Joshua Gayou - Commune - Book One

I retrieved my Glock and patted the man down, finding nothing useful outside of a nearly empty cigarette pack and lighter. I kept the lighter.

I ran to the wall of the warehouse, stuffing the hand murdering revolver into my back pocket. I fumbled the Glock into my left hand. As I made my way along the wall to the corner, I shook my right hand vigorously and rubbed it on my leg, trying to get some feeling back into it. I looked down at my palm. There was no permanent damage that I could see, but there was a black line running along the padding of the inside knuckle joints peppered with numerous black specks. I flexed it several times. It moved the way I wanted it to. Feeling was coming back slowly but only pins and needles so far. I contemplated holding the pistol in my left but soon abandoned that idea. I trusted my right hand with reduced feeling better than my left with clumsy mobility.

I peeked around the corner of the wall and, seeing no one there; put my head out far enough to see that there was a door leading into the warehouse at the corner opposite mine. There was also another building extending further south that seemed to be attached to this one. I suffered a moment of indecision: take the door or continue searching along the outside of the building? If I was wrong, I could end up burning a lot of time on a fruitless search while Lizzy was taken further out of reach. I was also well aware that standing there would eventually result in the same outcome. I decided to flip a mental coin and take the door.

As I entered, I heard a voice close by say, “Had to shoot him, huh?” I put eyes on the speaker—it was Beanie guy. “Oh, shhh-!”

I shot him twice in the chest. He leaned back into some vertical storage racks, alternating between looking at me and looking at his chest with a very confused expression on his face. I shot him in the forehead and made my way deeper into the shop floor.

To my right were roll-up doors leading out to loading docks. Some of them were opened, allowing light into the area and making it possible to see rather well. There were a number of line machines arranged at regular intervals along a mirror smooth concrete floor covered in dust. Ringing the line machines were more storage racks loaded with various kinds of packaging material; rolls of plastic and cellophane, small black plastic containers and clear plastic lids. They all looked to me like little single-serving food containers.

I scanned the area, which appeared to lack any other people besides me and the man I had just shot. On the far side of the room, there was a dividing wall anchored to a huge glulam beam spanning the warehouse. From the columns I could see running vertically down the length of the wall, I assumed the wall was structural.

I went through the door without even slowing down. This new room was much darker; anything I could see was only shapes and shadows. I had the impression of more storage racks. I fumbled in my pocket for the lighter and started thumbing the wheel. I don’t remember anything immediately after that moment.

The next thing I remember was an all-consuming, throbbing ache in the back of my head, demanding attention and lifting me up into consciousness. The more awake I was, the more it hurt. I groaned and tried to find my way back to sleep.

“There, see? He’s coming around. I told you I didn’t kill him.”

Now in chorus with the ache in the back of my head, there came a familiar throb and pressure centered at my sinuses. I found it was impossible to breathe except through an open mouth. Tremendous. Someone had smashed my nose in again.

I levered my eyes open and was met with the low light of a gas lantern. We were in some kind of office, the walls on two sides (to my left and ahead of me) housing large picture windows looking out onto the shop floor. I was hunched over in a rolling chair with my hands bound behind me. I looked up and had to fight through a wave of nausea as the room tilted on its side. I ground my teeth while I waited for the feeling to subside.

“Jake!” I heard Lizzy call from somewhere ahead of me. I looked out and squinted. She looked shorter than she should have been and her body looked wrong; it was reflecting the light of the lantern in strange patterns. I was confused. Clothing is not typically reflective.

I looked around and just made out three other people; a woman and two men. I couldn’t tell for sure if it was the same woman who drove away with our van but I thought this was a new person I hadn’t seen before. About all I could tell from the low light and my swimming vision was female, neither young nor old. The two men were a mystery; I had killed all of the men I had encountered so far.

“Easy, there, fella. I hit you pretty hard,” one of the men said.

I tried to speak, coughed, and then spit out angrily, “The fuck is going on here?”

“Whoa, whoa,” the woman said indignantly. “You just killed two of ours, buddy. Maybe you want to rethink your tone.”

“Killed two that were stealing my van! Drug the girl off to God knows where. What did you expect? High-fives and fist bumps?”

There was silence for a few beats. Finally, she said, “Donny, cut his hands loose.”

“The fuck you say?” exclaimed someone (presumably Donny).

“Cut him loose, damn it. You have him covered with guns from two different directions. Look at him; he can barely breathe.”

I had my head down again as it was taking a lot of energy to keep it up and the strain along the back of my neck was aggravating the migraine. I saw a pair of feet in sneakers come around from the side and move behind me. There was a sharp tug at my wrists, and then my hands were free. I was able to sit up fully.

I sat up too fast and was struck by another wave of vertigo. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. When I opened my eyes again things were better. I looked around and noted that this was definitely a different woman than the one who had driven off with the Ford. I looked over at Lizzy and saw that she had been shrink-wrapped to a chair.

“Look, about your van? I’m truly sorry about that. Our people need what you’re carrying. This was a simple case of you versus us.”

“Again, if you want the van, take the van. You’re welcome to it. Let me and the girl leave.”

“Well, that’s a problem, isn’t it? Is she your daughter?”

“No.”

“I see. Well, what are you doing with her?”

I started to see where this was going. Though I hated to admit it, I understood where she was coming from. I was in her same position only a few days ago when Billy and I were deciding what to do about Amanda and her situation. Was she dealing with someone who needed saving or someone who was where they wanted to be? Unfortunately, I could also tell by looking at her that she had already made up her mind. I don’t know why she bothered to continue talking to me.

“She’s my friend. I’m watching her until her mother gets back.” It sounded lame, and I knew it.

“Your friend.” Statement not question.

“That’s right.”

“You want me to believe someone your age is lugging around this little kid because you enjoy her company?”

“Ask her, why don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, I could. But how do I know you haven’t coached her? How do I know you haven’t frightened her into telling me whatever you want her to say?”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, which also hurt miserably, by the way. “You’re right, lady. When we woke up this morning, just after I finished doing unspeakable things with her, I told her, ‘okay, here’s your story just in case we get ambushed by a really suspicious broad and a crew of gun-wielding henchmen! Listen up now…’ Are you insane? In what god damned universe does that sound even remotely plausible?”