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

One of the Harley riders pulled up along the bus on our right side, a heavy man with a bandana obscuring his face like an old Western bandit. He held out a machine pistol in our direction with the clear intent to spray our broadside. Before he could do so, I screamed, “Swerve right!!!” to Oscar, who complied immediately, God bless him.

The “bandit” managed to squeeze off a few before the bus slammed into him. It was expertly done on Oscar’s part; you typically want to oversteer in these situations and destabilize your vehicle, which would have been catastrophic in a bus with such a high center of gravity, but our man Oscar swung her over like a true artist. The biker was lost to view under the side windows, but I heard his shout along with the crunch of metal on metal as we first plowed into and then over him. The whole back end of the school bus launched up under my feet and ratcheted back down, slamming my head into the ceiling before driving me into the deck. The others of our group screamed or grunted depending on how hard of a shot they sustained; I came from my knees to my feet in a daze and shaking my head.

Davidson was firing out the window again with his M4, scoring good hits and dumping pursuers onto the pavement. I leaned forward to squint out a rear window almost completely devoid of any glass, save a few stubborn fragments, seeing a twisted Harley, a body, and a big red smear trailing behind us in our wake. As I looked, a red-hot line of pain bloomed across my right shoulder, and a side window exploded behind me, spilling safety glass all over Rose, who screamed in a voice that was only beginning to find womanhood.

It was at this point that I’d decided we were done putting up with the Denver Chapter of the Hell’s Asshats.

I looked over at Davidson, specifically at the M4 with underslung grenade launcher he was firing out the window. I growled, pulled the sling of my MR556 off my arm, and shouted, “Trade me!”

Davidson looked at my rifle in dismay, shook his head, and bawled, “But… you said—”

“Stick a dick in what I said!” I called back and held my rifle out at him. “Give, give, give !”

He scrambled to do so. I saw him pull my rifle into his shoulder and grin wide as he aimed it out the window. “Don’t you dare get comfortable,” I shouted as I rammed forward the barrel on the M203. “You do not get to keep her, and she damned well better come back unsullied!”

I pulled a 40mm frag grenade off the belt stashed in our sorry excuse of a weapons duffel, stuffed it into the pipe, and rammed it closed. I crab-walked up to the rear window and shouted, “Down!” at Davidson, who dropped below the window level instantly. I stood up like the world’s most pissed off jack in the box and took aim out the back; they were so close it didn’t even occur to me to raise the leaf sight at the front of the rail. I just took aim through the optic as though I was firing normal rounds, put the reticle on center mass and pulled the M203’s trigger with my left index finger. A loud POONT! issued from the weapon and, out in front of me at a distance of no more than thirty feet, an explosion erupted right in a biker’s lap.

Now, I feel as though I should pause here and dispel some Hollywood bullshit about our friend, the M203. The former artists in cinema (bless their hearts) like to show these things blowing up entire cars and throwing devastating fireballs up into the air, almost as though they were firing exploding gas cans instead of little exploding artillery rounds. In reality, you get a puff of grey smoke only a little larger than a man; the effective range on these things is really only within a five-yard diameter and, in most cases, they won’t kill you unless you take a direct, unprotected hit to the chest or face. They’ll just load you full of shrapnel and ruin your whole week.

Unless you’re some jerk on a motorcycle hassling a tired, pissed off, salty old Marine and you’re dumb enough to ride so close that said Marine doesn’t even have to aim.

That first grenade fairly blew the motorcycle right out from under the man, plowing him all across the pavement. I heard the metallic patter-clank of shrapnel fragments as they struck the rear of our school bus and was thankful I had told Davidson to kiss the deck. I made a mental note to also duck on subsequent shots. The guy just behind the man I had blown up (one of those riding a scooter) was unable to avoid the wreckage and drove right into it, flipping over the handlebars and landing directly on his face, which was unprotected.

I dropped to my knees and fished out another grenade from the belt while, behind me, Davidson popped up to send more fire out the window over my head. He was doing well, anticipating my need and intent. I felt a tentative degree of pride in his performance but, of course, he still had a whole firefight to fuck it up, so…

I drove the launcher’s barrel open, and the expended grenade shell popped out onto the floor; I snatched it before it could roll away. I had no desire to step on the thing, fall over, and fire off a grenade into the ceiling or inside wall. I threw the empty into the duffel bag and popped the fresh grenade into my weapon. Without needing to be told, Davidson again dove to the floor.

I sprang up, selected a new target, and fired. I missed this time, the round passing just over the intended mark and detonating in the street between two motorcycles riding side by side. Both men appeared to be peppered; they flinched and dumped their rides into the pavement, rolling off in different directions and hammering into vehicles lining the street.

Before I had any time to admire my two-for-the-price-of-one score, I heard Oscar yell, “Hang on!!” while the bus swerved alarmingly to one side. The entire length of the vehicle jolted, then shuddered violently as I heard the hollow, box-slam of metal on metal combined with the melody of shattering glass. The tires directly under me squealed across the pavement and were arrested as the back end blasted into a truck parked along the street’s shoulder, driving myself, Davidson, and likely a few others into the seats and right wall of the bus.

“What the hell—” I began but was interrupted by a muted bang sounding off just beneath me, followed by the whop, whop, whop of a blown tire. “goddamnit, blowout!” I shouted.

Davidson shook his head at me and replied, “It’s okay. This bus has a dually rear axle! We can probably keep it moving.”

I nodded, recalling the four wheels in the rear. It certainly wasn’t optimal, but then, we left optimal behind a long time ago. I reloaded the M203 a third time, climbed to my feet, and fired it into another motorcycle, this time picking a couple of people riding double. My aim was good, and I just glimpsed them belly-flopping into asphalt as I ducked back down below the window line.

Without stopping to catch a breath, I was already digging into my pack for a fourth grenade. Before I could tug it out of the belt loop, Davidson said, “Hey, stand down. I think they’re breaking off.”

Ignoring him, I shoved another grenade home, climbed to a standing position, and looked out the window. A greatly reduced gang of bikers did, in fact, appear to be falling back, either to check on their dead and wounded or because they had lost the will to continue. I lifted the leaf sight on the rifle, braced the barrel against the bottom of the rear window frame, and began to line up my next shot. A couple of bikers were turned side-on to me, so I picked one of them as the broadest area at which to aim.

“Dude,” Davidson said over my shoulder, “They’re breaking off, man!”

“Hell with that,” I muttered and fired. For a guy who had only played with the M203 during weapons training (never having carried one in combat), I have to say the skill comes back pretty fast. The grenade impacted into my target’s broadside, knocking him off his bike and plastering a few others close by with fragments if their reactions were any indication. I pulled the rifle up to my shoulder, rammed the selector over to full auto, and sprayed in their direction as we drove away, even managing to hit a couple before the rest dove behind cover. I put the rifle back on safe, set it down in the seat next to me, and screamed, “ Fuck you !” out the back window hard enough that I was afraid I might have torn my throat open.