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

“We could plant here—” Doc began.

“Except we fucking can’t because we don’t have the fucking time to grow it any fucking more—nor the fucking shit necessary to fucking plant, do we? Do me a favor: don’t revisit shit we’ve already determined isn’t fucking available, huh!”

“This is gonna go over like a lead balloon with our people, guys,” Elton said cautiously. Clay looked at him angrily, so he said, “Hey, goddamn it, you’re asking for ideas here. It’s a point that needs to be made. We need to deal with that.”

Slowly—slow enough that Elton began to wonder if he’d blundered irredeemably—the anger dissolved from Clay’s face and he nodded. “You’re right, Elton, you’re right. Okay, so we don’t have a lot of time to fuck around with it; we gotta start selling it to everybody on the quick. I’ll give you all a day to float the word and, uh… let’s see, we’ll hold a general assembly two days from now, huh? And hopefully by then, we can have all the bullshit griping and the ‘ Oh, no, why can’t we this-and-that’s ’ all out of the way by then.”

“And what do we do about the people who want to stay behind?” Elton asked.

This seemed to pull Clay up short. He looked around at the others and thought it over for a moment. “Well, I guess I fucking thank them, don’t I? Less shit to worry about. We won’t force anyone to come along with us if they feel that strongly about it, but they’d best realize we’re taking everything with us. They can cash out; fine. But the plunder goes. They’re on their own.”

There were a few mutterings and even a whistle at this. Few of those in attendance wanted to imagine going it alone out in the world again; not after having experienced running with an organized crew for so long.

“And those that want to stay,” Clay continued, “keep reaping the benefits, huh? They work for the crew, fight for the crew, pay into the fucking system, huh, and the system fucking pays back.”

They all nodded, though some of the nods were a touch slow and some of the faces may have been a touch uncertain. Clay grunted and said, “Well? We all know what needs to be done. Don’t let me hold you here; fuck along, now. Pap!”

The Texan froze on the way up from his chair.

“Not you. You stay here.”

Pap collapsed into his chair and waited. When the others had vacated the office, Clay sighed heavily. He looked into his coffee cup, which was empty, leaned in Pap’s direction, and asked, “So, what the fuck, Pap?”

“Don’t trust him.”

“Now, we’ve been over this, Pap…”

“Yeah, we kindly have, an’ I’m tellin’ you, I don’t give one lick uh shit. He’s a crooked sumbitch and not to be trusted. Yeah… just look how nice he gits along with them others… bastard. Cain’t believe you don’t see it.”

Clay hung his head in exhaustion. “Pap… look, old hoss, there’s some things you don’t know abou—”

“Don’t give a good gawtdamn about that!” Pap squawked. “A chickenshit lickspittle is what he’s kindly gonna be; don’t matter what come afore!”

“Pap, stop—”

“He’ll do you dirty, Baws, an’ he’ll goddamned wait until I ain’t around to stop him!” He sounded as though he was beginning to panic.

“Pap!”

The huge man heaved a quivering sigh, put his chin on his chest, and held the rest of his protest against the wall of his teeth, fighting mightily to strangle it off the way he wanted to strangle that sumbitch, Ronny.

“Pap… Pap. You know it was you and me before Ronny come around, don’t you remember?”

Pap nodded, jowls shaking quietly.

“That’s right. You and me. But we can’t do all the things we have to do with just the two of us, Pap. We’re not that small little pissant group anymore, huh? We need other people; people we can depend on. People like Doc and Johnny, Ned… even Ronny. Hold on a minute, goddamn it, let me finish. Now, do you or do you not remember him saving our asses out in the city?”

Pap sighed again but refused to nod.

“That cocksucker Beau had the drop on both of us, didn’t he? Both of us would’ve been dead if Ronny hadn’t opened him the fuck up, huh? And Beau was Ronny’s boy up until that moment, right? Come on, you stubborn bastard, nod so I can tell you haven’t fallen asleep.”

“Yeah, goddamn it. Yeah.”

“Okay, then. Ronny’s boy. And he fucking super-killed him to keep you and me alive. Don’t forget that, Pap. He’s a disagreeable little twat, I’ll give you that, but actions speak louder than words, don’t they? Ain’t that some kinda fucking Texas motto or something?”

Pap snickered quietly and said, “Sumthin’ like, sure…”

Clay smiled and slapped the man on a slab of a shoulder, “Alright, so knock it off, goddamn it. I don’t like seeing you worked up like this. You’re gonna drop dead of a fucking episode before we get where we’re going. And, I swear to Jesus, Pap, if you croak on me before we get a chance to have that coming-home drink, I’ll boot-heel your fat corpse across whatever state we end up in. God’s fucking truth.”

This knocked a harsh laugh out of the man, as Clay had known it would. Still laughing, Pap rose from his chair, swiped surreptitiously at the corner of an eye, and left the office.

Clay leaned back in his chair when the front door closed. Spinning in place, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from his desk, pulled the cap, and poured a generous helping into his mug.

“Jesus Christ…” he moaned.

A devastating fire broke out three nights later, removed to the outskirts of town, in the far-off places inhabited by those people who enjoyed their privacy. Several structures were lost to the blaze, including a guard shack, a few of the smaller hovels, two campers, and a mobile home. When it finally died down early the next morning, it was due to having run out of fuel rather than to the firefighting efforts of the people who rushed in to help. The closest any of them had gotten to successfully suppressing the blaze was a half-hearted attempt at a bucket relay, though there simply wasn’t enough water close by to keep the relay fed. After the damage was surveyed and accounted for, the folks in charge all agreed that the event was a terrible tragedy, and yet if one made an attempt to look on the bright side of things they could all at least take solace in the fact that a firefighting crew was established in response to that horrible night, organized under Horace’s wrecking crew (mostly because the two skills seemed to have a decent amount of overlap and because a lot of the wreckers liked the idea of holding a position as respectable as that of a firefighter).

Among those people tragically lost to the fire were Stacy Morris and his woman-friend, Moira—those people who knew them best were mortified to admit that they did not know Moira’s surname. They were buried together, along with the rest of the victims, and Moira’s marker bore the name “Moira Morris.” Those folks who laid them to rest hoped mightily that it was what they would have wanted.

“Would you like another of those?”

Brian Chambers stopped writing in his notebook long enough to look up at the woman across the table. The window shutters were pinned open, admitting the warm rays of the early noon sun, which tumbled gently over her brow and her small brown hands; clever hands that encircled her coffee cup. Her hair was parted down the middle and tied into pigtails with leather thongs, the tips of which rested just beneath her collarbones. She would soon take a knife to it, Brian knew, as she disliked it hanging so low.