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

“Jake…”

“Calm down,” I said. “Panic will make the outcome certain.”

There was a hard clicking sound on my window. I turned back to see the other man, not all that distinct from the first with the exception of flat, matted down hair in place of a beanie. His other hand came up and beckoned at me. “Out of the van—both of you,” he said, his voice muted through the window.

I had half a moment where I thought of just grabbing the pistol to start shooting, but Elizabeth was halfway out of the van with a gun on her. I reached back and pinched the grip of my gun between thumb and forefinger. I held it up in the window so the man could see it, then opened the door and got out.

“Put it on the ground and back away.”

I complied. He bent over to grab it, craning his head hard to keep me in view while holding the gun in a bizarre position above his head. The more natural way to do it would have been to just squat down over the gun, keeping the torso vertical and thereby keeping me (the target) in sight from a much more natural angle. The guy either had joint issues in the hips or knees or he was just an idiot.

As he straightened up with my gun, I saw Lizzy and the first man moving around the front of the van and back toward the southeast corner of the warehouse building. She was looking at me as she was dragged along by the arm, eyes wide and frightened. I watched her until she disappeared around the building.

I looked back to the man holding the gun on me. “Where is she being taken?”

“Don’t worry about that now. No one will hurt her.”

“What is this about?” A third person was coming out to us now, having emerged from the spot at which Lizzy and Brown Beanie had disappeared a moment ago.

“Keys in the van?” Number three asked. It was a woman.

“I don’t fuckin’ know!” said the man. “Have a look in there. I’m a little busy.”

She opened the door and looked inside. “Bingo,” she said and swung herself up into the seat. She slammed the door, turned the key to start the engine, and rolled the window down.

“I’ll take this back, unload it, and then come back to pick the rest of you up.”

“Yeah, don’t be long, Molly.”

“What are you gonna do with this one?”

He looked at me. “Don’t know yet.”

She gave it a beat and then nodded. “Anyways, I’ll be back after sundown.” She put the van in drive, did a U-turn, and drove it back onto Cross Hollow road. She turned due south and was soon lost to view. All of the artillery from Vegas left with her.

“Is this just about the van; that’s all you want?” I asked.

The guy clenched his teeth. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Well, fine,” I said. “Just let me have the girl back, and you guys can be on your way. Take the van.”

“Nope. Holding onto her ensures you play nice.”

I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit that I felt something like rage at his blithe response. Struggling to keep my voice steady, I said, “Give her back. Either that or plan on killing me.”

“Hey, exactly who the fuck do you think you’re talking to here?” he said. He began to physically expand like a balloon. He took a step closer to me. The gun was a foot away. “The only one making threats around here is the guy with the gun. Me. The fuck is she to you anyway? Daughter?”

I didn’t say anything. I just kept my eyes locked on his.

“Listen, fuckstick,” he shouted, “the way it works is I ask questions and you… fucking… answer them.” As he said the last part, he closed the remaining distance between us and put the barrel up to my forehead.

This felt like as good a time as any. I mentally said ‘screw it’ and went for it. I jerked my head to the right out of the path of the gun. At the same instant, I clapped both hands on his wrist and pushed the gun out to the left. The gun went off well after I had it safely away.

“You fuckin…” he grunted. I didn’t give him any time to fight for control. I pulled him toward me to get him off balance and then swung the gun and his hands in a massive arc over my head, ending with the revolver down by my right knee. His lack of balance plus the speed of my pull meant that he ended up on his back. I planted a foot on his chest and began to bend the revolver backward, rotating it around in his hand to point at him. His finger was bound up in the trigger guard, and he began to growl in pain as I forced it back. I resolved either to break his finger or rip it off and yanked the gun away from him hard.

The gun went off, (which I had not actually intended) the bullet driving into the man’s jaw and blowing out the top of his head. There was a sudden intense and throbbing pain in my right hand (my smart hand); it felt as though someone had driven over it with a car or slammed it in between two massive books. I didn’t understand what the cause was at the time—I guessed it was just the kick of the revolver. Later I would learn how a percentage of the explosive forces of a fired bullet escape out the sides of a revolver in the gap between the cylinder and the barrel; the place around which my right hand was firmly grasping when it discharged. Not having the benefit of this knowledge at the time, I knew only that it hurt terribly and my hand had gone numb shortly after.

I retrieved my Glock and patted the man down, finding nothing useful outside of a nearly empty cigarette pack and lighter. I kept the lighter.

I ran to the wall of the warehouse, stuffing the hand murdering revolver into my back pocket. I fumbled the Glock into my left hand. As I made my way along the wall to the corner, I shook my right hand vigorously and rubbed it on my leg, trying to get some feeling back into it. I looked down at my palm. There was no permanent damage that I could see, but there was a black line running along the padding of the inside knuckle joints peppered with numerous black specks. I flexed it several times. It moved the way I wanted it to. Feeling was coming back slowly but only pins and needles so far. I contemplated holding the pistol in my left but soon abandoned that idea. I trusted my right hand with reduced feeling better than my left with clumsy mobility.

I peeked around the corner of the wall and, seeing no one there; put my head out far enough to see that there was a door leading into the warehouse at the corner opposite mine. There was also another building extending further south that seemed to be attached to this one. I suffered a moment of indecision: take the door or continue searching along the outside of the building? If I was wrong, I could end up burning a lot of time on a fruitless search while Lizzy was taken further out of reach. I was also well aware that standing there would eventually result in the same outcome. I decided to flip a mental coin and take the door.

As I entered, I heard a voice close by say, “Had to shoot him, huh?” I put eyes on the speaker—it was Beanie guy. “Oh, shhh-!”

I shot him twice in the chest. He leaned back into some vertical storage racks, alternating between looking at me and looking at his chest with a very confused expression on his face. I shot him in the forehead and made my way deeper into the shop floor.

To my right were roll-up doors leading out to loading docks. Some of them were opened, allowing light into the area and making it possible to see rather well. There were a number of line machines arranged at regular intervals along a mirror smooth concrete floor covered in dust. Ringing the line machines were more storage racks loaded with various kinds of packaging material; rolls of plastic and cellophane, small black plastic containers and clear plastic lids. They all looked to me like little single-serving food containers.

I scanned the area, which appeared to lack any other people besides me and the man I had just shot. On the far side of the room, there was a dividing wall anchored to a huge glulam beam spanning the warehouse. From the columns I could see running vertically down the length of the wall, I assumed the wall was structural.