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

He began to understand.

Clay pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He massaged it a while, trying to tamp down the slowly forming headache, and asked, “The fuck do you mean ‘the whores are fighting?’”

They sat around in the old, sprung couches and chairs of the museum main office, amid the flags of various countries both captured and bestowed, propaganda posters, and grainy, faded pictures of warriors now long dead. Clay and his little Cabinet, now with a plus-one, though all Ned really ever did was sit quietly and habitually smooth out his clothing; you had to speak to Ned to get him speaking back at you. Pap was there as always, leaned back lazily in his chair—lazy as only a Texan can pretend to be—with that big, black revolver pulled up across his belly to keep it from interfering with the armrest, fingers laced behind his head. He stared quietly up at the ceiling, presumably counting drop tiles.

Across from Pap, as far the fuck away from him as he could get was Ronny with his hooded eyes and dark thoughts. The men sharing his couch, Johnny and the Doc, leaned away from him unconsciously as though he had some sort of disease that was catching. Their aversion seemed to suit Ronny just fine.

Still staring up at the ceiling, Pap said, “T’weren’t a bunch of them fightin’, Baws. Just the one. Said she’s attacked an’ had to defend herself.”

“Attacked by fucking who?”

“I disremember her name; she’s a new one, I guess. Cain’t keep their names straight no more.”

Clay sighed. He desperately craved a drink but refused to go anywhere near the stuff this early in the day; he wouldn’t get anything done if he did. Drinking was for the end of the day after the sun went down; when you were trying to find sleep, in other words. It was not for morning shit.

“Well, do you think you can find her at least?”

Pap shot to his feet as though commanded. He said, “Find her or tear the whole damned camp apart tryin’. Back in a bit.”

As the big Texan left the room, Clay looked over at Doc and said, “Fetch Isabelle over here, huh?”

Doc nodded, drained off the last of his coffee, and left to find her.

Isabelle was retrieved first, due to the fact that everyone knew where to find her little cathouse down on the outskirts, if only for the fact that they were some of the last people still living out of tents. Everyone else had begun to build their own little residences on the property, to varying degrees of semi-permanence. Many of these were shacks that had been cobbled together, although more and more were converting into framed walls with plywood sheet covers, slanted tar-paper shingled roofs and, in some cases, whole little homes of cinderblock stacked up over jutting spires of steel rebar, just like they used to do out in Mexico. A lot of people had their own ideas about how a home should be built, it seemed, and when you got into a good group of people numbering upwards of a few hundred, a lot of those ideas actually ended up being quite good. They’d all pulled together admirably, working as a community to source materials and knowledge, and started building everything right the hell up.

Except for when it came to the whores. So far as Clay could tell, they were to be shunned right up until it was time to amble over to their tents and screw one of them. He didn’t understand it, personally, but then he held himself apart from it. He’d categorized it all as shit not to be waded through a long time ago. It was an effective policy, not counting days such as this.

She sat down across from him in the office chair formerly occupied by Pap, who stood behind her, struggling mightily to enshroud herself in dignity like it was a cloak, though Clay’s sharp, black eyes knew where to search out the cracks. She was a wall of strength to any other stranger, strange as she might seem, but Clay did not fall into that unfamiliar group. He saw the edges easily, knew where he could press or pry if he needed, and restrained himself from sadly shaking his head.

She was in her thirties, or thereabouts, and would have been lovely if not for the angry scar that stretched from the bottom of her left eyelid all the way to the edge of her lip, pulling her mouth up into an unceasing sneer. The tip of her canine peeked out at him; a shimmering gleam of white behind her almost pretty pink lip, drawn up like a horrible curtain. It seemed a crime to Clay that such a face should be so marred. He thought that if he’d known the man who did that to her, he’d have strung him up by his own intestine.

“I suppose I’m here over Amy,” she muttered.

“Are you or aren’t you the fucking Madame?” Clay asked.

“She didn’t start anything, you hear me? You just leave her alone.”

Clay pursed his lips an annoyance. “Hey, I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?”

Isabelle settled back into the chair, temporarily placated. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Alright, then. I have the other one being brought over now. We can just settle this here privately, huh? You want coffee while you wait?”

Her eyes darted around the room suspiciously. Deciding there was no catch, she glanced down at her fingertips and nodded curtly, the queen of the whore tents.

Clay gestured at Ned, who was closest to the pot. He poured a cup and held it out to her, handshaking. She noted this and took the offering in both hands before he could spill any on her legs. “You should come see us sometime, Ned. Maybe we could help with that tremor.”

He blushed a shade of red so deep that his face went nearly purple and began to habitually rub his palms over his thighs. Clay sighed again and commenced to massaging his temples.

Pap eventually returned with a young woman in tow. Clay suspected she couldn’t have been any older than nineteen. Dirty blonde, too damned skinny, with a sneer as ugly as Isabella’s, though hers was worn with intent. He disliked her instantly; hated her for purposefully wearing that sneer while the other woman could do absolutely nothing to free herself from her own. He judged that the Madame was worth ten of her, though he saw her look down her nose at Isabella as she passed behind her to sit in the chair that Pap pulled over from the wall.

“So who the fuck is this?” asked Clay.

“Name’s Bobbi,” Pap said.

“I’ll tell him my own name, goddamned hick!” she spat.

“What’s your name?” Clay asked, eyes narrowed.

“What?” she grunted.

“Your fucking name. What is it?”

“He just told you.”

His face darkened angrily. “I’m coming across this room if I have to ask you again.”

“Bobbi!”

“What do you do around here, Bobbi?”

“What?”

“Scavenging? Cooking? Laundry? Medical? Construction? What?”

She shifted in her chair. “None of that.”

“Anything?”

Glancing around the room, she saw an array of stony faces. A little of the fire bled out of her. “I just stay in Sam’s place, most of the time. I keep to myself.”

“Fucking disposable is what you’re saying.” Clay leveled a finger at her. “You watch how you talk to my people.”

She said nothing to this; only swallowed.

“Now someone tell me what the fuck happened.”

The two women glanced in each other’s direction, not quite making eye contact. Finally, Bobbi gestured at the Madame and said, “One of hers was messing around with my man.”

Isabelle scoffed, glanced heavenward, and said, “Oh, bullshit. My girls don’t have to search anyone out, leastwise Amy. She’s got twice the ass you do; your fella’s been wandering around my tents like a lost puppy—sometimes as much as once every day.”