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

“Mostly,” Otis said. “Some of them shoot the fancy stuff, so we probably low in some areas. You’d have to talk to Gibs about it; I don’t keep track.”

“Uh. Where are the rest of them?”

Otis paused for only a fraction of a second, but it was still enough that Clay noted it. “Uh… the rest? That’s it, Clay.”

“That empty spot there at the bottom…” Clay pointed at a section of rack on the right, noticeably bare among the weaponry, and then other conspicuous holes on the wall where the almost unending supply of firearms was broken by bare wall, “…and these other spots. Where are those?”

“Never had none there.”

“No, huh? You’re telling me you people spent time building racks for weapons you don’t have?”

“Naw, Clay, ain’t that. Look at that wall. That’s four complete sections, floor to ceiling. Only had enough to fill the firs’ section when we built the thing; jus’ one or two guns per person. Jus’ figured since we was in here, might as well build enough for a growin’ collection.”

Clay turned his head slowly in Otis’s direction, eyes hooded in the artificial light.

“You wouldn’t be shitting me…?”

“No, Clay.”

“Because this is a really big deal, huh? The whole fucking future of our relationship depends on it. The intent is to let you people go about at your discretion. I can’t allow that in good conscience if I think you people are holding out on me. Hoarding some firepower?”

“We ain’t.”

“I hope not.” He approached Otis slowly, boot heels knocking over floorboards like the counting down of some doomsday clock. “If I find out different, Otis, it’s gonna be a big fucking problem, huh?”

“This is it, Clay. Them guns is what we got.”

Otis indicated at the wall again, but Clay didn’t turn to look. He continued to stare into the other man’s eyes, narrowing his own as if he were reading some hidden text within Otis’s soul. After an awkward moment, Clay nodded and extended his hand. “I’ll have your word on that, Otis.”

Otis looked down at the extended hand, swallowed hard, and then back at the expectant face of the man before him. The eyes were so black that Otis couldn’t discern pupil from iris and he felt himself being drawn into their exhausted, watery pull. The skin of Clay’s tanned leather face was crossed in deep wrinkles like scars, and his breath smelled of hard liquor.

Otis took the offered hand and shook it a single time.

“You got it.”

“Alright,” Clay said in a low, sultry voice. The tip of his tongue darted between his teeth to taste the air, then disappeared. “Go back out there and find Pap for me. Tell him to come here, huh?”

Otis nodded, wiped his hand absently down the front of his shirt, and left. Clay laughed tonelessly at the man’s departure, expressionless, and then smelled the palm of his hand tentatively.

“Wipin’ my fucking touch off… cock sucker…” he muttered. He approached the reloading bench and began to browse through the drawers while he waited, finding a horde of material. Machine dies, old casings, cleaners, solvents, polishing compounds, lubricants, box after box of primers, jacketed slugs, hollow points, scales, several large jugs of powder, rows of tools he’d never before seen; the function of which he could only guess. He pulled down a fat book from an overhead shelf that looked at least as old as he was and began to thumb through it, finding row after row of tables identifying bullet calibers, powder measures, powder types, ratings at feet per second, and so on. He flipped quickly through three-quarters of the book, looking closely at the cascading fan of pages as they tumbled through his field of view, and noting that the pattern of information contained therein changed only rarely; just table after table of ammunition types and characteristics.

Sticking out from the top of the book were several yellow Post-It notes. He selected one of them at random and turned to its page. He scanned over the text and found, down on the left side of the page, a bold circle drawn around an individual table with the heading “.308 Winchester”. He found another Post-It with his index finger, turned to that page, and saw another circle.

“6.5 Creedmoor…” he read softly.

He heard Pap approach before the Texan had a chance to call out. Clay closed the book and turned toward the staircase, waiting until his friend’s head emerged over the steps before saying, “Hey, Pap, over here. Come have a look at all this.”

Pap walked across the floor to the bench, the weight of his body causing the planks under Clay’s feet to twist and flex in uncomfortable ways. He pulled off his hat as he mentally cataloged the weapons on the wall and whistled slowly.

“Quite-uh stash,” he ventured.

“If Ronny’s story was to be believed, they supposedly pulled all this out of Vegas.”

“If it’s to be believed? You reckon he was shittin’ us?”

Clay shrugged. “Seems as though half his story was about as canonical as the fucking Easter Bunny. I’m only beginning to figure out which parts of it were the truth right now but… I guess he was shooting straight on this one little detail.”

“Damn,” Pap whispered. “Can you imagine if we’d found this stuff? How long was we down there, an’ we didn’t even know about any of it!”

“We’ll never know, now. We have it now, that’s the main thing. That and the goods from Colorado. It’s quite a little fucking army we’re growing these days.”

“Amen…”

Clay turned to face Pap, leaning against the railing and taking a brief moment to spit off the side. The gobbet sailed down into the sunlight that fell across the concrete floor and impacted loudly.

“Listen, Pap, I want you to get a couple of the boys and round all this up. Let’s get it locked up in the cabin for now. I’d almost say to cart it down the hill to town but… I’m not sure I want to go that direction yet.”

“You think they’ll come over?” Pap asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. I hope they do, I guess. They seem fairly tough; God knows a handful of them kicked the shit out of Ronny’s crew. That counts for quite a bit. But… this is a bad situation, Pap. We’re essentially an occupying force. These things tend not to end well; look as far back as the last decade for your own fucking edification, huh?”

“Well, then let’s take ’em down, Clay.”

“No. Well… not yet. We’ll see, huh? If things don’t look like settling down up here, we’ll bundle it all up and send it off. But it sure would be a lot easier to sell the idea that they’ll get their shit back when we’re done if they can see that it’s all being kept on the premises.”

“Seems a fair bit-uh hassle, if’n you ask me…”

“You’re not wrong,” Clay sighed. “But you know me. I’m forever a fucking optimist. Let’s see how it goes. You never know, huh? They might surprise us. Come around to the light and see some reason.”

Pap nodded at this, though he did not appear convinced. “We’ll round it up and throw it all in the cabin, then.”

“Good. Also, send someone down to Jackson—someone you’re sure we trust—to update Elton and let him know we’ll be up here for the next few days. Tell him to keep shit running smooth down there and make sure the rest of them—Ned, Johnny, Doc, all of ’em—make sure they know it’s Elton they’re lining up behind until we get back.”

The shadow of a smile passed along Pap’s broad face. Clay noted this and cocked his head. “So what’s with the fucking grin, then?”

“Eh, nuthin’. Just smilin’ at the old boy gettin’ promoted.”

“Be glad it’s not you in charge, fucking Pap.”