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

“No,” Jake said, shaking his head. He glanced at the civilians that had come along with Warren and said, “I’ve already told our people to lie low today; I don’t want them out here.”

“What, you think those others are gonna mess with us? Why’d you bring them up here, then?”

“No, no. Not mess with us.”

Oscar sighed. “You don’t make no sense, man.”

Smiling gently, Jake said, “That’s a fair statement. Go ahead and start mixing up some concrete for these; you said you had the forms ready to drop in once these all are dug out?”

“Yeah, but we aren’t ready for concrete just yet. Those forms gotta be level, first. It’ll take some work, and we wanna get at least two set in the ground before we start mixing up the first batch.”

Jake nodded. “It seems a few extra sets of hands would be useful.”

“No shit, homes.”

“Maybe we can do something about that. Lend me that pick?”

Looking slightly confused (Jake always made him feel slightly confused), Oscar handed the tool over.

Jake took it and whispered, “I’m going to start on the other footings. I’m going to make a poor job of it, okay? I mean I’m just going to botch the hell out of it. Do not correct me.”

“Wait, what?”

With his head pointed directly at Oscar, Jake flicked his eyes to the new civilians as they milled about outside of their tents, though some of them still laid around on their cots with the flaps pulled back. Many sat in chairs looking bored; idle. Some read beaten, dog-eared books.

Jake said, “I’m hoping one or two of them take pity on me and come over to correct my technique.”

“What the fuck?” Oscar grunted. Jake grimaced and gestured for him to keep his voice down. Lowering to a whisper, Oscar said, “What the fuck? Just let me go get Greg and Alan; they’ll have this shit banged out in no time. Why does this have to be such a pain in the ass?”

“It has to be these people,” Jake emphasized, flicking his eyes towards them yet again.

Oscar’s eyes bugged out, mouth hanging open in dismay. “But… but how do you know? How do you know any of them’ll come ‘correct you’re technique’ or whatever? What makes you think any of them knows their ass from a hole in the ground?”

Jake cocked his head, now looking confused himself. “Well, I served them all dinner last night, didn’t I? I looked at their hands.” He took the pick and went to the site of the next footing without looking back.

Oscar hissed at him as he walked away: “What the fuck does that have to do with… Jake! Jake? Pinche cabrón …”

He watched as Jake squared off on the site of the next hole, the corners of which had been marked off by wooden stakes. He spread his legs as though straddling a great river, heaved the pick high over the top of his head, and drove it into the earth so hard it seemed he intended to drill through to the other side of the planet at a single blow. The head drove all the way in, stopping only when the shaft impacted dirt. He positioned his feet closer together and hauled on the handle, pulling hard enough that Oscar was sure he saw the wood bow. The head of the pickaxe barely budged, and Jake was reduced to jerking the handle violently back and forth until the surrounding earth was loosened enough for the tool to be extracted. He spread his feet, swung, and drove it in again, just as deep as before.

Oscar winced and shook his head. He muttered to himself in Spanish, contemplating the bullheaded stupidity of white men, conveniently forgetting the fact that he could be just as stubborn when the need suited, proudly attributing the behavior to his Chicano heritage. He applied himself to his own hole, truing up the sides with a shovel. He presented his back to Jake, laboring to ignore the embarrassment being perpetrated by his friend.

His labor was protracted, sadly.

Jake worked new blisters into hands already heavily callused as he grunted and strained. A handful of Warren’s staff were doing calisthenics not far away from him but were soon distracted by his activity, a few of them nodding in his direction to draw the attention of their compatriots toward his antics. Some of them smiled and swatted each other’s chests and shoulders. In some cases, they laughed quietly.

Jake continued to drive the pick into the earth, heaving on the handle as though he was trying to flip a car. He let his back round over as he pulled, feeling the lumbar muscles come dangerously close to a strain. He wondered idly what would give first: the wooden handle or his back. The earth was beginning to soften up from all the holes he’d punched into it, but it was still holding onto the pick mightily, forcing him to struggle for every inch he gained. He began to sweat even in the chill air, which was only finding high temperatures in the low sixties at that time of year. Despite the cold, he stripped down to his t-shirt and continued on. He drove constantly, always at the same rhythm, though his stamina began to flag obviously before long.

When his hands slipped off the handle due to an overabundance of sweat, he stumbled back several feet and almost went over on his ass. A few of the Marines laughed openly at this. Warren, who stood by silently watching the whole affair, had only to look in their direction to silence them. Jake smiled easily at his own clumsiness. Shrugging to himself, he grasped the handle and began to jerk it around again, now panting. Oscar had passed by him at this point to begin on the next hole. He pointedly ignored the man, almost as though he was embarrassed to be associated with him.

A number of the civilians were watching too, having very little else to occupy their time. Most of them appeared either bemused or amused, taking a cue from the mirth of the Marines. All of them except for one, who looked on after Jake with a kind of confused restlessness. An attractive man with hair dark enough to pass for black as well as eyes to match, he sat in his chair and fidgeted uncomfortably as Jake toiled on. When the Marines had laughed, this man had glanced sharply at them much the same as their Commander; had glanced at them and felt contempt. When he could no longer stand it, he rose from his chair and approached Jake.

There were few contrasts in that valley that rung as bright as the image of this man standing beside Jake. He was gracefully formed, with a narrow waist and hips, and carried himself with feline grace. His jawline was sharp with a cinematic chin, and his eyes carried a certain unnamable quality; it was the aspect any film director would seek out in casting an actor for the role of Jesus Christ.

Jake straightened to regard him as he approached; stout, blocky, and battered. His shaven head was scarred with old lacerations, his nose was little more than a useless lump of flesh, and the lower half of his face was covered in thick, brown beard, the edges of which climbed almost to his lower eyelids. His shoulders were large enough that they seemed almost an undue burden to his frame and his torso, though absent any true fat, was thick around like the trunk of a tree, giving his legs a stunted appearance. The only thing the two men had in common were their hands, which were thick, meaty, and reduced almost to leather through the abuse of hard work. Both men had the hands of those who toiled.

“You’re never going to get through this if you keep going at it that way,” the man said. His voice was light and pleasant, belonging in a dentist’s office rather than a dirt field.

Jake placed the head of the pickaxe on the ground and rested his right hand on the butt of the handle. Through heavy breaths, he smiled and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Victor.”

Jake nodded. He held out his hand, which the other shook easily. He said, “I suspect your right. I feel like a lung might pop out of my chest every minute.”