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

He allowed his voice to trail off as he thought furiously over his next statement, wondering if he was pushing his luck too far. Elton had omitted, bent, and outright broken the truth about as much as he cared to that evening—had done it more so in the space of the last few minutes than he had in the last decade of his life—and decided this whole “being in charge” gig was about the sourest kick in the ass he’d ever been handed. He thought in that moment he might understand fairly well why Clay always looked so damned tired; why he always seemed on the verge of snapping at the slightest frustration.

How far do you want to push this? How much do you want to assume? In essence: how far are you willing to hang your ass out, big boy?

He was so goddamned tired. He realized after a moment that he’d been staring into the light of somebody’s torch; the thing seemed to just be floating out there in the night air. People were starting to mutter again, and he figured he’d better move it along on the quick.

“If I know Clay, he’ll be working on bringing down more than just some food. Any of you that knows him probably understands what I’m saying. We all know how the man likes to bring in new talent. Just think about that a second: four greenhouses. That’s a lot of knowledge implied in those two little words, isn’t it? Supposing he can convince those folks to come down and see us? Show us how it’s done?”

Another man spoke up at this: “Yeah, Elton, damn it, but we gotta get some food down here right now! My kid goddamned fainted yesterday because of this rationing!”

“Fainted how?” Elton prodded. He knew the young man in question; he was probably fifteen, but he had the work ethic of a turn-of-the-century coal miner. He’d probably toiled himself right into a stupor.

The man who’d spoken at first now refused to respond, instead looking down over a twisted mouth. Evidently, Elton’s suspicions were accurate.

“I know your boy, Sunil, just like I know you. You tell him we appreciate how hard he works but that he needs to knock it off for now and conserve that energy. We all do. We’re not handing out more food for the people that work themselves to death; we can’t afford to right now. The rations are a goddamned shame, I’m with you people on that, but that’s what’s gonna stretch our food out another week. And listen up, now! Clay’s set a return date well before that time is up. Another three days—four tops—and he’s comin’ back down the mountain with all kinds of calories, alright?”

They’d fallen silent as he spoke, looking around at each other pensively as though they were trying to sniff out cues as to whether they would collectively accept his explanation or keep pushing for more. Elton supposed it was an improvement, but he didn’t much care for the depths to which his standards had descended.

He figured he had them all just about wrapped up. If Clay were there, he would have had the whole mess shut down in a matter of moments; probably would have even scored a few laughs by the end. Elton sensed his argument required some sort of capstone, some final phrase or sentiment of a profound nature to top his speech like a Christmas tree star. He glanced down to examine the knuckles of his hand and saw from the corner of his left eye the child Cuate still wrapped around his leg. The boy was looking back up at Elton with those giant hen’s egg eyes and when he saw Elton looking down at him, asked, “When’s Pap coming home?”

Elton looked up at Danielle; saw she’d heard the boy’s question. She smiled at Elton and rested a light hand on Cuate’s head.

“Well, son,” Elton began, “I guess he’ll be back pretty s—”

“ ELTON! ”

The shout came from the direction of Karn’s Meadow Drive, probably no more than a couple hundred feet away. Elton recognized Horace’s yell before his exhausted mind had a chance to assign a name; knew instantly where the man had been positioned that night, what he was supposed to be in charge of, and why he might be running their way right then, shouting loud enough that his voice echoed out over the small field.

Elton grabbed onto Cuate and Danielle reflexively, ignoring the shouted responses of the gathering; the gasps intermixed with frantic demands to know why Horace was shouting, why he was running, and why he sounded so goddamned scared.

He barreled toward Elton at the utmost of his legs’ ability, head thrust out in space far enough that he looked almost like falling on his face, and when he clomped up to a stop in front of them, he bent over double to gasp in long, tearing breaths. When he finally straightened up, Elton was shocked to see how pale Horace’s face was, not to mention how it was saturated in sheets of sweat despite the cold bite of the evening air.

Seeing the state of his friend undid Elton’s nerves more than anything else; his mad run over or the frantic shout across the street. Horace was a man well known for drifting along on an even keel. Sure, he suffered the odd loss of temper just like any other was prone to do, but he was quick to forgive for forgiveness’ sake, often refusing to let the day’s accounts close without putting matters to rights.

The man Elton saw now didn’t resemble the Horace he knew; didn’t look to him like the even-tempered fella Elton had come to call friend. Standing out in the middle of that field, hair jacked up and matted with sweat and eyes darting around like glassy fugitives, the man just looked lost and scared.

Elton swallowed hard past a dry throat and said, “What’s up, Horace?”

Horace looked around some more at the people who’d pressed in close around them, straining to hear what he might say, and then down at Cuate. Face twisting over in a sneer, he leaned over to Elton until he could speak right into the man’s ear and whispered, “We’re under attack, brother.”

“Christ… How? I didn’t hear any—”

“No gunfire. They came in quiet. We found some of the boys dead; the ones set for guard duty down in Lower End.”

Elton’s eyes shut involuntarily. He realized after they did that it was his face exposed to the entire gathering out in the field. He wondered what they must be making of his expression. He imagined their impression wasn’t anything good.

“Who?” Elton asked, a little shocked at the steadiness of his voice. A calm began to descend on his thought process—a kind of detached clarity—and he wondered if that was the exhaustion at work or if his slow mind was just coming up to speed. Coming to the realization that he was hip-deep in the jackpot and the only way out was to slog right through.

“Mason, Tod, and Portuguese Joe so far. We’re still looking for Lacey and Kavenaugh but…”

He let the thought peter out like a guttering candle, not willing to complete the sentence. Horace was not holding out much hope.

The jagged edges of a foggy map began to snap into place in Elton’s mind. Let’s see… that was the station down by the movies—Riley’s old haunt… the corner of Meadowlark and Powderhorn and… Jesus, Kavenaugh had been stationed up where Scott ran across Route 191.

“Son of a bitch!” Elton gasped. “That’s just a couple blocks away!”

Horace nodded his head and whispered, “No sign of anyone. Just ours… dead or missing. They’re out there, though. Those fuckers are out there.”

Elton opened his eyes and looked at the mass of people huddled together on the field. They seemed to have picked up on the mood; he saw a lot of worried and concerned faces staring back at him.

“Got your radio?” Elton asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Round everybody up. No more of this spread-out bullshit. Get ’em all moved to Upper Jackson. All in one place where we can see everybody. No one travels in a group smaller than ten people, understand?”