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

Outrage fairly dispersed, Clay nodded and said, “Yeah, I know, Pap. I’ll keep an eye out.”

He walked in past the inner gate, focusing every ounce of attention he possessed on the dirt before his feet, looking for any kind of disturbance or discoloration. The surface was soon broken by a dark cascade of dirt clods, and he came upon the last remains of Paul. His midsection had been blown open, it seemed, and pulverized bits of his viscera snaked out across the ground in a wide, red arc. As he stood there staring at the mess, trying to comprehend what he saw, the sound of footsteps came up from behind.

“Awe, shit. Poor, poor Paul,” Elton groaned.

Mouth hanging open, Clay thought, “ I’d only just met the guy…” Shaking his head fiercely, he asked, “Did he have anyone? Children? A woman… or, shit, a man?”

“Naw, don’t think so.”

“Well, thank heaven for that, at least. Goddamn it.” He looked up and scanned the area, the pad of his thumb idly rubbing the safety switch on the tang of his shotgun. It was quiet up in the low hills, and he could see the sprawling, white buildings of the compound off in the distance. There was no movement out there, so far as he could see.

“Let’s have some guys over to wrap Paul up in Visqueen; there’s still a roll of it in the GMC. We’ll haul the poor bastard in and give him a respectable sendoff later tonight, once the area is settled, huh?”

“Yep,” Elton agreed and whistled sharply through his teeth in the other direction. A second later, he shouted, “Stop runnin’, you dumb muthafuckahs! Did you not just see what happened?”

They had the remains of poor, dead Paul bundled up and stowed inside of ten minutes. They continued on to the compound, Clay, Elton, and Pap walking slowly ahead of the trucks to scan the ground. Every so often, one of them would wave back at the guys driving behind them and jab a finger at the ground, whether they actually saw something or only thought they did. The persons driving the trucks threaded their way through these obstacles with exquisite care. Danielle (one of the women on Ronny’s team) was driving the GMC; she felt as though she’d sucked half of the truck’s seat cushion up her ass by the time they’d reached their destination and killed the engines.

The compound consisted of a large array of buildings spread out over the patched dirt ground. Directly ahead of them was what appeared to be a sort of front office, a wide building almost like a barn, with a high-peaked roof; it had a sign over the entryway that said “Lead Devil Store: Firearms and Ammunition.” To the left of this was a line of prefab metal buildings, all painted white, which ran off into the distance some three hundred feet. Clay stopped in front of a sign posted up in front of an old World-War-II-era tank. It advertised activities such as paintball, a firing range, and a guided tour of the war museum. Beneath this was another sign stating that those people interested in the Lead Devil Precision Machine Shop had traveled up the road too far; they were to turn back and take the first left before exiting the property.

Clay took the sign in, reading it a glance, and stepped past it to approach the entryway of the main building. Sitting out in front were the remains of a man, now long gone from this world. He was in a thick plastic chair, the kind you’d expect to see in any backyard patio set across America, preserved in a state of relaxation, with one leg crossed over his knee, and an arm slung over to the side; the hand resting on the neck of a dusty beer bottle, which itself was placed on a cooler next to his chair. The skin was pulled tight over his bones like shiny, old brown leather, though the dryness of the air had gone a long ways towards mummifying what was left. He wore a nylon ballcap that sported two crossed AR-15’s in front of extended eagle’s wings with text along the bottom that said, “LEAD DEVIL.” There was an old Tommy gun slung across his lap complete with a big drum magazine protruding from the bottom.

“Sweet Lord,” Pap whispered reverently from behind Clay. “Is that him, you reckon?”

“I suppose it must be,” said Clay thoughtfully. He said no more; only stood there a time, thinking.

“Well, what’cha wanna do, Baws?”

Clay drew in a sharp breath as he was drawn out of his own thoughts. He leaned forward and, unhooking an overburdened ring of keys from the dead man’s belt, whispered, “Sorry, friend…” He tossed the wad of keys to pap and said, “Have everyone sweep through the area. Keep to the buildings and such, and have them on the lookout for any more traps; tell them to watch for wires and the like. Oh, and tell them not to throw any fucking light switches! I can’t imagine why anyone would try them at this point, but I’ve certainly heard of shit even dumber than that. Flashlights only, huh?”

Pap nodded and turned to leave, but Clay called out again before he could depart. “Tell Ronny to station two of his guys out by the entrance, in case the rest of our people show up. They’ll need to be guided in until we can figure out how to clear that path. Same thing for the rest of the grounds; no one goes out for a walk until we go over the property with a fine-toothed comb, huh?”

Pap nodded hard enough to jiggle his jowls and lumbered off to speak with the others. Now alone, Clay looked back at the old mummy in the chair.

He rested the shotgun on his shoulder and addressed the remains of what he assumed must be the Lead Devil, and said, “I guess people must have thought you were a crackpot, huh?” He scoffed and shook his head, taking in the entirety of the property. “Joke was on them, looks like. I’m sorry you didn’t make it to the other side of the plague, there, fella. I think I would have liked having a beer with you. Then again…” he looked down at the submachine gun in the man’s lap, “…maybe you would’ve just shot me full of holes for my trouble.”

The corpse’s face smiled up at him, an ironic look of mockery buried in the empty sockets walled up behind thick glasses.

“Anyways,” he muttered, “I intend to arm my people with your hardware; I hope that won’t be a problem. And if it is, well, there’s not a great deal I imagine you can do about it unless there’s more surprises waiting for us… in which case, fuck you.”

He looked past the dead man to the front entrance; regarded the heavy-looking metal door, the barred windows, and wondered if they’d need a torch to gain entry.

He said, “We’ll get some folks together and give you a proper send-off. I guess we’ll plant you next to Paul.” He wandered off to find Elton.

Clay wasn’t searching very long for Elton when he found him back over by the trucks with Danielle. He seemed to have the rest of his people sweeping the trail coming onto the property from the entrance gate, likely looking for more mines. The man waved at Clay as he approached before speaking into the CB handset, appearing as though he continued an ongoing conversation.

“Well, keep asking around,” he said as Clay came up to lean on the truck’s fender. “Maybe we get lucky. We’ve picked up a few more just over the last week, and I’m almost sure they haven’t been interviewed yet. Have whoever’s standing around go down the column and pull them out. Get it prioritized.”

A thin voice crackled from the CB set: “10-4, Chief, we’ll get on it and come right back.”

Clay nodded a question to the man as he hung the handset up, who responded, “I was just asking if we had anyone who did any kind of bomb squad work back in the day. Demolitions or anything like it. I don’t want anyone touching those damned mines ’less they know what they’re about.”