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

“Listen to me, Babe,” she said, clutching his hands in hers. “You don’t know what these people are capable of, okay? I’ve seen it. I know.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I didn’t go straight home. When Clay told us to? When you were with Pap—when he was arranging for us to take Cuate? I went to the theater.”

“Oh… shit, girl.”

“I had to see. Mitch said there was screaming… I had to see. I had to know what I’d caused; it was eating me alive. And then… I saw… I s-saw…”

Her voice trailed off in an agonized wheeze, leaking out through constricting throat.

Elton didn’t know what to say to this; didn’t know if he could say anything. He cleared his throat, steadied himself, and asked, “What did you see?”

She hitched a few times, swiping at her eyes furiously, and said, “Ri-ri-Riley was a fucking b-bastard, but I w-w-wouldn’t have wished… have wished that… on… anyb-b…”

She collapsed into sobbing fits, quaking against his chest like a terrified animal. All he could do was hold onto her, rubbing her back and making shushing noises as she convulsed, the violence of her shaking frame scaring him badly.

He held and rocked her a long, long time. He’d forgotten to think of her as a killer.

On the second day of the occupation, Amanda awoke at her usual time and went about her morning ritual in the usual way. Climbing from under the heavy covers of her bed, she slipped socked feet into a pair of wool-lined boots, retrieved her thick flannel shirt from the footboard and put it on, and lit the candle on the side table. The darkness of the small bedroom was slowly pushed back as the flame came to life, small at first before stretching to a steady, proud spire. The log walls revealed themselves in warm, orange light, the sight of which was a fine thing. It made her feel warmer within, even if the air still carried a bite. She thought idly of installing a wood stove in her room, as she had already done in the common room and Lizzy’s bedroom; a common morning reflection. It always seemed there was some more pressing thing that needed attention, though, and so Amanda’s comfort relied on heavy blankets and brisk movement.

She went to the small window along the home’s rear wall, pushed out the Bermuda shutter, and set the brace to let in some morning light. A grey beam fell across her bed and a section of the floorboards. It did not illuminate the room so much as highlight how dark the corners truly were. She peeked her head out to sniff the air and found it laden with the smells of dew and fog. She strained to detect more, breathing shallowly at first for a few seconds, and then drawing in a deep lungful, convinced she should be able to catch the combined sour odors of their intruders, but of course she could not. They would be in their own places now; progressing along their own tracks. She knew from experience and careful observation that they only began to smell inside of twenty feet—give or take—depending on the wind.

She relieved herself over the chamber pot and then held a light over it to inspect the level. It had ripened since last night, and she knew it would have to be dumped soon, but she had not yet been able to lug it from the cabin for disposal. Strange, she mused, that she should feel so. The thought of carrying a bucket of her own waste out into the open under the curious gaze of those fucking bastards, some of whom she suspected of stolen glances and whispered comments, carried with it a naked feeling; a connotation of being exposed. There had been enough invasion into her home—more than was to her liking—and she was in no hurry to bare more, even the least part of a very human routine. It was hard enough to step through her front door into the open, to walk through the grass of her valley with those hateful eyes upon her. To restrain herself from launching at them, hands like claws set to gouge their softest parts; elbows hammering toward their thinnest bones. Such a thing would be immensely enjoyable but must be avoided at all costs. All thoughts and actions must conform to the long game or be discarded.

She carried her candle over to the washbasin, scrubbed her face clean, and rinsed her mouth from a canteen, pouring the used liquids into a bucket. Then she stuffed her toothbrush down into the canteen’s neck, swirled it around to wet the bristles, and brushed. When that was finished, she pinched a lip-full of mint from a jar, stems and all, packed it into her mouth, and chewed it thoroughly, concentrating on spreading it over as much of her gums as she could and sucking it hard against the roof of her mouth.

She dressed in more permanent attire including a light jacket and heavy work boots, pulled on a pair of thick, fingerless gloves, closed and latched the shutter, and carried her candle from the bedroom. She resisted the urge to look for her pistol on the way out, which was also a fine thing. It was no longer hanging from its hook.

She bustled about in the common room awhile lighting more candles, wondering if Lizzy would come out on her own or if she must be retrieved. There was a bit of stew left from the night before, so Amanda scraped out the ashes from the stove, replacing them with fresh wood, and set it alight. Then she closed the little iron door, retrieved the stew pot, cracked the lid, and smelled it. It seemed as though it was still fine (she’d only prepared it last evening, after all), so she placed it on the burner and broke up the thin layer of fat riding atop the caldo with a wooden spoon and stirred until the food sediment from the bottom of the pot swirled around on the surface. She left the spoon in the pot pinned beneath the lid.

She went to her daughter’s room to see how she was, noting with satisfaction how it was warmer in there than the rest of their home. Fred’s little wood heaters were a kind of simple marvel; an indispensable part of their rustic life. She swung the bedroom door open wide to let the light in and inspected the bandages over her daughter’s lip. Leaning in close, she could see they were still secure to her skin; that the fresh stitches appeared intact with each end sinking into minuscule little holes like micro-fine piercings. She saw no redness or swelling of any kind.

As Amanda moved her head from side to side to inspect Olivia’s handiwork, the shadow she cast moved over Elizabeth’s face in pantomime, and eventually the girl’s eyes slid open, exposing pupils that already tracked her mother’s movements. Amanda noted that the girl’s breathing had not changed in any noticeable way.

“Good morning, Mija ,” she whispered. “Breakfast is warming up right now, but you still have time to sleep more if you want.”

The girl’s nostrils flared briefly, then contracted.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m going to check on Alish in a little while; probably take her some food.”

“After that?”

Amanda sat down on the edge of the bed. “How do you know I’m going anywhere after that?”

“You haven’t asked me to go visit Alish with you.”

Amanda sighed and concentrated on hiding her thoughts within. It was getting harder with her. Much, much harder.

“I’m not really excited about the idea of you going outside right now,” she tried.

“Because of these men?”

“Of course.”

The unwounded side of Elizabeth’s mouth pulled into the suggestion of a grin, gone before Amanda was sure she’d seen it, and the girl rolled over in bed, sighing. “Think I will sleep a little longer. I’ll save some food for you if you’re not back soon.”

Amanda looked at her daughter’s shoulder a moment, wanting to pull her back; wanting to say things to the girl without knowing what those things were. She tugged the blanket higher and felt a wave of stupid relief when one small hand lifted to pat the backs of her knuckles lightly. She leaned forward to kiss Lizzy on the temple and left the room.