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

“As I said, I’d hoped you’d share your fire with me.”

“My… fire?”

“Yes.”

“I… come out where I can see you.”

“You won’t shoot?”

Hunter dropped the gun to his side, belatedly. He took another breath and said, “No. Not unless…” He let the threat hang.

“That’s fair,” said the voice.

As he watched, a head resolved out of the blackness, seeming to float in midair, but Hunter knew that it was only what was left of the building wall throwing a shadow across the man’s body. The light from the dancing flames did odd things to his face, obscuring and exposing features by turns, giving him a fluid, transitory appearance. Hunter could at least see that his head was shaved clean and that he wore a beard. Two hands appeared on either side of the face, palms exposed.

“Okay?” he asked.

Hunter nodded. He crouched back down next to the fire but kept his eyes on the other; his gun remained in his lap. The man stepped gingerly over the rubble of the wall at its lowest point, taking pains not to disturb the least part of it. He wore jeans, hiking boots, and a heavy jacket as protection against the night chill. Hunter tightened his grip on the revolver; the jacket was bulky, yes, but the man under it looked enormous in the hyperactive lighting.

“I’ll stay on this side, yes?” He dragged an old plastic bin over, turned it upside down, and squatted onto it, looking like a parent sitting at his child’s desk in preschool.

“Don’t you have any food or anything with you?” asked Hunter.

He shook his head. “Running low.”

Hunter thought a moment; then made a snap decision. “I got a can of ravioli here. It’s not my favorite, so you can have it? If you like?”

The man said nothing for a moment. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Yes, thank you very much. I’d love it.”

Hunter smiled despite himself, proud of his skill at behaving appropriately; of his ability to blend. He just had to keep it light, not give a name or ask for one, don’t offer details. He used to do this all the time. He knew he could get back into the habit.

He pulled the offered can from his duffel, confirmed by firelight that it was indeed what he sought, and tossed it across the fire. The other man caught it and set it on the floor. In the meantime, Hunter picked up his little knife, ensured the can opener attachment was still locked in place and began to worry away at the rim of his can.

The large man reached behind his back, causing Hunter to tense on the spot. Noticing Hunter’s concern, he held out his left hand, palm splayed out, and said, “Just a knife to open this can. I’ll move slow. Take up the gun again, if you like.”

He waited a few moments and, when Hunter only stared intently, proceeded to pull with his right hand, producing a long, black-bladed knife. Moving smoothly, he rotated the weapon in his hand so that the blade pointed down. He rested the tip on the top of the can, right in the seam, braced the can on both sides with his feet, and gave the pommel a sharp rabbit-strike with his left hand. The tip sank into the metal of the can by a centimeter at most.

As Hunter watched, the man put his left hand on the side of the can and laid his thumb over the top, behind the dull side of the blade, and levered the whole knife down over the broad knuckle like it was the fulcrum of a see-saw. The tip of the blade furrowed a slit through the lid of the can as it levered back. The man adjusted his grip, set the tip of the knife back into the can, and did it again, this time parting a slit that must have been an inch long and followed the curve of the rim neatly.

“Doesn’t that hurt your thumb?” asked Hunter.

“Not so much,” the man said, not looking up. “Hurts more to cut yourself on a jagged bit of tin.”

Hunter looked down at his own can, regarding the disjointed, stitch pattern the little can opener had yawed across the surface.

“Could you show me how?” he asked.

The man smiled. “I could do it for you. The trick is to have a big knife that is very sharp. The sharper it is, the better. You’ll need less force to make it work. And the heavier it is, the less of your own strength you’ll have to add. You can just let the tool do the work for you.”

He held out his hand for Hunter’s can. Intrigued, he passed it across and sidled over closer to watch how it was done.

“You can lay a folded piece of cloth over your thumb at first, if you like, until you get used to it,” he said and began to work his knife through the metal, parting it easily.

“What kind of knife is that?” Hunter asked in a whisper.

“This is called a Ka-Bar, but that doesn’t matter,” said the man. “All it needs is to be about this long, this thick, and dull on one side, so you don’t cut yourself, see?”

Hunter nodded and took the can back when it was offered. Instead of scooting back to his place on the other side of the fire, he remained where he was, to the other man’s right, and placed his can down on one of the rocks ringing the edge of the pit to cook.

The man seemed disinterested with warming his meal; instead lifting it to his mouth like a coffee cup, tilting back, and sucking in a mouthful of the coagulated, greasy food. He lowered the can and swallowed without bothering to chew and wiped the back of his hand across his furry lips, which had been caked with sauce.

“Hang on a minute,” Hunter urged and went back into his bag. He found a small box of plastic silverware and pulled it out. It had only knives. “Damn it,” he said.

“That’s okay,” said the man. “I can make that work.”

Hunter passed him a knife; he nodded and began digging out single raviolis with the tip and upending them into his mouth. After getting a couple of them down without making a mess, he offered a thumbs-up to Hunter, who smiled.

They sat quietly for the next several minutes, one man eating away absently at his cold food while the other, younger man sat and waited for his food to be ready. Hunter thought about this new person and, despite his usual unease with people, wondered at his nature. He’d not asked for a name, which seemed odd; that was usually the first thing people asked for when meeting new folks (one of those practices that had always made Hunter feel queasy from the get-go). He began to feel at ease in the man’s presence and was confused.

“I think that’s ready,” said the man, indicating the can with his plastic knife.

Hunter jerked lightly, the way he sometimes did just as he was drifting off to sleep at night when he was wrapped up in his bag. “Oh,” he said and reached out to touch the can. It was just pleasantly hot to the touch without hurting; he picked it up and happily began to drink from the can (knowing that Spaghetti-O’s always poured better than that other stuff).

“How long have you been out here?”

“Not so long,” Hunter said without thought. “A week or two, I guess? I lose track of time.”

The man nodded to himself, took another bite, and said, “And how long have you been setting fires?”

Hunter froze in place, can warping under his grip. He battled a wave of panic that caused an instant sweat to break out over his body.

The man’s hand reached out and found his left shoulder, landing on it feather-light, as though Hunter was a deer that might panic and bolt. Without looking up, he softly said, “It’s okay. I saw before I came to join you. I’m here now. Am I yelling at you? Calling you names?”

A long, quivering exhalation wheezed out from Hunter’s lips. He had to breathe in and out several times before he could mutter, “But… people say—”

“What people?”

Hunter didn’t know how to respond to that. What people , indeed?