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

She felt the wave of heat in her cheeks and tamped it back in annoyance. She disliked that such light praise could make her feel so.

“I wonder…” he continued absently. “Do you think that’s something we should do regularly? I mean after. Would some form of regular worship be appreciated? I was never much for it, myself, but others seem to assign a lot of val—”

“Jake.”

“Yes?”

She wanted to tell him this was no time for such things; that he could tend to his little fucking ant farm later if they survived. Something held her back from saying it, though, and she did not know what it was. Understanding or guilt; remorse or regret; culpability—she did not know. She thought she might be in too deep to see it clearly and decided to keep the problem for another day.

Before she could answer, he said, “Hmm… you’re right, of course.”

She sighed slowly. “Like I said: let me talk with the others. There’s a chance we can figure something out together.”

“Good,” Jake said. “I’ll stick close by. When I think the timing is right, I’ll leave a sign for you. When you see it, you get the kids up to this spot. I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll take them somewhere safe.”

“And then?” Amanda asked.

“And then you go back down to the valley and kill them all.”

Clay erupted from the cabin that morning as though he’d been launched onto the common ground by a siege engine. He was shouting for the others as he descended the porch steps two at a time and when his feet hit the dirt, his arms flailed above his head toward the tents like he sought to communicate through semaphore. The locals of the valley who had ventured beyond the front stoops of their homes eyed him suspiciously as he hollered, but he paid them no mind; he had eyes only for the security detail. Groups of familiar men who stood in sullen clusters and the cook fires stinking up the air with whatever offal they’d brought along for chow.

We gotta jumpstart the son of a bitch , Clay thought to himself as he watched a handful of his men trot over to meet him. If I leave it up to these people, they’re apt to call my fucking bluff…

Four armed men converged with Clay at the center of the common ground on a blackened, scuffed-out patch of earth usually occupied by an old oil drum. One of the senior guys, Bradley, nodded to Clay as he closed the distance and asked, “Yeah, what’s up?”

Clay opened his mouth to answer but hesitated when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. It seemed his shouts had conjured up the mother of that psychopathic little rodent they’d driven up the side of the mountain. She looked tired; stood outside her door in a sweater with a coffee cup and disheveled hair, eyeballing them at a distance. He waved at her as well and called, “Yeah, you too; come on over here! You might as well hear this.”

She took her time ambling over, tracking him the entire way with eyes that promised murder and a mouth so twisted and sour that she might have been sucking battery acid through a lemon. The delay annoyed Clay; made him feel like his chest constricted a touch more at each mincing step she deigned to take, and by the time she came within earshot, he was thoroughly annoyed. There were big things to get moving in the looming weeks ahead; comings and goings; new machines to build and systems to initiate. And here she was dragging her feet the whole fucking way and… oh my Christ, I think she might be slowing down the closer she gets!

He resisted the urge to start screaming.

She stopped a couple of feet away from their gathering, eyeing them all with that bitter fucking expression. There’d been a whole speech Clay worked up for the occasion—something having to do with coming to grips with a nasty situation, folks meeting in the middle. Giving a fucking bit to get a bit, and so forth. Looking at Amanda now with those pinched, schoolmarm lips and storm cloud eyes, his eloquence deserted him, and he was left with nothing but improvisation and his own belligerent nature.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, “just look at her, boys. Did you ever see such a fuckin’ expression? If only looks could kill, isn’t that right, Amanda? Blessed Virgin, that’s a face ugly enough to go bear hunting with a stick.”

He heard a cough from his rear and thought that Bradley might have whispered a “Goddamn!” under his breath. Clay found he didn’t care so much at the moment; the broad was fucking up his mojo something extra.

“Well, let’s not get sensitive, fellas, look at that mug! She’s directing that shit right at me and everything; makes a guy wonder just what the fuck comes next, doesn’t it? Look at that! That’s a killer’s look, Amanda. Is that what you’re shooting my way? Is that what you want to do?”

The skin around her eyes seemed to darken, and she said, “Cut the shit, okay? You called me over here for something. What is it?”

“And heaps abuse upon fucking insult, besides! It almost makes me want to just keep all this good news to myself, I feel so abused. Holy Christ, just look at that face! Tell you what, Amanda, you give a guy a blowjob with that mouth, I bet it counts as anal.”

A series of gasps escaped the others, but Clay didn’t bother to respond. He kept an unwavering gaze on Amanda, eyes intent and piercing as he waited to see what she would do. A few uncomfortable seconds elapsed where no one was willing to do anything more than breathe. The relative discomfort reached a fever pitch, but as they watched her, a subtle change came over Amanda’s face. Her lips softened slowly, and the lines across her forehead became briefly shallow before disappearing entirely, leaving only lightened tracks of discolored skin as evidence of their passage. The blood pushed its way back into the skin around her mouth and eyes, bringing with it a certain feminine appeal, and finally, as some of the men began to wonder if they should perhaps spread out in anticipation of some sort of attack, she laughed. It was not a joyful sound; not hearty nor emanating deep from within. An abrupt snort, gone so fast they could have imagined it. She flung the remainder of her coffee into the dirt and Bradley stared after it hungrily as it mingled with the mud.

Matter-of-factly disinterested, she said, “Clay… fuck you. Fuck everything about you. Your people, your mother. Fuck your shitkicker boots and your ridiculous little vest. Fuck your dog if you ever had one. I don’t know if there was ever a woman dumb enough to let you near her but if there was—and if any children came as a result—then fuck your children, too.”

The others began to mutter at this; Clay almost heard the sound of them recoiling under her assault. Their fear of what might come next was almost tangible. He crossed his arms and looked the woman up and down; steepled his eyebrows and asked, “That it?”

“Your mustache sucks. Fuck your mustache, while I’m at it.”

He smiled despite himself and looked at the others. “I’m not sure but… this might just be someone I can deal with.”

“ Ohjesuschrist! ” Bradley gasped and bent slightly at the waist. He took a few deep breaths and said, “Didn’t know what the hell was about to happen! Goddamn it, Clay!”

“Oh, easy now. Let’s not get too relaxed, huh? I’ve got this nagging suspicion she might have meant some of what she said.” He looked back at Amanda, nodded, and asked, “Are we done saying ‘good morning’ to each other now?”

Amanda shrugged. “It’ll do for now, I guess.”

“Hurrah, then. Where the fuck is Pap?”