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

Samantha had not yet come, as well. When they were all arranged around the fresh pits and the motionless, shrouded bodies, Otis nodded curtly to himself and said, “Alright. You folks jus’ wait a second. I’ll have her out directly.”

He retrieved her from the camper she’d shared with Lum; the camper in which she now lived alone. She came silently, hands and arms entwined with Otis’s, steps unsteady. She walked like a liberated prisoner pulled from a dungeon in which she’d lived entombed for untold years; shy of the sunlight, the searching eyes and words of the others; shrinking at the slightest breeze. Her hair, at once lush with the vibrancy of youth, hung in lank strands over her face, itself a mash of angry, red skin, swollen and thoroughly saturated in her heartbreak. He guided her to the edge of the circle but when she saw the bodies laid out in the shade, wrapped up like old furniture, she froze, digging chipped nails into Otis’s wrist.

“Which one is he?” she whispered her voice the ghost of a ghost.

“There…” Otis answered, indicating with an elbow.

Samantha’s face fell in a slow-motion avalanche, her intended wail constricted to little more than an endless wheeze due to the utter weakness of her frame, her essence. Her mouth began to work, lips contracting irregularly over teeth separated by a locked jaw, causing the exhalation to warble in unsettling ways. Otis was alarmed by the sound at first, fearing she’d descended into some sort of fit, but realized a second later she was actually trying to form words. He put his head closer to her mouth, strained to listen.

And heard.

In the slow gasp of sorrow, the words: “…told you I tried to tell you you wouldn’t listen why wouldn’t you listen oh god come back why can’t you listen just hear me if you’d just heard me oh god oh god oh goooood…”

They told a story to Otis, the details of which were shrouded in mystery, the meaning of which was as clear and final as life and death. He knew without asking; understood without knowing. His heart broke for her, bringing to his reckoning a deep, soul-crushing ache the likes of which he had not known since his Gerty had passed beyond his reach.

They lay the bodies into the earth and Fred, and Oscar took up shovels to begin pushing the dirt over. Several of those in attendance stooped to grab fistfuls of dirt and throw them in over the top of the shovelfuls, unconsciously seeking some physical expression of disconnect, of finalization. Of letting go. This carried on for some time until Barbara reached out with a soft hand to take Oscar’s own shovel away, pulling at it gently until he was forced either to refuse her or surrender. Now crying openly himself, Oscar surrendered.

Barbara bent to the earth and, with muscles lately strengthened by her own toiling over the last several months—working in the black soil with her hands, coaxing her peoples’ sustenance from the very ground—she gave George back to the ground with a heaping scoop. She made to speak, choked, and then said, “Well… I guess our retirement was cut short…” Further speech failed her, and she held her shovel out away from her body. It was taken immediately, though she did not see by whom.

They went from handfuls to shovelfuls collectively, understanding as a group that each should have a part in the act of burial. Gibs stood outside of their circle, looking numbly at the new ritual when he heard a throat clear behind him. He glanced over to see Clay’s killer Texan, holding extra shovels in his arms like a grip of firewood.

“Uh… s’cuse me,” said Pap. “Saw how y’all was see’in to yer own and… thought you could use s’more-uh these.”

Gibs’s eyes settled on the shovels a moment—there seemed to be four of them—and he absently stated, “You got those from the garage…”

“Yeah, uh… did. S… sorry, but…” He trailed off uncomfortably.

Gibs sighed and went to take them. “Sure, I guess we could use ’em.”

“ Oh, thank Christ ,” Pap muttered under his breath. He handed them over to Gibs hastily, like they were imbued with some irritant to which he was profoundly susceptible, and hustled to return to his place with the others by the greenhouse. Clay eyed him as he passed and Pap, perhaps feeling the other man’s quiet regard, glanced back at the porch. Clay nodded gravely—showing a rare flash of approval… or maybe understanding—and Pap blushed furiously before putting his head down and continuing on.

When the bodies had been covered over, they all stood round in a circle, looking down at the fresh disturbed earth and wondering who would speak first, for someone must always speak in these times; the beloved departed must not be allowed to pass through to the other side without words uttered for their life. A commentary offered concerning the fracture left in the lives of the survivors. Amanda came forward, walking quietly toward Otis while digging around inside a sweater, and he had a moment of relief before he saw her pull out the Bible. He looked at this book, confusion in his eyes, and he very quietly whispered, “Amanda… you know, I don’t mind at all, but this don’t seem like you. You never once seemed the religious type. Hell, you don’t even bow your head when Ben and I say a few words over supper.”

She nodded at this and pressed the book into his hands. When he looked at her eyes, there was something there he did not expect to see. There was a fire burning there, and behind that, something more…

There was some sense of calculation.

“It’s important, Otis. Just… please read this for me; I’ll explain why later. We can have our own say after.” She leaned in closer and hissed, “Make sure you read it loud enough to be heard. As far as Jake’s cabin.”

Otis’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell is this, girl?”

“Trust me. Please,” she said. She opened the book in his hands to a marked page and pointed. “Start there; verse eighteen. Go to twenty-eight.”

He looked down at this, lips moving silently as he scanned the text, and then jerked up to look at her again, eyes worried.

“Otis. Please.”

He sighed, not quite believing he was about to go along with it, and he heard the sound of his own voice agreeing, as though something else within controlled his mouth.

“Yeah… yeah, okay.”

She nodded and backed up a few paces to rejoin the gathered circle. Otis looked back down at the page, found his place, and muttered, “ Holy shit… ’

Some of the others strained at this, thinking they’d missed the first part of the passage. Seeing their eyes squint in concentration, Otis shook his head apologetically and waved them off.

Then he cleared his throat and began to read in a strong voice:

“You will be brought before governors and kings for My sake, as a testimony to them and to the Gentiles. But when they deliver you up, do not worry about how or what you should speak. For it will be given to you in that hour what you should speak; For it is not you who speak, but the Spirit of your Father who speaks in you.

“Now brother will deliver up brother to death, and a father his child; and children will rise up against parents and cause them to be put to death. And you will be hated by all for My name’s sake. But he who endures to the end will be saved.”

Otis shifted uncomfortably, feeling the sharp prick of an imagined presence at the base of his skull, and shrugged his shoulders against it. He cleared his throat again and continued.

“When they persecute you in this city, flee to another. For assuredly, I say to you, you will not have gone through the cities of Israel before the Son of Man comes. A disciple is not above his teacher, nor a servant above his master. It is enough for a disciple that he be like his teacher and a servant like his master. If they have called the master of the house… Uh… ahem, s’cuse me. …If they have called the master of the house Beelzebub, how much more will they call those of his household!