Joshua Gayou - Commune - Book One

“That’s a good sign,” I said and turned the key all the way forward. The engine started right up, smooth as silk, and ran much more quietly than I expected a badass, ruggedized Jeep to be. The fuel gauge needle indicated three-quarters of a tank.

“Jesus, we caught a break,” Billy said as he looked the whole situation over. “It won’t be much for hauling weight, but I don’t think I care. Go ahead and back it out and we’ll go get you topped off.” He began to chuckle. “I’ll be damned—just like that! I guess we were just due for some good luck.”

We had been sitting in the van for a while now, chatting about various things—mostly the kind of things that your average seven-year-old finds to be intensely interesting. A lot of this involved me explaining to her how characters like Big Bird and Kermit were actually the main stars of Sesame Street instead of the supporting cast when I was a kid. It seemed that this had changed and the producers of the show were highlighting characters that skewed more infantile like Elmo, Abby, and Baby Bear.

Our conversation began with her asking me to explain how Chess worked, which ended up being much more difficult than I had imagined. In the end, we decided we needed an actual board in front of us before I could start teaching her the rules to the game—it was just too abstract otherwise.

The conversation had hit a lull, and I was just contemplating getting out of the van to fix us something to eat. I looked over at her and said, “You hungry?”

She looked back toward me and froze. I noticed she was actually looking past me. I turned to look out the side window and saw the barrel of a revolver pointed at my face.

My right hand was resting on my knee about a mile away from the Glock, which was propped up behind my back against the seat. I began the process of moving my hand back toward my hip when I heard a squeak from Lizzy and looked back her way. There was another gun being pointed in through her window as well. I moved my hand back to my knee.

A head began to manifest from the side of the window past Lizzy’s face, so slow that I may have laughed under other circumstances. First an ear, then an eye, half of a nose and mouth. The eye locked onto mine, widened, and the rest of the face came into view quickly after. The face was all beard, greasy dirt smears, and a ratty brown beanie.

“Jake…”

“Calm down,” I said. “Panic will make the outcome certain.”

There was a hard clicking sound on my window. I turned back to see the other man, not all that distinct from the first with the exception of flat, matted down hair in place of a beanie. His other hand came up and beckoned at me. “Out of the van—both of you,” he said, his voice muted through the window.

I had half a moment where I thought of just grabbing the pistol to start shooting, but Elizabeth was halfway out of the van with a gun on her. I reached back and pinched the grip of my gun between thumb and forefinger. I held it up in the window so the man could see it, then opened the door and got out.

“Put it on the ground and back away.”

I complied. He bent over to grab it, craning his head hard to keep me in view while holding the gun in a bizarre position above his head. The more natural way to do it would have been to just squat down over the gun, keeping the torso vertical and thereby keeping me (the target) in sight from a much more natural angle. The guy either had joint issues in the hips or knees or he was just an idiot.

As he straightened up with my gun, I saw Lizzy and the first man moving around the front of the van and back toward the southeast corner of the warehouse building. She was looking at me as she was dragged along by the arm, eyes wide and frightened. I watched her until she disappeared around the building.

I looked back to the man holding the gun on me. “Where is she being taken?”

“Don’t worry about that now. No one will hurt her.”

“What is this about?” A third person was coming out to us now, having emerged from the spot at which Lizzy and Brown Beanie had disappeared a moment ago.

“Keys in the van?” Number three asked. It was a woman.

“I don’t fuckin’ know!” said the man. “Have a look in there. I’m a little busy.”

She opened the door and looked inside. “Bingo,” she said and swung herself up into the seat. She slammed the door, turned the key to start the engine, and rolled the window down.

“I’ll take this back, unload it, and then come back to pick the rest of you up.”

“Yeah, don’t be long, Molly.”

“What are you gonna do with this one?”

He looked at me. “Don’t know yet.”

She gave it a beat and then nodded. “Anyways, I’ll be back after sundown.” She put the van in drive, did a U-turn, and drove it back onto Cross Hollow road. She turned due south and was soon lost to view. All of the artillery from Vegas left with her.

“Is this just about the van; that’s all you want?” I asked.

The guy clenched his teeth. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Well, fine,” I said. “Just let me have the girl back, and you guys can be on your way. Take the van.”

“Nope. Holding onto her ensures you play nice.”

I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit that I felt something like rage at his blithe response. Struggling to keep my voice steady, I said, “Give her back. Either that or plan on killing me.”

“Hey, exactly who the fuck do you think you’re talking to here?” he said. He began to physically expand like a balloon. He took a step closer to me. The gun was a foot away. “The only one making threats around here is the guy with the gun. Me. The fuck is she to you anyway? Daughter?”

I didn’t say anything. I just kept my eyes locked on his.

“Listen, fuckstick,” he shouted, “the way it works is I ask questions and you… fucking… answer them.” As he said the last part, he closed the remaining distance between us and put the barrel up to my forehead.

This felt like as good a time as any. I mentally said ‘screw it’ and went for it. I jerked my head to the right out of the path of the gun. At the same instant, I clapped both hands on his wrist and pushed the gun out to the left. The gun went off well after I had it safely away.

“You fuckin…” he grunted. I didn’t give him any time to fight for control. I pulled him toward me to get him off balance and then swung the gun and his hands in a massive arc over my head, ending with the revolver down by my right knee. His lack of balance plus the speed of my pull meant that he ended up on his back. I planted a foot on his chest and began to bend the revolver backward, rotating it around in his hand to point at him. His finger was bound up in the trigger guard, and he began to growl in pain as I forced it back. I resolved either to break his finger or rip it off and yanked the gun away from him hard.

The gun went off, (which I had not actually intended) the bullet driving into the man’s jaw and blowing out the top of his head. There was a sudden intense and throbbing pain in my right hand (my smart hand); it felt as though someone had driven over it with a car or slammed it in between two massive books. I didn’t understand what the cause was at the time—I guessed it was just the kick of the revolver. Later I would learn how a percentage of the explosive forces of a fired bullet escape out the sides of a revolver in the gap between the cylinder and the barrel; the place around which my right hand was firmly grasping when it discharged. Not having the benefit of this knowledge at the time, I knew only that it hurt terribly and my hand had gone numb shortly after.