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

His sister’s torn body, bound like a hog for the winter slaughter; trussed up under the freeway overpass like a bit of garbage used and thrown away. Laid over on its side; a broke-leg cow begging to be put down.

Ronny swallowed hard and cleared his throat. He glanced over at her, saw those horrible eyes, saw them hating him, and spat, “ Quit fucking looking at me! ”

She did not stop.

His face was hot. He hadn’t expected to shout at her. He hitched a long, shaking sigh, amazed to realize he felt as though he’d been crying, was amazed at how close the feeling was to when he awoke in the dead of night, sweating and panicked.

“You’ll be kept safe,” he finally said. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

He leaned forward to stand from the chair he occupied. Before he could rise to his feet, the surrounding area came alive with gunfire, muffled only partially by the interior walls of the church, and Ronny heard the voices of his own people reaching out to him as he ran for the door.

The voices he heard were screaming.

They parked the vehicles out of sight beyond the edge of town and traveled the remaining distance on foot; two teams divided by enough space that communication was achievable only through shouting or by whispering into the military radios hooked to each of their rigs; a singular present among many left behind by Otter. They moved cautiously but not slowly, smooth strides eating up the ground as they wove between buildings, through side yards, and around greenery; never coming out into the open, always hugging walls, always avoiding puddles left by the earlier rainfall, which would splash and betray their passage.

When the church materialized in the distance, Gibs took a moment to mutter last-minute instructions, often repeating earlier directions given on the drive in, though the shits he had to give with regard to this particular nervous tick were few and far between. He didn’t mind repeating himself at all.

“Okay, look sharp. We’ve all been down here before; we know the layout. Rebecca, Tom, and Oscar: you’ll start by making a circuit of the grounds to confirm that we don’t have any unwanted guests when the fun starts, then push in at the south building. Jake, Amanda, and I will cut in at the center after you give the all-clear and work north. Breachers: remember, we do not know where Elizabeth is being kept. No frags. Acknowledge.”

“Roger. No frags. Stun grenades only,” Oscar’s voice crackled over the network.

“Initial breach to be coordinated simultaneously. We’ll stack up at our points of entry, give a countdown, and execute, okay? Once we’re in, proceed with all urgency. It’s bound to get loud, there’s a good chance that there’re people in the surrounding area, and we need to make sure we’re rolling the fuck out of here before they come pin us down. You know those assholes that show up over the holidays, eat all your food, beach a foot-long shit-whale up the side of the bowl—hell, they probably even back up the toilet—insult your décor, spill a glass of wine on the carpet, and then peace right the hell out like some kinda Dr. Phil-level sister-fucking ninjas the second it’s time to start cleaning the dishes? Yeah. That’s gotta be us.”

The others reacted to his tirade according to their own moods. He usually got like that before an engagement; talkative and profoundly vulgar. It was how he bled the pressure off, how he loosened up and kept his hands steady before going to work. It was his routine, a practice he’d advised all of them to adopt at one point or another in their time together; perhaps not his own specific routine but… definitely something, some form of mental activity on which they could focus marginally as a distraction without requiring any true concentration. Some of the guys he used to roll with would run any number of mental exercises on auto-pilot in such situations; anything from singing well-remembered songs to reciting dirty jokes. Some of them got twitchy, unable to run their mouths, maybe, but capable of checking and rechecking the position of each item dangling off their rig, patting constantly over every pouch, brushing the pads of their thumbs over safety levers, rubbing fingers over the same familiar ridges of handguards over and over and over again, developing nervous ticks that would stay with them for the rest of their lives, however long such a time might be.

Tom and Oscar heard him; smiled quietly to themselves at the mental imagery he imparted, knowing exactly what he meant. Amanda heard him… and yet did not hear him. Her mind had attained a form of tunneled focus, vision bearing down on the many-faced building jutting up from the ground before her, its original purpose twisted and bent by the follies of man. She found she did not care; couldn’t be troubled to mourn the misuse of that building. She knew her mother and father would look on such a thing—the keeping of prisoners in God’s house—as an abomination… and did not care. The structure out in front of her, thrusting into the bleak, lightless air of the morning with its sweeping façade, it’s crucifixes and large-paned front windows all curiously intact, failed to inspire that old conditioned foreboding awe within her psyche. She recognized neither God nor dogma, culture, heritage, nor tradition in its interconnected buildings. She perceived another dumb, stinking creature too ravenously hungry to resist its own filthy needs. It had swallowed up her baby.

Amanda intended to split it wide open, spill its steaming, reeking guts out upon the muddy ground, and emerge from the other side, made complete in the advent of her child. She would burn it down, burn the entire fucking world down to a cinder if that’s what it took to get her girl back.

She heard the whispered voice of Billy’s ghost ( “Hey, Girly…” ) and shook out her hands to combat the tremors that had taken hold. She focused on the pounding of her heart; the rage throbbing from the center of her chest in waves.

“Guys, we’re in position,” Tom said over the radio. From her spot between Jake and Gibs, Amanda strained her eyes across the parking lot in search of the other team, ultimately failing to locate them. She knew where they should be, of course, but there were only trees and bushes out there at the edge of the ruined blacktop.

“Copy,” Gibs whispered. “Stand by.”

They sat out there waiting silently, crouched in the shadows while Gibs craned his head in various directions over the property, shoulders hunched high up as though he expected an unwanted someone to slip an arm around his neck any moment. When she could no longer stand it, Amanda hissed, “What are we doing?”

“Looking for some kind of guard or patrol,” Gibs whispered back. “We have zero intel on this place outside of the half-assed report Jake brought back and our knowledge of the layout from previous excursions. We don’t really know who’s in there or how many there are if they’ve established some sort of watch schedule. Fuck, we don’t know anything. What if these assholes have NVGs and they’re just sitting in there looking out the goddamned windows, waiting for a group to come wandering by like a bunch of dickheads?”

“I’d be pretty impressed if that was the case,” Amanda said. “Warren’s group weren’t even using those anymore.”

“Yes, Amanda, that’s because they were rationing fuel.” Gibs jabbed a finger at the church. “ These people can make electricity by burning wood.”

They all considered this point quietly for a time, Gibs still twisting his head back and forth like he was a security camera. Eventually, their radio earpieces cracked again, and Oscar’s voice said, “Something ain’t right, eh? We shoulda seen someone by now. They’re not running no patrols or… shit, I don’t know. We shoulda seen someone by now.”