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

In the case of the other man, he held himself stiff and rested his weight on his rear foot with his thumbs looped into his front pockets. His expression was guarded, but he looked Jake directly in the eyes as they talked to each other, which I felt was reassuring. He struck me as a man who was both confident and not in the habit of hiding things.

Presently, the black man gestured back toward the minivan, where I could just make out the silhouette of a head in the passenger window. The sun was low, now, and to my back, throwing a glare and making it hard to see.

Jake nodded and extended his hand to the man, who accepted it while smiling. Jake nodded again to him, released his hand, and walked back in our direction. He positioned himself between our vehicles and spoke to us through our open windows.

“This man has people with him: his son and two others that they picked up on the road. He was out foraging for supplies when he saw us come off the freeway. They would like to trade and exchange news.”

Billy asked: “They seem okay to you?”

“Yes,” Jake said. “Pull up close in a circle around the camp. They have water they can part with. Bullets are the main thing they’re in need of.”

Billy and I both perked up at this; our water supply was getting low enough that we would have to stop soon to find more—not dangerously low but enough that we began to think nervously of the shape we would be in if we suffered a vehicle failure and had to go back to walking. If a trade was successful, we might be able to push all the way through without having to stop for any.

“There’s a kid!” Lizzy said from the back seat.

A boy had exited from the minivan and now stood by the man’s side; his son, I assumed. Billy pulled the truck forward in an arc and drove it around to the side of the easy-up opposite the minivan, parking in the opposing direction while obscuring my view. I swung out left and then made a large U-turn to pull up behind his truck.

The black man waved at me and nodded as I killed the engine. I nodded back and smiled. Smiles were cheap. I sat in the Jeep for an indecisive moment and finally opened my door halfway to speak to him. “I have a rifle here with me. Are we getting off on the wrong foot if I bring it out of the car?”

“No, ma’am. I’ve a rifle here, too. Just another tool we all have to carry, now, like a pocket knife.” He had a good Southern drawl on him, pronouncing words like “anothah” and “carreh.”

I thanked him, pulling the sling over my head and arm. I came out of the Jeep and heard the man chuckle. “What?” I asked as I looked back at him after closing my door.

“I was just thinking: that is one hell of a pocket knife,” he said while pointing at the Tavor. I didn’t know what to say to this, so I just waved for Elizabeth to get out of the Jeep. I walked over to the man with my left hand resting along the top spine of my rifle to keep it from swinging. I extended my right hand to shake.

“I’m Amanda,” I said. “This is my daughter, Elizabeth.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Amanda,” he said as he took my hand. His hands were warm and soft; well cared for. He put his hand out for Elizabeth, who took it shyly. “Pleased to meet the both of you ladies.” He shook with Billy as well, who had just approached (not carrying his shotgun, I noted). “My name is Otis; this here is my son Ben.”

Ben put his hand out to shake each of ours in turn and said either “Sir” or “Ma’am” as he shook each, even to Elizabeth. He was a beautiful young man of maybe eleven or twelve years who very clearly favored his father. He was on a definite path to break hearts one day, assuming he could find any to break.

Billy gave his name belatedly and said, “Jake mentioned you had two others with you?”

“Yeah,” Otis nodded and held his finger up in a wait-one-minute gesture. “They’re a bit skittish. I’ll have ’em out. Make yourselves at home!” This last was shot out over his shoulder as he went around to the far side of the minivan and slid open the side door. We heard him conversing with those hidden inside behind the tinted glass. I noted Jake was already pulling chairs out of the truck bed and setting them up in a lazy circle opposite to Otis’s.

Presently, Otis came back out from around the minivan with two new people, clearly brother and sister. They looked to be either in their late teens or early twenties.

The girl was pretty in the way that all young people are pretty, with youthful skin, thick, lush hair, and a lean body; however it was clear that as she aged, her larger nose would become prominent if not distracting. Her brother featured the same nose but, with his stronger chin and masculine facial structure, the nose would serve only to add to his appeal in a Clive Owen kind of way as he aged. Any appeal he may have had right then was masked by an obviously sullen attitude. They were sandy-haired and Caucasian.

“This is Robert and Samantha,” Otis offered, coming around to stand behind a chair. They both nodded and said “Hi” but stood well back, neither putting a handout. Otis gestured to the chairs and said, “Please…”

As we sat, Otis pulled his rifle off one of the chair seats—an old-fashioned looking, wooden, bolt-action weapon with a large telescopic scope—and placed it butt down in the dirt against the backrest. He looped the sling over the back of the chair and then held onto it as he sat down to ensure the weight of the rifle wouldn’t pull it over. Ben sat down next to him on his left side, to his right were Robert followed by Samantha while on our end from right to left was Billy, Jake, myself, and Lizzy.

We all sat for a moment, silently awkward. I can’t say for sure, but I think it may have been the first time any of us had been in such a situation. We’ve certainly been in plenty like it since that day. Finally, looking for a way to break the ice, I said, “Otis, is that a Southern accent I hear?” A Southern man always loves to talk about home, in my experience.

“Well, yes it is,” he said, smiling. I was momentarily hypnotized by how a face so dark could appear so full of light by smiling. “We were living in New Mexico when Ben was born, but I’m originally from Atlanta.”

No one brought up the absence of the mother, a fact which was entirely conspicuous for its lack of mention. Otis picked up on this, apparently, and said, “Oh, we didn’t lose his mother recently. That was some time ago.”

Our side of the lineup breathed in unison, and now Ben smiled as well, as though he wanted to put us at ease.

“You’re a good ways out from New Mexico,” Billy said. “Do you, uh, mind if I ask where you’re headed?”

“Sure,” Otis nodded, making the word sound like “shoo-wuh,” “we’re making our way to Oregon. My folks passed on years ago, but Ben’s mother still had some family up that way. We’re going to see if we can find them. We picked up our friends here along the way. They, uh, they weren’t so lucky with their people.” I saw Robert’s hand clench into a fist as Otis said this; there was a lot of anger there. “How ‘bout yourselves?”

Billy cleared his throat and shifted. Jake answered without hesitation: “We’re on our way to Wyoming. There’s some land up there. Fresh start, maybe.”

“Fine. That sounds fine,” said Otis.

“So,” said Jake, “you flagged us down at great potential risk to yourselves. What can we do for you?”

“Well, like I told you, we’re looking to trade supplies. Ammo is what we need the most, but we can talk over anything, really. Water is what we’re doing well on right now—we came across several flats of it a few days ago.”

“More water is always a good thing,” Jake said.