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

Gibs laughed at the mental image. “You can check with Montoya, can’t you?”

“That’s actually what I was doing when you knocked.” She spun the notebook so he could see the page. There was a list of some twenty-five or thirty names, each of which was composed of about nine syllables and peppered with impossible combinations of consonants. “I was gonna have this run back to him later for a quick write-up; I’m hoping he can create some kind of idiot’s field guide.”

She rotated the notebook back and sighed. “I just can’t keep leaning on him though. He and the rest of my team are leaving with Warren when they head out of here. I’m gonna be on my own soon enough. I won’t be able to just ask the teacher.”

“You’ll do fine,” Gibs said. He wanted to say more but didn’t really know enough about the subject to offer anything useful.

“You better hope so. It’s either that or I’ll invent a whole new kind of cancer and kill us all.”

She flipped through a few pages with an index finger and glanced in his direction. “But you didn’t come over to hear me bitch about a promotion. What’s up?”

Fidgeting, he said, “I… well… shit, I kind of feel like an ass bringing it up now.”

“Here for a physical?”

“What?”

“We got plenty of surgical gloves and lube.”

“Jesus Christ, Lee!”

“Oh, come on. I could use an easy job for a change. I’d at least be doing something I know how to do.”

Wincing, Gibs asked, “You spend a lot of time tickling prostates?”

“Don’t knock it ’til you try it,” she giggled.

Gibs sat up in his chair and scooted it a few inches away. “Honey, not until you’ve bought me dinner at least. And a whole lot of drinks while you’re at it.”

She waved him off. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. You’re here for an actual reason.”

“Goddamned right…” he grumbled, smoothing his shirt. He looked her in the eye, sighed, and glanced out a window. “Well, how are you set for sleep aids?”

“Insomnia, huh?”

“Maybe…”

“I thought you’ve been looking a little tired lately. Didn’t want to say anything but… yeah.” She shifted around to a table along the wall and pulled over another notebook. Flipping through a few pages, she said, “Well, do you want to try some chamomile? I’ve got a ton of the stuff, and it’s supposed to be good for helping you get to sleep.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, getting to sleep isn’t the problem…”

She glanced up at him. “Oh? It’s sleeping through the night, then?”

“Yes…”

She let her gaze linger on him a moment before looking back to her notebook. “O… kay, let’s see…”

Gibs shifted uncomfortably and said, “If it’s… all the same to you, I’d just as soon skip the hippy stuff, okay?”

Olivia looked at him again but said nothing.

“Well… goddamnit, I’d like something stronger, is all.”

“What’s bothering you, Gibs?” she asked carefully.

“Well, a general lack of goddamned rest seems to be the root issue, here.”

“But why aren’t you sleeping?”

Gibs leaned back in the chair. “Are you a shrink or a medic, Lee?”

She raised her hands. “Hey, look, I just want to be sure we’re treating the right problem, okay? Anything I’m likely to give you that can’t be grown in the dirt is liable to be habit forming, and there probably won’t be a whole lot of it laying around to boot.”

Gibs grunted. “Well, as to that, I’m just as likely to self-medicate with a bottle of rye, and that’ll surely work, only I don’t want to go that way. My dad had the gene , see? Means I have it too. I’ll throw a few back in pleasant company from time to time, but I don’t want to do it alone.”

“So you admit there is a real problem here. Let’s talk about it, Gibs. Maybe it’ll help if you just unload a little?”

“Olivia…”

“Yes?”

“I like you quite a bit, you know?”

“Well, I like you too Gibs.”

“So just gimme a box of Unisom or whatever the hell and climb out of my ass, can’tcha?”

The hollow, haunted look in the pits of his eyes halted the response in her throat, and she began to be genuinely worried. Sighing, she rested a hand on his wrist briefly before nodding. “There’s some in the back. Try to space them out, okay? Maybe every few nights?”

He nodded and looked out the window again.

“Okay, Lee. Sure.”

“Gibs! Hey, Gibs! You in there? Yo!”

The shout of his own name, muffled though it was through the window and combined with the rapid slapping of said window, pulled Gibs up out of a near-coma as violently as a whale breaching over rolling waves. There was a heady sensation of falling, a jolt, and the sudden cold wetness of his own drool smeared across his cheek; a puddle of the stuff having escaped his mashed-apart lips throughout the night.

He lifted his head away from the icy slick, rolled to his side, and began pawing at his face with a deadened hand. Rather than wiping away the mess, his efforts seemed only to smear it around more.

“Gibs? You’re starting to freak me out, man! I’ll kick that door in if you don’t answer back!” It sounded like Davidson. More slapping at the window; probably his hand.

Frustrated, Gibs pulled his t-shirt off and used it to mop his face. He threw it into the corner, swung his feet off the side of the bed, and waited for the room to catch up with him. His surroundings seemed to swing back around to his position achingly slow as if his inner ear had been disconnected with a set of wire cutters. The disorientation this caused was profound; feeling his body physically move only to perceive that motion a short time later.

“ Wahgthufuggin… gugh! ”

“Alright, that’s it, goddamn it! That door’s coming down!”

Gibs leaned around and shouted, “Jus’ hang on uh fuggin’ minute!”

Gingerly, he stood and felt his way along the wall, squinting through one gummed eye. He passed through the kitchen, unlatched the front door, and threw it open without waiting to see if anyone on the other side would catch it. He continued on past the door up the short flight of steps to the sitting area, settled onto a couch, and breathed heavily through an open mouth.

Quick footsteps approached from his left, though he didn’t bother to look. His head felt like a balloon on a string.

“Hey, man, are you alright? It’s nearly 8:30! You never sleep that late!”

“Fuckin’ Lee roofied me…” Gibs protested.

“Huh?”

He shook his head. “Nothin’, forget it. Had some trouble sleeping, so I took… Jesus, God knows what I took. I think it’s the same shit that killed Michael Jackson.”

“Well, they’re waiting for you, man.”

Gibs glanced up at his friend through snarled eyebrows. “What’re you talking about? Who’s waiting?”

Davidson grunted in disbelief. Throwing a hand towards the camper’s front door, he said, “Jake? Amanda? Warren and Andrew? Ring any bells yet?”

“Doh, shit-pickles, yeah, it sure does. Okay, tell ’em I’ll be over in a few after I clean up a bit.”

Davidson’s presence didn’t retreat; only stayed where it was, waiting. Gibs looked up again to find an expectant face.

“Yeah?”

“They’ve… they’ve kind of been waiting, man. They’d like to get moving.”

Resting his elbows on his knees, Gibs said, “This Marine pursues no business until the crud is knocked off his fangs, okay? I’d like to think I’ve earned that much by now.”

Davidson sighed and turned to leave.

Raising his voice, Gibs called after him, “Just tell ’em I’ll be there in five! If that isn’t good enough, then tell ’em to make a decision without me!”