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

Gibs appeared next to her again; he called out to the one called Pap. “They’re coming in right now. Don’t you people shoot at them, understood? They have a .50 up top on the turret, but I’ve instructed them to leave off. Just you do the same.”

Pap nodded absently. “We won’t shoot if’n they don’t, hoss.”

They all waited together awkwardly, silently; the captors removing to a discreet distance to give the folks in the chairs some breathing room. Amanda saw that more than a few of them appeared remorseful of the situation; perhaps even betraying a touch of shame. That’s something , she thought. They at least have the sense to be aware of what they’re doing.

She wondered if it was a weakness she could use to her advantage and yet, working the problem rapidly from every angle her mind could construct, she was forced to admit she simply did not know. Clay had laid out the food situation succinctly: there were hundreds of people in town, the majority of which had never said so much as “boo” to her or her people, and they desperately needed food. Food Amanda’s family possessed.

Had fate pressed her into Clay’s position through some ungodly series of calamities, would she have done the same? She considered this honestly—as honestly as she knew how—and was forced to admit to herself that she did not know. If the people she lived with—Jake, Gibs, Oscar, Fred… Rose and the other kids… Elizabeth… If Elizabeth needed food to survive and Amanda saw that food, what might she do to procure it? How far would she go?

And for this question, her heart found the answer her mind could not. She would upend her last can of diesel over the backs of those who resisted her and strike a match. She would burn them all down to sizzling pits of grease and bury them under ash.

She would do whatever was necessary.

She was distracted by the sound of an approaching engine; turned to look back at the valley exit and saw Lum’s old Humvee trundling up the path, various sets of hands hanging from the windows, as Otis had once done on his return. As she watched, a loud bang sounded at the cabin door behind her, causing her and many others to jump several feet. This was followed by a frantic rattling of the handle; whoever was inside apparently fumbling blindly with the deadbolt, and then it swung inward with a rush of air. Clay stumbled out onto the porch stiff-legged with one hand jammed into his eye like he had to physically keep it held in the socket.

He hobbled forward a few shambling steps before his shoulder collided with the porch awning, and he screamed, “WHERE THE FUCK IS HE!”

“Who, Baws!” Pap squeaked in a near-panic.

“ JAAAAAKE , YOU HILLBILLY, HORSE-FUCKED, CANCER! WHEERE! IS! HEEEEE! ”

“I ain’t seen ’im, Clay! Jesus Christ, ain’t a-none of us seen ’im!”

Pap was rushing up the stairs to his “baws’s” side, hands out to steady him, but Clay knocked him aside frantically, blowing spit and blood across the cowboy’s shirt as well as the wooden steps at their feet.

“Get the fuck away from me and find him! He’s gone out the back if he didn’t come through the front! Move! He’s up in those fucking trees! GET HIM THE FUCK DOWN HERE!”

Some twenty men broke off from the main group and ran at full speed around the sides of the cabin toward the rear slope, rifles see-sawing in front of their chests. Amanda watched them as they went, utterly confused, while Clay hobbled through the dirt after them, running into the posts of the handrail, bracing himself with his free hand, and screaming bloody murder the whole way.

The mountains of Wyoming shuddered mirthfully under the barrage of his fury and echoed his screaming back down into the Bowl.

Like laughter.

When they couldn’t find Jake, Clay ordered that the remaining inhabitants of the bowl be confined to their homes under armed guard; three men per occupied home and plenty left over to spread out through the area and continue the search. Clay himself tossed the main cabin from top to bottom, roving along every nook and cranny in his attempt to understand what had happened.

They had been walking back toward the rear living area; he remembered at least that much. Beyond that, blackness. He came to on the floor of the hallway, alone and completely disoriented, wasting a few precious seconds to wonder how it was he’d woken up on the floor and had he perhaps drunk too much yet again on the evening previous? Then his short-term memory began the slow return to the forefront, unfolding slowly in his mind like sodden cotton balls expanding as they air-dried. The events of the long morning settled back into place first, followed by his recollection of Jake and the things he’d planned to say to him, and then… nothing. A wall as black and vacant as the inside of a shut coffin lid.

Clay understood he’d been knocked out somehow, though he could not recall the circumstances of the attack. The side of his head throbbed like a gaping, elephantiasic twat, so he at least had that much to go on, but there was no indication as to how he’d let the man get the drop on him in the first place. It was another gap in memory, stacked up against a long line of liquor-induced gaps, and it made him murderously angry.

He had at first assumed a quick escape from some rear exit of the home but on hasty inspection soon discovered that whatever had once served such a function had been walled up permanently long ago. Additional investigations into the kitchen and side hallway revealed only windows, which all appeared to be closed. From there, he’d rushed like a shambling mummy through the front door fully expecting to see the great, lumbering asshole pinned to the ground under the heavy boot heel of one of his many capable men. When he was not met with this sight, Clay’s anger erupted into a kind of clumsy rage, and he was halfway around the side of the cabin before he realized with a near-cartoonish gasp the possibility that the man he sought hid somewhere on the cabin’s top floor.

Snarling at his own stupidity, Clay had reversed direction mid-stride, nearly falling over the woodpile stacked along the cabin’s wall, and strode back toward the front door. The stability of his gait improved as he went; whatever vestiges of vertigo were wearing off quickly under the burn of his fury.

Through the door, then, up the stairs, and into the closest bedroom; the one on the right. It had an empty, unused feeling to it but he ransacked it thoroughly, all the same, ripping blankets from the bed to puddle on the rug, throwing the highboy dresser to the floor in a tremendous crash, shattering the mirror of the attached bathroom, and finally blowing through the walk-in closet like a vibrant, descending plague.

He knew halfway through the episode that he would find nothing; the bathroom and closet were as immaculate as the sleeping area. An unused space, dusty and forgotten like an old, buried photo album. If anyone had lived there, whatever soul had been imparted to the place had long since disbanded, and the remainder was as empty and impersonal as the dentist’s office back in Jackson. Forget the last hour; the room hadn’t been occupied in months if not years.

He traveled across the landing to the other room, noting that the knob for this door sported a keyhole. He grasped and twisted the knob, expecting it to resist his efforts; surprised when it did not. The initial rage had been dispersed in the destruction of the previous room, so he took his time here. He heaved a deep breath to steady his nerves, pulled his pistol from its holster under his arm (only now remembering its presence after that abominable rush to attack, to brutalize), and threw open the door.