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

As he looked the area over, the first signs of smoke began to rise from the buildings across the way, surprising an audible exhalation from him. He steadied himself in the cold November air; licked his finger and held it up to again confirm the direction of the wind, which was low but present. It continued to hold a southerly direction, blowing away from his position, which was excellent. He knew he would be in no danger at any point, but it made him happy to know that he could stay for as long as he wanted. The air was crisp, and there were still patches of slowly melting snow along the ground from the most recent fall, which had been light, but the sun was still high. It was unseasonably warm for this time of year, and Hunter removed his jacket to compensate.

When the flames became visible, he gasped, and any self-admonishments to slow down and savor the moment were quickly forgotten. He leaned out into the open, trying to feel their heat but failing, and anticipated. He wondered how long and how far it would burn, telling himself not to hope, that the fire would be what it needed to be. An intense glow settled all about him; a pervasive sense of good fortune and wellbeing. Euphoria. He considered the probabilities involved in his arriving to that point; surviving the riots, the Plague, the roving bands of survivors in the final breakdown. All of the unlikely and unfathomable circumstances that allowed him to come to that point, the last survivor in an empty city. He felt as though God must have finally taken pity on him. He had been suppressing this urge for as long as he could remember, for as long as he’d known what matches were and what they did. A whole lifetime, twenty-three years, devoted to resisting that thing which he craved the most. He had come so close to letting go on so many occasions but, at the utmost of his extremity, had always pulled back from the brink, knowing that his ultimate satisfaction would likely result in death or disfigurement for other people. Innocent people just… going about their lives, no hint or idea concerning Hunter’s affliction. And he knew it was an affliction; had always known. It never takes a great deal of time for the aberrational to discover how different they really are. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. Alien as they were, they had done nothing to him.

And so he had kept a lid on it for years, for as long as Hunter could remember being Hunter, always on the edge, always on the verge of losing himself, of just letting go. He looked suspiciously at other people as they looked suspiciously at him, and was alone. At the end, when he felt each day that his resolve had cracked just a little bit more, that he had come just a bit closer to going ahead with it anyway, despite the dangers, God had taken pity on his poor soul and provided him with an empty playground. Sometimes, if he thought too much about it, he would cry from gratitude.

The flames climbed higher, belching dark smoke up into the gray haze of the sky. He wasn’t sure yet, but he thought he could just make out the next building in line beginning to catch. He had been afraid that the cold weather and leftover patches of snow would kill the fire before it had a chance to come alive; it began to look now as though his concern was groundless. He reached down between his legs and pressed into the seam of his jeans against the firmness waiting for him. When he pressed, an electric crack of chills emanated out from it, spreading through his midsection. His knees went slack momentarily, and he braced his left hand against the building facade to remain upright.

The flames climbed higher, ever higher, and the world darkened around the building in contrast. Hunter waited for the sign to catch, for the painted letters to begin to bubble and raise off the board, before unzipping and then lowering his pants. The cold air on his skin added an additional element to the sensation that he’d not expected, surprising a giggle out of him. His heart hammered up against his throat, and he thought about his whole life before, all of the hiding behind locked doors, the agony of his shame, and the strangers he pretended to know. He thought of the solitude spent in a sea of people; unknown walls of thought passing around, over, and through him, seeing him with their unseeing eyes and their empty presence, and he thought about how he did not have to hide from them anymore. Tears began to run down his cheeks, and he didn’t have to hide those either.

The entire focus of his existence narrowed down to that growing blaze across the street, that new animal he had created, and he laughed while he moved his hand faster and thanked God.

Some three hundred yards or more away, on another rooftop, a set of unfeeling, round glass eyes watched Hunter’s theophany and waited.

Much later during the evening, when the sun had long since passed beyond the mountains and those patches of sky not obscured by clouds were bright with starlight, Hunter crouched down inside the stripped-out bottom floor of a small shop on the other side of town. The front wall of the building facing the street had been almost completely demolished, such that stepping inside was a simple act of stepping over a line of rubble, and Hunter liked this. He liked this new condition of openness, though it was a daily practice to become used to it.

He hovered over the beginnings of a small fire laid right in the center of a bare patch of the exposed concrete floor, bordered by a little circle of jagged, chipped stones and fed with debris and bits of wood. A sizeable pile of fresh, sappy branches as well as deadfall had been piled in a corner; fuel to carry him through into the morning. As his little fire grew from a smolder into a jolly blaze, he marveled at the feeling of peace he was able to maintain. The glow of the real fire, that animal, still hung about him, sustaining him. He thought it would carry him through at least another couple of weeks. He settled down onto his backside, pulled a large duffel across his lap, and began to dig through it happily, a smile of easy, simple content settled on his now becalmed face, washing away the years; making him the small boy his lost mother would have recognized and held.

Hunter extracted a can of Spaghetti-O’s from the bag and laughed happily, thrilled that he still had more. He reached down to his side, retrieved the little Swiss Army knife, and began to work it into the lid of the can. The tip of his tongue poked out between his lips as he concentrated on his work.

“Share your fire?”

Hunter jerked hard, nearly slicing the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. The voice had come from nowhere, unexpected. Whimpering, he threw down the can and struggled with the bag to extract his revolver, hooking the sights on the lip of the fabric in the process. He snarled and pulled hard, ripping the bag and nearly shooting himself in the process.

He thrust the handgun out in front of himself and swept it across the open hole in the building wall, putting as much of his will as he could spare into keeping it steady. Moving it back and forth wildly, he saw nothing in the darkness.

“Who’s there!” he called. His voice sounded strange in his own ears. It had been months since he’d bothered to use it.

“Just me. I’m alone.”

“I can’t see you!”

“Yes. I’m hiding.”

Hunter suppressed a wave of panic and shouted, “Well, what the hell are you hiding for, then?”

“You do realize that you’re swinging a gun around, don’t you?”

“What?”

“I’d really rather not be shot.”

Hunter turned the gun in his hand so he could see it from the side, shook his head violently, and resumed sweeping it back and forth. “What do you want?” he called.