camper, which they were both sharing. Gibs stood and watched them as they went, not turning back to the rest of us until they were completely out of sight. When they were no longer visible, he nodded and turned to address us.

“The main thing,” he said in a calmer speaking voice, “is that a weapon is always loaded until you’ve cleared it. Let’s all try not to forget that.”

“What the fuck, man?” Oscar said, clearly disturbed at what he had just seen. “They’re… they’re just kids.”

“Define ‘kids,’ Oscar,” Gibs said. “Do you think they’re too young to take a bullet?”

“Come on, Gibs, you know what I mean—”

“No, I don’t really think I do, Oscar,” said an annoyed Gibs. He didn’t quite sound angry, but he was still relentless. “I’ve seen blue-on-blue casualties before. I’m pretty sure none of you have. I’ve seen what it does to the guy who pulled the trigger. He spends the rest of his life wishing he had that second back. I don’t care if feelings get hurt around here, understand? My mission is to get you all competent and safeguard the group; not to make everyone feel good.”

Oscar shook his head and looked down at the ground, unconvinced.

“Just trust me on this, Oscar. Let them sting for a couple of days, and I’ll bring them back in. This’ll be something they never forget, and I can almost guarantee they’ll have their minds on safety forever after. Now, can we please continue?”

Gibs started everyone out on the basics, consisting mostly of the rules of safety, how the weapons were to be held, how they were fired, reloaded, and so on. His discussion on safety was to the point and about as crude as you’d expect. Concepts like muzzle awareness and the assumption that a weapon is always loaded were covered when he unleashed his tirade on Greg and Alan. The subject of trigger discipline was even more succinct; he said, “Keep your booger hook off the bang switch until you’re ready to bring the heat.” My face screwed up in distaste when he said this, but Rebecca absolutely gagged and coughed at his use of the word “booger.” I’m convinced that it wasn’t an act, either—she actually gagged violently. I may have had to suppress a bit of a smirk.

There weren’t enough slings to go around, so we traded rifles between ourselves throughout the session so everyone could get some familiarity with the device. The only exception to any of this was my own rifle; I was free to fire it, but Gibs didn’t want anyone else to use it. He said that he wanted all the newbies to build up muscle memory with a standard carbine and rotating in a bullpup would just complicate the process. Additionally, he had me work with one of the AR-15’s to “expand my horizons.” I did okay with the rifle even if I wasn’t that big a fan. With the exception of the magazine, all of the controls were in familiar locations, and I already knew how to run it due to the brief period I carried an M16. I still didn’t like it as much as my Tavor, though. It just felt really uncomfortable holding my left hand way far out in front of me, and Gibs insisted on all of us grabbing the front of the rifle in this hyper-aggressive fashion that had our thumbs wrapped over the top of the barrel, almost as though we were trying to corkscrew the whole weapon. He said doing it that way would help with barrel control and improve our target acquisition, but all it did for me was make my shoulder tired.

We shot a ridiculous amount of bullets. I’ll bet we fired twenty times more rounds on that day than I had fired in my whole life up to that point. It was incredible; the whole process morphed over time from being a nerve-wracking rush to a sort of rhythmic routine. We were held to a rate of about one discharge per three seconds, or how long it took to reposition the sights on the target, take a breath, and squeeze the trigger without rushing. If we went any faster than that, Gibs would lightly rest a hand on our shoulders from behind us as a reminder to slow down. He divided his time between doing that and reloading magazines. None of us had to reload a magazine during the entire session. I’m not sure how he was able to divide his attention between this activity and correcting our mistakes (and there were plenty for him to correct, even by me) but he always had a full magazine ready to go when one of our rifles were empty. He just held out a full one and traded for the empty that we’d dropped. He kept us going nonstop for I don’t know how long; fire until empty, reload, repeat. He had us shoot from standing, seated, and prone positions. Sometimes he would command us to shoot at other targets instead of our own. The only thing we weren’t allowed to do was move around with the rifle; if we had to step back from the firing line, we were instructed to drop the mag, empty the chamber, and surrender the weapon over to Gibs.