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

“Let’s get him in the small camper, please. Monica, would you go with him? Clean him up a bit?”

“Why?” she asked, surprising me.

“Because you’re strong enough that most men here can’t overpower you and you have experience in this sort of thing. I trust you to hold off judgment until we know for sure.”

That simple reminder of her past life working in the penitentiary, a job she still avoids talking about, seemed to snap her into action. She straightened up immediately, closing the distance to Jeff and pulling him up to his feet with her free hand, the other holding my Glock. “Well, come on,” she said quietly as she pulled him away.

“I need to speak with Maria, please,” said Jake. “Alone.”

Three days later, we were driving north up the 15, having left Las Vegas behind in a cloud of dust and middle fingers; all of us as giddy as soccer moms at a bachelorette party drinking fruity cocktails and playing with a bunch of penis-themed party favors. Our trip had gone better than any of us could have reasonably hoped and it was a true exercise in personal restraint for me to keep from stapling the gas pedal to the floor. The truck bed was loaded down with enough food to carry us into the first thaw of next year, and the trailer was packed with enough hardware to outfit everyone four times over. I suffered an intense, jittering compulsion to get it all home where it would be safe as fast as possible; however, the fuel economy readout of the Ford suggested doing so was a really bad idea.

Through a bit of experimentation, we’d determined that the best we could do was about twelve miles to the gallon at around fifty-five miles per hour or so; we could do a little better at higher speeds if we were rolling downhill. When we tried to push faster, our fuel economy started to take a hit, which was bad because all of the fuel calculations we’d made back in the valley assumed a twelve mile per gallon ratio based on what we’d seen of the truck’s performance in day to day activities. If we fell very far below twelve, I didn’t know if we’d have enough fuel to get home and couldn’t calculate it because there wasn’t any kind of fancy meter on the reserve tank to tell us how much was left.

It took us forever to figure out what was happening. I couldn’t understand at all why the fuel economy was so shitty on our trip. It’s not like the guzzling Ford was standard equipment for the modern Eco-warrior or anything, but we could usually maintain twelve mpg back home well over the speeds we were forced to limit ourselves to on the trip out to Vegas. Wang eventually figured out the most likely cause; we were hauling a metric ass-ton of supplies behind us, and the thirty-five square foot armored sheet that we’d hung off the back of the trailer was acting like a drag chute, forcing our engine to work harder the faster we went.

Once I understood what was going on, I nearly pulled over to the side of the road to ditch the damned thing, reasoning that the extra time we’d have to spend driving translated to elevated risk. I ultimately decided against doing so on the grounds that having a bulletproof ass was a good idea no matter how fat it made you. Additionally, I’ll admit I wasn’t interested in swallowing a ration of shit over having unloaded the thing after I’d devoted such time and energy to creating it in the first place.

So, I set the cruise control at fifty-five and concentrated on not squirming in the driver’s seat as the scenery rolled by at a painfully slow pace.

We’d been driving continuously for the past few days as planned, stopping only to pillage a site or relieve ourselves on the side of the road. Each of us had taken a turn at the wheel by this point but, as luck would have it, we were back in the original positions we’d occupied when we left the commune; with Wang in the passenger seat and Davidson and Greg in the back. There was one significant point of difference between the time we left and the time we were on our way home, though: each of us now had in his possession high-end ballistic armor and helmets capable of stopping multiple high powered rifle rounds. No shit, Jake’s little find in Vegas had been a LEO supplier, and we’d walked through the rows of shelving in that warehouse like it was Christmas. There was much more in the trailer as well, if we could just get the damned things home before Christmas actually happened. There were quite a few other interesting things we’d found as well; things that I very much wanted to get home and get comfortable with.

Thus it was that I was in a fairly happy mood, despite our grandfatherly progress up the road, when Wang asked me to pull over to the side of the road so he could recycle a little water. I did so, and he cracked his door to get out; it was nearly yanked from his hand by a nasty gust blowing east across the desert.

“Crap, man, how the hell am I gonna go in this?” Wang complained. “It’ll get everywhere. Shit, I don’t know if I can hold out until we pass a building or something.”

“Just don’t walk away from the truck,” I said. “Stand right here and just piss into the dirt between the truck frame and the bottom of the door. The door itself should block you from the worst of the wind.”

Wang looked at me dubiously and said, “That’s a little less privacy than I’d like…”

I snorted laughter and asked, “What, are you afraid I’m gonna see your pecker? Don’t worry. None of us are Peter-gazers. Well, Davidson might be.”

“Fuck off, Gibs,” Davidson laughed from the back seat.

When he didn’t move, I sighed and turned to look out the other window. “Hurry up, Wang. Just get it done and let’s get going.”

Now, you’re probably going to say I’m an asshole for what happens next, but I don’t care. It was worth it. Also, that’s affirmed: I’m a proud asshole.

I waited to hear Wang’s pants unzip, held my breath, and waited a few more seconds before I heard the telltale patter of drops hitting dirt (which wasn’t easy due to the sound of the gusting wind, by the way). It didn’t take much. I just pulled my foot off the brake, and the idling engine did the rest, causing the truck to roll forward a few feet, exposing Wang to the wind and all the havoc it could cause.

“Son of a… asshole , Gibs! You’re a giant asshole, man!”

I tried to answer him, but the sound of combined laughter coming from the inside of the truck cab made it difficult. In the meantime, Wang was shuffle-stepping along to get back into the protective shelter of the door.

Through gasps of laughter, I managed to say, “I’m… oh, Jesus, I’m sorry man, I just couldn’t help it. Is it really bad?”

“Uh, yeah! I got piss all over my hands and sprinkled the shit out of my jeans, you di— stop rolling , you colossal bastard! What the fuck!”

I was doubled up and laughing so hard that my foot had slipped off the brake pedal. I stomped it back down and threw the truck into park until I could get control of myself.

“I’m sorry, man,” I gasped. “That wasn’t on purpose. Or, the first time it was but the second one was my fuck-up all the way.”

“Well, it’s not like it matters,” Wang said angrily. “I’m done now, anyway.”

Greg and Davidson were still bawling uncontrollably in the back seat, groaning and laughing by turns; wheezing and complaining about their sore ribs.

“Yeah, you all keep laughing back there, too,” Wang called back at them. “Next time I drive you’re all screwed.”

“Hey, come on, I’m sorry. Here…” I threw a package of wet wipes at him. “Clean yourself off, put your wang away, and let’s get rolling.”