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

Clay sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward. He glanced down at Beau, who was looking back at him over his shoulder, the son of a bitch. He winked at Clay, and turned back to his work, whistling.

Clay read that one too. Beau had just told him, “Do what you’re gonna do, you old fuck. Just remember, you got only one mechanic but lots and lots of scavengers. Make the wise decision, pops.”

Beau figured he had Clay bent over a barrel. Momentarily, Clay wondered if that were actually so, but then he looked at Elton again, his forced docile expression, and realized that the way forward was clear. It didn’t matter what Beau could or couldn’t do; a poison of this nature couldn’t be allowed to fester. It would kill them off faster than the Plague.

Keeping his eyes on Beau (he could only see his legs, ass, and right shoulder), he unfastened the buckle of his belt; one of those thick, heavy affairs with two prongs instead of one. He did so carefully, making sure not to let it jangle, and then pulled it through the loops of his jeans. It made a soft, slithering hiss like a snake as it came. Beau, who continued to whistle tunelessly, seemed not to hear it at all. Clay doubled the leather over in his right hand. He sensed rather than saw Elton stiffen in his peripheral vision, but he kept his eyes locked on the man bent over the truck.

“Hey, Beau. Have a look at this.”

Beau sighed, set the wrench down, and allowed himself to drop back to the concrete. He began to say something, perhaps “What is it now?” but he only got out the first word. He was turned in three-quarter profile to Clay, looking directly at Elton in fact, when the beefy leather of the belt collided at full speed with his mouth, wrapped around the side of his face, and cracked against his ear. The sound was shockingly loud in the garage, almost like a gunshot.

Beau was rocked back on his heels, stumbling back several steps while holding a mouth already gushing blood, before he tripped over the table and fell backward into the window of the shop manager’s office. The impact of his head rattled the heavy glass in its pane but did not break it; it was solid stuff probably meant to protect against mishaps like broken parts or flying ball bearings. It was certainly proof against Beau’s thick fucking head, Clay thought, and he grinned to himself when he saw the other man’s eyes go out of focus momentarily after the collision.

Beau ended up on the floor, lying over on his side. He pulled his hand away from his mouth to look at it; the palm held a little pool of blood along with what appeared to be a broken chunk of tooth. He looked up angrily at Clay and spluttered, “Are you fuggin’ crathy?”

Clay swung with everything he had, connecting again on the left side of the man’s face. Beau let out a cry like a startled raven and lifted his hand up to block additional swings. To compensate, Clay gave him a stripe along his kidney, which caused the man to convulse backward as though he had been electrocuted. He yanked his arm down to cover his back, opening up his face exactly as Clay desired. He gave him another shot along the cheek, this time ripping it wide open and spraying a greasy splash of blood across the concrete floor.

Beau was screaming now, completely out of control. Clay continued to rain blows down on the man, adjusting his aim every time Beau contorted, always attacking a newly unprotected spot. He whipped the man along his shoulders, the back of his head, his ass, his calves, his sides, the backs of his hands and arms, and anywhere else Beau failed to protect. Whenever his face was exposed Clay swung for it, hitting it more often than not, until it looked like someone had gone to work on him with a blade rather than a strip of leather.

It wasn’t long before Beau had given up on anticipating where the shots would land and resorted to curling up into a ball. He was a bloody, burning red mess by then, with half of the clothing ripped off a body crisscrossed with lash marks and big, meaty, weeping tears in his skin. Clay realized he was panting, out of breath, and stood up straight to get some air into his lungs.

He looked back at Elton, who now stood with a different look on his face: horror. Behind him, a sizeable group had gathered, having been drawn by Beau’s screaming. He saw a mixture of emotions on their faces, running from surprise to shock to disgust and even amusement in some cases. Beau was not a well-liked man, generally speaking.

Through panting breaths, Clay asked, “Well, what do you say, Elton? Good enough or is there still a lesson to be taught?”

The man shook his head sharply, face gray. “That’s… that’s enough, man. Don’t hit him no more.”

Clay barked out a laugh; a single “Ha!” Still panting, he stepped back over to Beau, who hadn’t moved; he only lay there moaning on the floor. Clay rolled him over forcefully so that he could look into his face. Beau started to resist, whimpering frantically. “Alright, knock it off, you little twat. I’m done, already,” Clay growled. Beau shielded his ruined, bleeding face with both of his arms, panting just as hard as Clay was. Clay tried to pull a hand down, and the man struggled.

“Bring your fucking arms down,” Clay snarled, “or I swear to Christ and his virgin mother I’ll have your eyes out with a fucking screwdriver! Now, look at me!”

Beau complied, bloody cheeks quivering; his panicked eyes were just visible peeking out over the tops of his forearms. Clay stood over Beau, straddling him, and bent over, so their faces were only a foot away from each other. Clay knew the man could lift a leg up and nut him; he also knew he was in absolutely no danger of such a thing happening. Now certain that he had Beau’s attention, he pointed back at Elton. “That nigger over there is the reason you’re still alive. You just think about that, huh? And think about this as well, Beau: I’m a simple man. I like peace and quiet and harmony. I like having those things much more than I like having a mechanic. I’ll happily burn days on end replacing broken down trucks before I’ll spend another cocksucking second suffering one more fucking peep out of you that isn’t some variation of ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir.’”

He straightened up, threaded the now bloody belt back through the loops of his jeans, and fastened it in place. “Nobody says the word nigger from this point forward!” he proclaimed. “Or kike, wetback, gook, chink, or any other such shit. That time in history is over; there isn’t any fucking place for it anymore, if there ever was before.”

He stepped away from Beau and faced the crowd of onlookers outside the garage. “If I catch anyone in the act of sewing that kind of poison within our group…”

He didn’t finish the thought. He only pointed down at Beau, who had curled back into a moaning ball on the floor.

He walked toward the garage exit, pausing briefly next to Elton to say, “One alternator, if you please.” His voice had resumed its reasonable, cultured tone; a stark contrast to the enraged, shouting tyrant from only a few moments ago.

Unnerved, Elton said, “Sure. You got it, Clay.” Clay looked at him, then, and saw something else buried deep behind the man’s eyes, something of which Elton himself might not even be aware. It wasn’t admiration, and it wasn’t anything like gratitude, certainly. But there was something back in there, alright, down in the deep places where thoughts lived without words. Clay thought it might be acceptance. He could live with that.

He exited the garage, making straight for the group of people outside, who parted hastily to let him by.

The sun seemed brighter than ever as Clay circumnavigated the garage, following its perimeter back to the collection of tents, sun shades, and tables strewn all around the conjoined parking lots of the Marriott, Hampton, and Service King Repair shop. He wasn’t sure if the glare was actually getting worse as the day progressed or if it was just the expected result of his insistence on moving between interior and exterior settings so often. His head thundered mightily between his temples, aggravated by his previous exertions, and his churning guts told him he’d better get something inside of him soon, if for no other reason than to have something there to purge when he again started to involuntarily heave.