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

“No. I know a way,” Jake muttered. The others had no answer for this, so he said, “Amanda, Rebecca? Plate carriers and full gear.”

“Take the suppressed Bushmasters,” Gibs commanded. “Fill one mag up with the subsonic .223 and the rest with regulars. Use the subsonic ammo until you get inside, then you can switch to the good stuff. That lack of speed’ll turn the rounds into little constipated bitch-pellets squirted from a Care Bear’s rosy red ass, so make sure you send three or four rounds into anyone that warrants the attention. One to the head as you walk by if you’re close enough, too.”

Jake nodded and said, “I’ll pack an overnight bag just in case we get stuck out there. We’ll stash it on the way out. Gibs, Tom—you two oversee security here. Everyone goes armed except the kids.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Gibs growled, waving a hand at him. “You’d better get to humping if you’re gonna get some; go on!”

“I’ll meet you both at the cleft,” Jake said and departed the cabin without a backward glance. The continuous, whispering hiss of the falling rain became loud, but only for a moment, before the door clicked shut behind him.

The driving rain chilled the night air over to something even more aggressive than that with which they were familiar, turning it into a prospect worse than the minor discomfort they understood; into a creeping, evil thing that seeped in slowly and chipped away at the body’s strength. Huddled together under the frayed easy-up shade in the old Movieworks back alley, Lucinda and Ernie flapped their arms for warmth, stamped their feet, and tried not to think about their soft beds back home.

“It’s a bunch of bullshit is what this is,” Ernie grumbled, taking a moment to rub his arms before jamming hands back into jacket pockets. He felt the weight of the super shotgun threatening to slip off his shoulder again when he did so and decided to wait for it to actually go this time before reaching up to adjust the sling. He was about five seconds away from just leaning the fucking thing up against the wall. Lucinda had the big nasty killer, anyway; the old Rheinmetall MG-3 with its long, drawn-out body shaped like a cripple’s crutch and stunted little pistol grip. A long belt of linked 7.62 lolled over the side of the weapon like the hanging tongue of a satisfied dog, and Lucinda reached over to pat the weapon with her hand every so often, as if it actually were a goddamned dog, as it hung there at her hip on the jungle sling. Looking at that piece of hardware, Ernie wondered again why he needed the UTS-15—a weapon O.B. had regarded with a wry smile before shaking his head and dismissing it outright. Ernie was still a touch pissed off over this; he’d been immensely pleased with the shotgun when he’d first picked it up, marveling at the dual magazine tubes that would allow him to stuff the thing with a ridiculous number of rounds. Even so, O.B. had taken something like five seconds to look it over before laughing at it, the old son of a bitch, and Ernie had been uncertain of his choice forever after.

What the hell did he know, anyway, the old buzzard? That bastard was a relic. He hadn’t even seen a fight since the 60’s; early 70’s at least, thought Ernie—conveniently forgetting the retaking of Colorado Springs, an action from which he himself had been absent. Vietnam was so damned long ago it might as well not even be mentioned; you almost couldn’t account for something that had taken place such a long time ago. It might as well not even have happened.

Ernie sniffed loudly, the sound managing to overpower the rain, and asked, “What time is it?”

Lucinda groaned and said, “Shit, Ernie, it’s fifteen minutes past the last time you asked.”

“So tell me what it is now, then.”

“Fuck’s sake…” she muttered and looked down at her watch. “It’s one-eighteen, okay? Now quit asking me, goddamn it. Get your own watch.”

“I never bothered to get a watch because I figured they weren’t necessary anymore.”

“Well, congratulations, Ernie. You’re an idiot.”

“Dick,” he grunted.

“Twat,” she returned.

They were silent a moment before breaking into a reserved bout of giggles. When they finished, Lucinda said, “Seriously, though. Get a watch, dude. You’re getting annoying.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. Only… what the hell d’you think he’s got us out here for? Guard duty? Since when does he post guards outside after hours? During the daytime; fine. I get that. But one in the fucking morning? Who does he think he is; the president?”

Lucinda shook her head and didn’t bother to respond. The answer to his question was an unknowable thing and therefore failed to hold her interest for very long.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he continued, “I like hangin’ with you just fine—we’re buds and all—but I’d sure rather see the inside of my bedroom right about now. Hell, I’d rather be seeing the inside of one of Isabelle’s girls, even…”

“Your dick’s gonna fall off if you keep that up,” she warned.

“Naw; I keep it wrapped.”

She scoffed. “What’ll you do when you can’t find rubbers anymore?”

He shrugged, squinting out into the darkness made noisy by the cascading showers; fat droplets impacting the oil-and-gravel back lot—pock-marking the surface into a ruin even more profound than it had yet been. “Trash bags, I guess…”

The laugh was shocked out of her; a sharpened, jagged cry. “You wish, asshole! Finger condom, more like.”

“Shit; if they’ll work. I’m not too proud to use ’em if they’ll work, just watch me.”

“I’d rather not…”

“That’s good,” he smiled. “I think they charge extra for that.”

Lucinda managed to frown and smile at the same time, equal parts disgusted and amused by her friend’s easy lechery. Ernie could get like a damned jackrabbit, sometimes.

They fell into silence for a while, shifting from foot to foot as they huddled under the easy-up, shying away from the edges where the raindrops came in at an angle and threatened to soak them from their knees down to their toes. Sometimes a breeze would come tumbling over itself along the alley and blow it all in from the side; forcing them to shield against it as best they could with raised arms, squinted eyes, and bitter curses for the weather, for Riley, for God, and anything else out in the world dumb enough to wander into their crosshairs. The only thing that made the shitty evening even halfway bearable was the fact that they were out in it together; miserable together. It seemed that a misery shared went a long way toward unscrewing a royally screwed up circumstance.

“What time is it now?” Ernie asked.

“Oh… goddamn it!” snarled Lucinda. She fumbled with the band of her watch a moment before getting it unfastened and then threw it at him. It bounced from his shoulder and landed on the ground, tumbling away into the open, where it was soon inundated.

“Well, there you go. That lovely temper of yours has just killed our only means of keeping time.”

“It’s waterproof, you fucking penis-wrinkle. Just go get it.”

Ernie stretched his neck out by a degree, extended his hand into the air, and brought it back under the shelter to examine it. “Hell with that. It’s raining out there, you know.”

“Ernie… go get the goddamned watch before I fuck you with your own dick, okay?”

“Jesus…” he said. He scurried out into the open to grab the watch and came back dripping. “You know, I think they’ll do that at Isabelle’s, too, if you ask, but you gotta pay extra like I say.”

“What?”

“Fuck you with your own dick?”