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

Noticing my presence, he shut the door and said, “Hey, Gibs.” His voice was solemn, as though he was still shaken by the events of the afternoon.

I hooked a thumb at the camper behind me and said, “Everything okay in there?”

“Yeah. Well, kind of. Fred’s getting told right now .”

“Oh?” I asked with raised eyebrows. “Getting told what, exactly?”

Oscar scratched his forearm, no doubt a nervous tick, and said, “I don’t wanna go into details. Seemed kind of private, you know?”

I scoffed. “Be general, then.”

Sighing, Oscar said, “Basically, Jake said this was Fred’s one free major fuck up. Next time he does something like this, he’ll be driven out to the edge of town and left there.”

“Huh,” I nodded and directed my view forward. I looked down at my fingernails, which were dirty underneath with grime from that morning’s work, and noticed a blister had risen along the pad of my thumb. I bit it so that it would dry out faster, spit out a hunk of skin, and asked, “You alright, Oscar?”

“I think so. Yeah. I’m gonna go get back to work on that foundation.” He seemed fidgety, which made me worried. I was worried for all of us.

“Go ahead, man. I’ll be back out there with you shortly. I need to speak with Jake.”

“Right on,” he said and headed off to meet up with Amanda. They appeared to chat between themselves as well as with some of the others before separating off from the pack to stack more cinder blocks. I knew they had enough mortar to work with for now, but I’d need to get back over there soon to mix up a new batch. I crossed an ankle over my knee and watched the noon crew load up into the Dodge, rifle team shrugging into borrowed vests and adjusting themselves as they stepped up into the back seat. I focused on ignoring the stinging throb growing in my thumb, which worked about as well as you’d expect.

The RV door opened again, after which I heard Jake’s voice from my left. “Gibs…”

“Jake…” I greeted him back.

He came around and sat down to my right in another chair but said nothing further. I quickly realized that he knew I had things to get off my chest and was waiting for me to begin. I was still organizing my thoughts, and so delayed by saying, “Fred okay? You can kill a guy by gut-shotting him like that, you know. Rupture his liver.”

I detected nodding from the corner of my eye and looked over in his direction. Jake sat straight in his chair, feet flat on the ground, with each hand rested lightly on an armrest. He looked as though he’d been arranged. “I’m aware, but he’s too big for me to catch him a good shot on the chin. Too much reach. Besides, I dislike headshots. You have to shake someone’s brain for a knockout. There’s too much danger of doing serious damage with that if all you’re trying to do is control a person. Then, too, you can break a hand if you’re not careful.”

“So he is, or he isn’t okay?”

“Oh, he’ll be fine. He stated that the pain was getting better a moment ago. He’ll be up and around not long from now. He’ll have a hell of a bruise for the next few days.”

“We have to deal with this, you know,” I said. “This won’t be the last time it happens if we don’t.”

Jake sighed; a deep, heavy thing that made me exhausted just to hear it. “I know. If we could just get out ahead of this… this fucking food situation, I suspect a lot of this would work itself out.”

I was semi-shocked to hear him say “fucking.” It wasn’t a term he dropped liberally. Recovering quickly, I said, “We’ve got to do something about the morale in general around here. We’ve all been going balls-out for weeks now, with no end in sight, and the most critical factor (food) isn’t improving the way we need it to. People are run down and starting to feel like their efforts are futile. It’s important… no, fuck that. It’s imperative that we do something to pick ’em back up.”

“It’s imperative that we get more food,” Jake countered. “These people aren’t fools, Gibs. No matter what… team building…” he said the term with pronounced disgust ”exercise we concoct to distract them, the situation doesn’t change. Starvation is an inescapable danger.”

“I understand what you’re saying… and you’re wrong,” I said. I met his quizzical gaze head-on. “I’m not suggesting we fall into each other’s arms or hold a fucking group enema. There just needs to be some sort of effort taken to lighten things up. It could be as simple as handing out pieces of chocolate for tasks well accomplished.”

He leaned away from me and pulled a disturbed expression. “You mean like doggy treats? That’s a little insulting, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Christ, you don’t pat them on the head and ask, ‘who’s a good boy,’ Jake. Do you know what some people would do for a fucking Snickers at this point? Do you have any idea? I could tell you what I’d do, but I don’t want to lower your opinion of me. Trust me: it would work.”

“Huh,” said Jake.

“The main thing is,” I continued, “whatever we do needs to come along with a recovery plan. Like you said, we’re not dumbasses around here. They need to know that we have some new ideas to get through the winter. What we’re doing right now clearly isn’t getting the job done.”

“Agree,” he said simply.

We sat quietly for a while, watching as Amanda and Oscar slapped more blocks into place in the dirt. A giggle flitted our way over the field signaling that George was about to begin an afternoon lesson with the kids; they were beginning to arrange themselves on the front porch of Jake’s cabin in a loose circle around the older man, who lowered himself into a wooden chair.

“Let me chew on it a while,” Jake said as he rose to his feet.

“Don’t chew on it too long,” I said to his retreating back. “This is only going to get worse if we don’t square it away.”

He turned back to me, pushed his hair behind an ear, and said, “No. I’ve heard you loud and clear. I may have some ideas, and I’ll definitely run them by you soon, but just give me a bit to work out a few details.”

It took Jake about two days to get those few details worked out. I don’t know if that’s because some of that time included reading or he had a little preparation to do in order to get things set up; maybe he was just waiting for things to cool off a bit after Fred’s big blowup. The logistics were finalized a day after the fight, definitely, because he and I met that evening to hammer out particulars. He gave me a week to plan—get my shit together—which was more than I felt like I needed or wanted, but which was probably a good idea in the long run. Once I had a target, I wanted to go execute. Jake insisted on the extra time for planning. I’ll admit he was right.

Two days after Fred had been buffaloed, I was finishing off an afternoon training session with a handful of folks including Amanda, Rebecca, Wang, Edgar, and Alan. Experience demonstrated I’d be better off keeping the Page brothers separated as it cut out any impulses for buffoonery. I had Edgar along because, like Jeff, he didn’t seem to be developing any aptitude at all so I was banking on the hope that keeping him around some of the better performers like Amanda and Wang would benefit his progress to some degree. I had yet to see if there’d be any payoff in that regard.

I’d had them working targets at three hundred yards that afternoon, followed by cleaning their weapons, and then some room clearing drills in Oscar’s place. Despite the fact that the container had a fairly simple two-room layout, I was happy with everyone’s progress overall and was looking forward to getting multiple teams going at once, coordinating their movement between different structures over the radios. Seemed like every time I had them out they were getting better; taking on new skills or improving existing ones. I’ll admit to some degree of satisfaction in the process.