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

Gibs held himself removed out to the edges of the gathering, sitting just outside of both the heat and light of the fires’ influence. He warmed his hands on a mug of coffee-flavored whiskey and simply watched the gathering before him. The whole damned thing had started out just as tense and awkward as a teenager’s first kiss, with everyone stutter-stepping around like a bunch of simpletons, aborting sentences, and averting glances. He’d wanted to laugh at first before he reminded himself how critical it was that everyone got along. Jake hadn’t given up a lot of details on his plan, outside of the quick meeting they’d had before he left where he instructed, in no uncertain terms, that they should all be ready to go to ground and fight light jackals if there was any hint of horseshit on his return (if he even returned). Even so, Gibs felt like he might be getting a handle on things. As he watched Jake’s complete reversal from a position of “you’ll have to kill us to get what you want” to “hey, come on over and have a steak, why don’t you,” he had to admit that it all made a kind of sense in a rather baffling, Jake sort of way.

Just so long as you didn’t actually spend too much time thinking about it, Gibs supposed. He was still missing that final puzzle piece. What was the strategy, here? Make everyone friends enough that nobody would be willing to lift a rifle if called upon to do so? Gibs scoffed, took a sip of his drink, and shook his head. Not fucking likely… not after only a single meal together, at least. They’d all have some chow, he figured, retreat to their neutral corners with a wave, a fart, and a smile, and then at some point, they’d be back to that central problem, wouldn’t they? And if it came down to a no-shit fight, well, a measly dinner wasn’t bound to slow anyone’s hand, was it? Gibs thought not.

Once you condensed it all down to simple terms, when you removed all the peacock feathers and other bullshit, what it really came to was that Warren wanted to be the guy in charge. Not because he was some kind of power-hungry nutjob, oddly… he just didn’t trust anyone else to take on that role. Gibs could respect that. The man had a job to do, after all, and he was going to damned well do it until he either dropped or some other son of a bitch came along and dropped him. That was some admirable shit.

Unfortunately, those living in the valley weren’t exactly in a rush to follow the new guy, regardless of how capable or worthy he might be. They simply hadn’t bled with him the way they’d bled with each other. He was an outside man; all of them were, these new people. The only ones who really bridged that gap were Jeffries and his crusty little crew of soldiers. Gibs felt a little bad for those guys, actually. They were probably feeling tugged in both directions right about now, confused as hell about what side they were apt to come down on if things got stupid and the rifles came out. Especially Jeffries, who hadn’t left Samantha’s side since returning.

So… how the hell would they get from tentative ceasefire to common purpose, given the two swinging dicks directing the whole thing seemed not to give shit one about each other’s dreams and aspirations?

Gibs took another drink, coughed, and muttered, “That is not my goat to fuck, thank you Jesus…”

He was mildly startled by the heavy crunch of a chair being ground into the dirt on his left. The night was totally black by now, and looking up in the dim firelight, his bleary eyes noted a shaved head, harsh angles, a pervasive sense of thickness, and slow, careful movement. Ponderous movement. He drew in breath to greet his friend but just before he spoke, the body settled heavily into the chair, and the orange firelight threw Warren’s Cro-Magnon potato-head into shadowed view.

“Jesus,” Gibs grunted.

“Not exactly,” Warren said, smiling. Gibs noticed tiny gaps between the man’s teeth; they all seemed somehow far too small for his head. His voice carried that husky, ripping growl that made Gibs think of sandpaper and broken glass. It was not unlike a Drill Instructor’s speaking voice, though it sounded less painful by a small degree.

Looking out the side of his eyes, Gibs hesitantly hoisted his mug and offered, “Nice evening…”

“Indeed.”

Gibs shifted uncomfortably in his chair, crossed his ankle over a knee, lowered it to the ground again, and sighed. He looked out of the corner of his eye again at Warren and saw that the man was looking down at his own hand. He wore fingerless gloves, out of which protruded blocky knuckles covered in black, wiry hair. His right hand rested on his thigh while the other held a plain, brown mug.

“It occurs to me that we’ve never really had the chance to talk, Gibs.”

Oh, hell , he thought. “Yeah?”

“You were a staff sergeant, is that right?”

Gibs took a drink and nodded, his expression guarded.

“May I ask you about your time in the service?”

Gibs sighed. Tilting his head back in thought, he said. “Combat Squad Leaders Course at SOI once I made Corporal. Various cross training on all weapons at the company level, machine guns, and all the heavy weapons at the battalion level. Several deployments plus the standard barracks duty and had my Jungle Environment Survival Training in the Philippines. Spent time cross training with the 0351’s on the SMAW. Trained in demolitions, soviet style assault weapons including RPG and RPK. Certified MOUT Instructor—that’s Military Operations in Urban Terrain. Anything else?”

“You meet Gunner Bolton?”

Gibs sat up. “I beg your pardon?”

“Did you meet Gunner Bolton?”

Tamping down his annoyance, Gibs carefully said, “All of the squad leaders got to talk to him, as I guess you fucking well know.”

Warren extended a hand. “Alright, easy. Just checking.”

“Checking what? How about you prove to me you’re a fucking Seal?”

“Hey, easy. I’m sorry. No shit, I apologize for bringing it up, okay?”

“Fine.”

“I was just trying to get a sense of who you are. Or of everyone here, really. You must know that I spent some time grilling my guys about it.”

“Sure,” muttered Gibs.

“Well, my problem is that I’m not seeing the end game, here. I’m up here on a prayer, Gibs. A prayer that there’s some kind of resolution to all this that works. Your man Jake has gone to a lot of effort here—you all have—to smooth things over, but the fact remains. His initial stance was fairly absolute.”

Gibs scratched at his jaw and said, “You know, if you’re looking for me to feed you information or talk to him on your behalf, you’re barking up the wrong tree. You get that, right?”

Warren sighed and shook his head. “No, Gibs, I’m not trying to do any of that.”

“Well, what the hell are we talking about here?”

“What kind of man is he, Gibs? You’ve been up her quite a while, now, living with these people. Look, you were in the Corps how long?”

“Twelve years.”

“Went to Iraq, then?”

“Yes,” Gibs growled. “Did you?”

“I did.”

“Good. Then that’s all the shit we need to say on that subject.”

Warren nodded. “Peace to that. But that’s why I’m asking you this. I have some common ground with you. What kind of man is he? Not compared to American living. I mean compared to desert living. Why are you up here? Are you following him or protecting the rest of them?”

“Protecting…?”

“He said he’d throw down with us if it came to it, Gibs. He’d do it and expect a good portion of you to stand by him. Now, what am I looking at, here? Would you or would you not follow this man into hell?”

Gibs went to take a drink and found that his mug was empty. He grimaced and said, “I need a top off. You want any more of… what’re you drinking?”