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

He folded his hands over the butt of his rifle and waited. He felt rather comfortable doing this, what with Lum in the turret and Wang covering them both with the twenty-ten. He figured someone might be able to get the drop on him; such was always a possibility, but that was a risk he was more than willing to take. He focused on not looking up the hillside as the new arrivals came out to meet with them. He knew Davidson would be keeping well out of sight up there, but he almost couldn’t resist the urge to look and telegraph his position. Enfilade , he thought. It’s great… so long as you don’t tip off your enemy like a dumbass.

They stopped only a short distance away; a group consisting of men and women. At the head of their number stood a man in a Mickey Mouse t-shirt, grinning like one who knew what you would say before you said it. Standing next to him was a black man of medium build wearing a Yankees ball cap. The other three stood a few feet behind them in a line, all of them holding shotguns.

“Well, good morning!” the man in the Mickey shirt called.

Gibs nodded. “It is, right? We, uh… so we noticed that some neighbors had come around. Thought we’d introduce ourselves.”

“That’s quite neighborly of you.”

“I agree,” Gibs said. He smiled. “I’m feeling neighborly. For now.”

They were all quiet a moment, then Mickey shirt asked, “You… you don’t have (right?) a fruitcake or a casserole in that minivan, do you?”

Gibs laughed. “Afraid not. Fruit’s hard to come by, and we didn’t know what kind of dietary restrictions we’d be dealing with. Gluten intolerances… diabetics, you know?”

Mickey shirt nodded. “Very thoughtful. I’m Riley. This is Elton.”

Gibs waved. “How about the others?”

“Gus, Gus, and Steve.”

“Uh-huh,” Gibs grunted, stretching to look over Riley’s shoulder, reaffirming that the women were, in fact, women. “That’s quite a coincidence.”

“Less so when you get to know them, hey?”

Gibs had no idea what this meant so he ignored it. “Well, call me Gibs. My friend in the minivan is Jeffries.”

Riley lifted up onto the balls of his feet and looked down the road. “How about your buddy over there? Is he okay? You don’t have to be ashamed (yeah?) of anything, you know? We like all kinds here, even the socially inept or guys with odor issues. He can come join us if he likes.” He cracked his lips to unleash a ninety-watt smile.

“Later, maybe,” Gibs said, his voice relaxed. “He gets shy sometimes; prefers long distance relationships, and all. He’s gotta warm up to you.”

Riley spread his hands and shrugged. “Well, I can understand that. You never can tell who you’re dealing with, can you? Never know if you’re meeting quality people (right?) or, I don’t know, some asshole moves in down the street that likes to play his fucking Tu Pac through all hours of the night (yeah?), fuck your wife, and drink your beer all while you’re away at the office.”

Gibs nodded and said, “Fuckin’ Jody.”

“Who?”

Gibs’s smile widened. “Nothing. Shall we get this rolling?”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Great. I’d like to speak with the guy in charge, please.”

Riley spread his hands again. “Guilty as charged.”

Gibs said nothing to this. He retained his position; his amiable lean against the Humvee, face bored as though he was trapped at some grade school recital and Riley was just an awkward child who’d forgotten his lines. Without looking away, he said, “Jeffries?”

“Nope,” he said. “Feller in charge had him some darker hair; shorter too. Seemed to hang around with a big cowboy.”

Riley’s smile faltered at this and Gibs caught a sharp darting of eyes from Elton; the man had positively skull-fucked Riley through the back of his head before bringing his attention back to Gibs. The Marine smiled, and anyone who watched the unfolding of that smile could easily see that there was no mirth or kindness behind his eyes.

“We wanna talk to that guy, Riley. Bring him out for us, will you? We’re happy to wait.”

Gibs relaxed, continuing to watch Riley; specifically watching the contortions sloughing over his face. The smile was still there, as it had been before, but it strained and writhed like the man who wore it was fighting to keep his face attached to the skull by pulling his cheeks back as hard as he possibly could. It gave him a chewing look; he looked like he was chewing holes right through his cheeks with his molars. There was a real panic in his eyes and Gibs didn’t know from where such a thing might come; if Riley was somehow afraid of Gibs or this other man in charge or if he was afraid of himself… of what he might or might not do. Swallowing carefully, Gibs removed his right hand from the rifle butt and draped his elbow on the Humvee’s hood, letting his hand hang close to the grip. He began to have serious misgivings about just what the hell was going on; was about to ask what Riley’s problem was. Before he could, Riley’s face went slack, and all of the tension bled out of his eyes like the purge of some slaughtered animal running down a drain.

“Right, right, right. Right. We’ll get him. Wait here.”

Riley turned on the spot and cut a line back up the highway, the people standing behind him suddenly forced to step out of his way or be run over. Gibs thought he heard him mutter the name “Steve” as he went but could not be sure.

Elton watched the man as he departed, seemed to realize he was standing out there alone, and sighed. Nodding to Gibs, he passed a lazy salute and said, “Clay should be out shortly. Uh… just give us a few.” He turned and followed after the others.

When they were gone, Gibs looked over his shoulder and said, “Don’t think he liked that at all, do you?”

He heard Lum spit off the side of the Hummer. “He’s touched is what he is.”

“Yeah,” Gibs agreed. “Let’s hope this Clay guy’s in better shape.”

They waited around for perhaps twenty minutes before things started happening out in the intersection. Interesting things. A couple of pickup trucks appeared, both of which carried crewed machine guns. Gibs eyed these suspiciously. They took him back to a time in the not so distant past; speeding up the freeway towards the Arizona border, firing round after round into vehicles and people both.

A collection of people disembarked from the trucks, moving around in a hurry while gesticulating. There appeared to be some arguing going on among them.

“See that one in the black vest?” Lum asked.

“Yeah.”

“That’s our guy.”

A few people detached from the group and started walking down the road in their direction. One of them—a man as large as Fred wearing a floppy straw cowboy hat—carried a folding table and a chair. Elton walked along with them as well carrying a second chair. They stopped at a distance of fifty feet and began to set up in the median; first the table and then the chairs placed to either side. As they bustled about, Gibs noted that Riley had not walked back out with them. He looked around to find him and, after a few seconds of searching, located him back up at the intersection. He appeared to be speaking into a radio.

“Be ready to rock that M2,” Gibs whispered. “I think more might be on their way.”

“Yeah. I seed ’im.”

“Excuse me, would you like to come over and have a chat?”

It was a rich voice. An orator’s voice. The man called Clay stood between them and the table, the rest of his people now removed a good distance up the highway, though they looked like they could get back over to the table in a hurry. There was an alertness in his posture; a sense of verticality. He wore blue jeans (everyone wore blue jeans, now, when they weren’t in cargo pants or camo; Gibs couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a pair of slacks or khakis come to that) some sort of engineer’s boots with bulbous steel toes, a long-sleeved earth-toned shirt with the sleeves pushed back to the elbows, and a black leather vest. The vest was an odd touch, Gibs thought. You didn’t see too many people wearing such a thing anymore, even before the end, unless they were in some kind of biker club. He tightened his lips and restrained himself from laughing. Those biker clubs used to make him giggle once upon a time. Grown men bopping around on Harleys wearing goofy leather outfits with their cute little gang names stitched across the shoulders. The Bandits; El Diablos; Road Warriors for Jesus; The Devil’s Assclowns. Grown men who’d never actually grown up, in Gibs’s opinion; men who used to grind their lives away under the weight of a safe and sensible occupation and then spent the weekend making up for it by playing dress-up and riding around in circles on their scooters. Men who dressed to look hard; that wanted everyone else to see them and know how hard they were supposed to be.