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

Over time, I became numb to firing my rifle. It didn’t even feel like firing a rifle towards the end of that session; it was more like I was reaching out with an invisible finger and just tapping the target. If I wanted to touch the head, I’d tap the head. If I wanted to touch the body, I’d tap there too. I didn’t even have to think about what I was doing. I could almost feel the fibers of the plywood splintering under the pads of my fingertips. I mentioned this to Oscar after we were done that day and he said he had a similar experience; only he hadn’t thought of tapping targets with his fingers.

When we were done shooting, Gibs took us back over to the tables to show us how to strip and clean the rifles, which was something I had never learned how to do with Billy even after we’d settled into the Bowl. He spent a little time monkeying around with my rifle after he had everyone else busy scrubbing out their barrels with wire brushes, trying to figure out how to take it apart. After a few moment’s worth of cursing and turning the weapon around in his hands, he found the take-down pin at the butt that, when extracted, allowed the shoulder pad to swing open. From there, he was able to remove the bolt carrier group. Lifting the trigger pack out from the underside of the rifle took even less time. He and I both spent a little more time looking the rifle over to see if there were any other parts that looked like they required removal for proper cleaning. Failing to find anything obvious, I ran some CLP down the barrel while Gibs figured out how to remove the firing pin and extractor from the bolt.

We all must have spent an hour or so out there cleaning our rifles, doing god knows what to our lungs while breathing in all those harsh smelling chemicals. Wang and Oscar started cracking jokes back and forth at each other, causing themselves as well as the rest of us to giggle frequently. I didn’t realize that Rebecca had edged up alongside me until I felt her tap on my shoulder.

“Hey, uh, d’you mind if I ask you something?”

I wasn’t sure what to make of this, so I just shrugged. She bit her lip, seeming unsure of herself, and then pressed on. “I don’t know if this sounds weird, or whatever, but the next time you head out into the city, do you think I could come along with you?”

Thoughtlessly, I said, “Oh, okay. Running low on eyeliner?” I regretted it as soon as I said it and laughed it off to show that I wasn’t trying to be a bitch, which probably made it worse. She didn’t respond but maintained her position off to my left; a presence I could only just make out from my peripheral vision and yet found impossible to ignore. I looked at her and was shocked by the expression on her face. She was flushed bright red, making the minimal spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks stand out in contrast; her electric-green eyes shimmered.

“Never mind,” she said and moved back toward the other side of the table.

“Hey… wait—” I began.

Whatever emotion had been painted across her face a moment before was now completely hidden, covered up by a perfect smile that failed to hide the tightness in her eyes. “I said it’s fine,” she emphasized. “Just never mind.”

She bent over her rifle and proceeded to scrub at it with an old toothbrush, the plastic head clanging aggressively against the metal edges of the receiver. I caught Gibs looking at me uncomfortably from the corner of my eye and shrugged at him in a “What?” gesture. He shook his head, clearly not wanting any part of the exchange, and sighed quietly as he began to organize the sundry parts lying along the table top. Thus arranging everything, he returned to the firing line and began to gather up all the spent shell casings into a bucket.

Nice one , I thought. Queen Bitch of the Year Award goes to yours truly, I guess .

Like most men of greatness, my best ideas tend to come to me when I’m sitting on the shitter. The inspiration to go looking for team radios was no exception.

I’d been thinking about the firefight in Denver again, playing it over in my head, wondering about things I could have done better or at least differently. Thinking about Jessica and Kyle. I remembered a specific point when I was running back to the bus with the others, hauling Jessica’s unresponsive body, with I don’t know how many motorcycles riding up our asses when I thought how nice it would be to radio in for air support. Never mind air support; just being able to radio back to Davidson would have been a major advantage. We could have dug in at a building and call in some help, at least.

I thought back to how things were when the world made sense; when everything proceeded in a confident fog and all things critical to our survival were safely taken for granted. I used to see walkie-talkies everywhere. Security guards all had them; hell, even the cleaning staff for most moderate to large sized facilities carried the things on their hips all day long. Jackson wasn’t a large city by any stretch of the imagination, but it still stood to reason that at least a few of these radios could be out there somewhere. All I had to do was go out and find them.

Feeling invigorated (and also a couple of pounds lighter), I finished up my business and tumbled from the outhouse in a rush to get back to the cabin and find Jake. Everyone else was out and about doing their own thing; no one waved at or called out to me as I advanced on the home. Jake never kept his door locked, so I just walked in.

“Jake? Hey, Jake!” I called from the entryway. I stood there for several moments and listened for a response, with only the sound of an empty, dead quiet homecoming back at me. I hesitated, trying to think of anywhere else he might be.

“Hello? Ja-ake? Sound off if you don’t want me to take the high-dollar scotch.”

I waited a little while longer before giving up, assuming that he was out somewhere working on any one of the dozens of ongoing projects that had to be completed before winter hit. I shrugged and exited back out the front door.

Out on the porch, I leaned against the railing and took in the view of the valley in a slow, sweeping arc. Progress on the Conex homes was just coming around to the finishing touches, with Oscar putting in the final internals including modified wash basins and some premade cabinetry that the group had managed to score out in the city; really, the stuff was intended to serve as simple garage wall cabinets, but Oscar figured out how to install them side by side along the floor and cap them with a little countertop. For a guy who claimed to know jack shit about cabinet making or finish carpentry, he really stepped up to turn those containers into some really nice homes. He’d even added a dividing wall in the center of each unit, with a private bedroom in the rear and a common living area on the opposite end where the front door had been installed. It was a little jarring; outside, they still looked like shipping containers with water barrels stacked on the side, although they were all covered in a solid coat of fresh brown paint and had an assortment of windows along both sides. When you stepped inside, you got the disorienting experience of walking into a nice little bachelor pad in the city… well, you had that experience as long as you didn’t look too close at anything. Eventually, you noticed that there were no electrical outlets or switches, the plumbing looked a little off, and the walls had only been taped off but not painted (Oscar said the occupants could handle that themselves). Despite all that, Oscar and the boys had made some lovely homes for our people. With a little furniture, decoration, and TLC they’d end up a damned sight finer than the trailer and RV we’d managed to pick up, anyway.