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

“Don’t, man. Just fucking… don’t, okay? You’ve made it clear what’s up already. You want to go start your own family? Fine. There it is, right out there. Just… don’t expect me to start tap dancing over it. I give zero shits. Just… just take a hike, will you? I got shit to do.”

He bent back to his task, working the lower entrails from the body with hooked fingers.

Sometime later, after perhaps fifteen minutes’ worth of argument and accusation, when Greg left the RV in bitter defeat and began the long walk back to rejoin with the mother of his unborn child, Amanda stepped from her cabin, crossed the distance to Jake’s, and entered.

She called out to him, began to make for the hallway, and was stopped when his answer floated down to her from the upstairs level. She climbed the steps, found the door to his bedroom open, and entered.

“Jake?”

“In here.”

She passed through the suite into the bathroom. He stood with his back to her, shirtless; dragging furrows into the thin cap of soap covering his head with a straight razor. He took his time, being very careful not to cut himself. Periodically, he lowered his hands to rest on the sink top. His arms were heavy and made his shoulders tired.

The window shutters were pulled open to let in the light, and in that light, she could see several patches that he’d missed along the back of his scalp. She approached from behind, took the razor from his hand, and said, “Here, let me.”

His hand dropped, and he waited for her obediently.

“You were right,” she said, cleaning up the mess he’d made. “I would have done differently. I wanted to. And, you’re right about them, too. I think I understand what you were trying to tell me. I just… I wish it didn’t feel so shitty.”

“I agree.”

“Give me that towel.”

He passed it back over his shoulder, and she used it to clean away the excess soap and hair.

“I really wish you’d let this grow out again.”

He shrugged, the trapezius muscles running down his neck, along his shoulders, and into his spine bunching up like boulders.

Suppressing a laugh, she said, “Your head looks too small, otherwise.”

He turned around to look at her, and his eyes were soft and kind.

She deliberately placed the razor on the sink—looking up into his eyes she said, “No more secrets, Jake. Not between us; not ever again.”

He regarded her quietly, agreeing to nothing, and she said, “Jake?”

“No secrets going forward. I promise.”

She stretched and kissed him, resting a hand on his chest. She felt his palm alight at the small of her back, more through the sensation of heat than of touch, gentle as a hummingbird.

She pulled away and left.

The trek to Jackson, Wyoming had been long and ponderous, taking months to complete. The amount of time required to get such a vast collection of people, parts, and machinery moving was only a small aspect of the equation; a realization they all came too early on—even Clay, who had been doing this sort of thing from the start. Perhaps four hundred plus people was some kind of magic number, some sort of indicator of critical mass; the point at which all flexibility and rapidity died a sad and inefficient death. He began to wish he had some no-shit military generals in his company to tell him how it was done back in the bad old days, some man or woman who could stroll up to his side, laugh derisively, and say, “You sad excuse of a leader, get out of the fucking way and let someone who has half a clue take care of this, will you?” And Clay would have fallen back and bowed and blessed them for that relief.

Such relief was never forthcoming, sadly. He consoled himself with the idea that at some point, after enough set-ups and tear-downs, they’d find some kind of a rhythm. They’d go through the whole routine a sufficient number of times that he’d eventually wake up one morning and find everything as it needed to be; trussed, bundled, bagged, secured, fired, and ready to roll. But… no. A forlorn fucking dream, that.

It was the same goddamned chaos every time, executed with such predictability that he almost began to suspect they were doing it just for his benefit, as though somewhere along the line a colossal miscommunication had occurred—that they must all have somehow adopted the idea that Clay enjoyed the repetitive shit show. It was the only explanation that made sense, wasn’t it? If a person knew that a set of actions would result in pandemonium—knew specifically, that is, because of all the other times those fucking actions had resulted in the same fucking outcome—did it not make sense to assume they were doing that shit on purpose?

What else should he think? He knew they weren’t idiots… well, he knew most of them weren’t… so it wasn’t out of stupidity that they succeeded in so thoroughly fucking up every departure they attempted. Malice then? They were shitting on his parade on purpose ?

He mentioned it to Pap one morning in Laramie as he observed the circus commence and was then shocked utterly as the Texan proceeded to list the many ways in which they’d improved. He tried to view the ensuing catastrophe through Pap’s eyes and failed to see anything of promise.

Oh, how he wanted to tear his Christing hair out watching the whole embarrassment transpire.

They drove a meandering kind of progress, not driving towards their target so much as moseying along. They’d stop in towns or cities as they went, especially any that had a healthy selection of residential neighborhoods, and just locust through the area as carefully as they could. Places such as Laramie had been a veritable smorgasbord, requiring a significant layover to exhaust, while others—such as Jeffrey City—had been depressing little shit stains on a map already filled with far too much open space for Clay’s liking. As they traveled along the highways amid the endless expanses of nothingness—and then even later when they hit the flat-lands with nary a hint of trees or other viable wood source for as far as the eye could see—Clay began to suffer profound misgivings for their enterprise.

Traveling up the 191, the laughably named Eden had been almost a cruel joke, and Clay’s chest began to tighten around his heart when they’d been forced to begin towing the wood-gas vehicles behind the diesel vehicles; their wood supplies having become nearly expended. It wasn’t until they hit Boulder (eliciting a derisive laugh from Johnny over the locals’ apparent lack of creativity in choosing names in that part of the country) that they began to see some trees again and Clay’s sphincter finally relaxed.

They took some time in Pinedale, scavenging what very little that they could as there was so little everywhere—the one thing they had in absolute abundance was “little”—and continued to push north, always pushing north to the end of the line.

They’d begun their exodus out of Colorado with a collection of people numbering somewhere in the low four-hundreds but, at some point along their travels, someone in Johnny’s crew figured out they were probably moving along with somewhat less. Deserters, then, stealing away either as they drove or during the chaos of striking camp. Clay caused there to be a guard stationed around the supply trucks from that point forward, the understanding being that people were free to leave as long as they did so empty-handed. With the provisions and gear so closely guarded, the desertions dried up like their rapidly diminishing diesel stores.