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

“Oscar,” I called back. “How the hell do I turn this thing off?”

He came up to the front with me and said, “Pull those two red wires apart. Don’t touch the ends, though.”

I did as he said and the engine went to sleep. I slapped the parking brake, got out of my seat, and called back down the length of our ride. “Everything is okay. I’ve just seen potential fuel and supplies. Sit tight; this shouldn’t take long.”

To Oscar, I said: “Grab the fuel can and pump.” Then, looking over to Davidson, “You grab the M4 and come keep an eye on us.”

As Davidson was coming along to cover us, I left my rifle on the bus by the driver seat (I was going to need both hands anyway) but grabbed the tire iron. All three of us approached the humvee from the rear.

“You’ll find the gas cap on the right side,” I told Oscar. “Make sure you dump out whatever is left in that can before you pump any diesel into it.”

“Uh, you wanna show me how to do this?” asked Oscar. “I’ve never actually done it before.”

“Oh, sure, man,” I said. It occurred to me that I hadn’t shown anyone how to siphon out a tank from start to finish; I had just been doing everything for people. That was going to have to change—I wasn’t doing anyone (especially myself) any favors by keeping people ignorant. It was time to put my SSgt hat back on again.

“Okay,” I said, “take the donkey dick off that can and pour out whatever is in it.”

“The what?” said Oscar, laughing.

I had said it without thinking and suppressed a grin. It wasn’t the first time I had seen someone entertained by jarhead terminology. I reached out to take the can, unscrewed the cap, and pulled out the spout a few inches. “This thing. You unscrew and detach it from the can completely. Why, what do you call it?”

“Like, a pour spout?” Oscar was still chuckling.

I put on my best disappointed face. “Well, that just isn’t any fun at all. ‘Donkey Dick’ it is.”

Oscar removed the spout, upended the can, and shook it vigorously while I unscrewed the humvee’s cap. I took the pump and unrolled the hoses. Handing it to Oscar, I said, “Okay, you take this end and feed it down to the gas tank. You want to go gently until you hit some resistance.”

He did as instructed, finally saying, “Okay, I feel it hitting something right now.”

“Good. Now, this part can be kind of a bitch. The end of that hose is cut at an angle so it can wedge past the roll valve and get down into the tank. You have to twist the hose in order to get that wedging action to work, so what you’re trying to do is twist it slowly while applying enough downward force to get it to dig in. You can’t use too much force, though, or you’ll just bind up the hose against the inside of the tube, and it won’t go anywhere.”

Oscar paused a moment to take all of that on board and then nodded. He began to work the hose with his fingers and said, “How do I know when it’s past?”

“I don’t know how to describe it,” I said. “You’ll feel it—it’ll grab for a bit and then you’ll suddenly be able to push it forward again.” I watched as he fought with the pump while trying to rotate the hose. “Why don’t you go ahead and detach the pump for now? Once you get the hose set you can reconnect it.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” he said and did so.

I gave him a light slap on the shoulder and approached the passenger side door with the tire iron. Looking in through the window, I could discern the outline of a head and shoulders inside the vehicle. I grunted, “Yep. Shit.” I half expected this.

I tried the handle and found that the door was unlocked, so I set the iron aside. I opened the door and found the remains of a soldier in a partial state of undress in the front seat. His plate carrier, chest rig, and fatigue jacket had all been stripped off and thrown into the driver seat. He had been there for a while; having no odor that I could detect. I looked at the name tape on his jacket. “Sorry, Adams,” I said. “This was a shitty way to go. Rest in peace, buddy.”

I glanced into the back seat and immediately experienced a wave of intense sexual arousal. “Oh… oh hello… you big… beautiful bitch.”

From my left, I heard Oscar bark happily. “Ha! I got it, homes! Finally!”

“That’s good,” I muttered in a daze. “That’s really good, man.” I couldn’t tear my eyes off what I was seeing. It seemed as though Adams had been a Grenadier. I was looking at an obviously well-loved M4 with an underslung M203 grenade launcher. Wordlessly, I walked around the front of the vehicle to the other side and opened the rear door, grabbed the rifle, and began to inspect it. It all appeared to be in good working order. There were plenty of scuffs and scratches on the surface of the weapon, which is what you expected to see from a soldier that actually had to work for a living, but all was in place where I hoped to find it. The action functioned smoothly, the acog optic was good to go, and the magazine dropped out and reseated with no issue. Moving towards the front of the rifle, I confirmed that the grenade launcher leaf sight was undamaged and then slid the M203 barrel forward. A spent 40 mm shell extracted and clattered to the pavement.

“Holy shit,” I whispered. “You had to fire this thing.” I wondered about what must have happened that drove this man to fire off a grenade in a U.S. city. Hopefully, he had only gone as far as firing smoke or some sort of crowd control.

“Goddamn!” I heard Davidson call from behind me. I looked back over my shoulder and saw him staring openmouthed at the weapon in my hands. “I call dibs on that shit!” he said, pointing excitedly.

“Negative,” I said. “Aiming and firing an M203 is not a straightforward operation. At best, you’ll waste rounds. At worst, you’ll fuck it up and kill a buddy.”

“Awe, shit, come on, man…”

“No, Tom. I’m serious on this. When we get somewhere a little more permanent, I’ll square you away on this thing myself but not before then.”

“Crap,” he said. “Okay, I can live with that.”

I set the rifle down on the pavement and leaned it against the rear wheel. “I’ll be back with you in a second,” I said to the rifle and walked around to the rear to pop the aft storage compartment hatch. I was rewarded with the sight of a couple of ammo crates, water, a case of mres, and a ruck. “Fucking jackpot,” I said.

I looked over to Oscar, “How’s that going over there?”

“This can is almost full, but there’s more in the tank.”

“Outstanding. Transfer that to the bus and keep going. I’ll start getting this equipment moved.”

“Okay,” he said and then started to giggle. “I’ll just put that donkey dick back on.”

“Okay, man,” I said, “now you’re just being childish.”

He laughed harder as he lugged the can back towards the bus. I climbed onto the bus myself and called back to the people inside. “We’ve hit a little bonanza, guys. I need volunteers to offload this gear.” Several people came up out of their seats, but I didn’t need everyone at once. I saw two people from Wang’s group stand up first (a younger female and very young male), so I pointed at them, thanking everyone else and advising them to relax.

They both followed me off the bus and out to the humvee. “Thanks, you guys,” I said. “What are your names?”

“Jessica,” said the woman. She appeared to be in her early thirties with dark brown hair, striking green eyes, and a few mismatched tattoos on each arm.

“I’m Kyle,” said the teenage kid. He was blonde, good looking with fair skin, and appeared to be barely capable of shaving.

“Jessica and Kyle, outstanding,” I said. “Here’s what we need: I want you two to get everything on that humvee that isn’t dead soldier or secured equipment and move it onto the bus. Throw it all back in the rear. Don’t think about what you’re grabbing or what it is; we’ll inventory later on the road.” They both nodded and began to move.