Joshua Gayou - Commune - Book One

“I thought you said this stuff was horrible?” I asked.

“Yap, just making sure, though. Want some more?”

“Yes, please,” I said while holding out my cup.

“Alright, now the last time I looked up the numbers on this was because I was giving a presentation to the council on this subject in relation to violent crime and some local initiatives to get our youth off the streets—early intervention…that kind of thing. In the whole of the United States, there were two-point-three million people in lock up. That’s everyone: local, state, and federal prisons both convicted and not convicted. Keep in mind; those aren’t all killers. A lot of them were drugs, burglary, assault, and so on.”

“So that means that Grossman’s two percent estimate is a little high versus what reality actually is. The bottom line is that most people have a hard time killing other people without walking away from it psychologically damaged.”

“Are you saying I’m experiencing PTSD?” I asked.

“I’m nowhere near qualified to make that kind of diagnosis,” Billy said seriously. “I am saying that we were in the process of learning that the symptoms of PTSD were much more normal and natural than anyone in history was previously willing to admit. I am also saying that this new world that we find ourselves in is a lot more like what our Neolithic ancestors experienced. Killing is going to become normal again and will become easy if we let it be so. I believe it’s going to be important for all of us to understand that and to understand the psychological impacts that killing has on the killer, especially what happens to a person when they become numb to the act. We need to understand all that if there’s to be any hope of holding onto what little society we have left and not devolving into a bunch of shitheads. Given enough exposure, a human can become used to anything. That’s just basic brain chemistry.”

We both took sips from our cups and exhibited various levels of distaste for the contents.

“So…” I began, looking into my cup at nothing in particular, “what does Mr. Grossman say about coping?”

“He said that mental processing of the killing happens in stages. The killing itself is typically an automatic response, as in something you don’t even think about at the time. Following that is the elation or euphoria you described. Later there is a period of remorse to work through and, if you’re lucky, this will be followed by rationalization and acceptance. Working through these issues, you’ll come to realize that you have a natural, God-given right to defend yourself and the lives of your loved ones, which is what you did today.”

“So I’m doing the remorse phase right now, huh?”

“More or less.”

“How long do these stages last?”

“It’s different for everyone. Some people don’t even make it all the way through to acceptance.” He turned to face me. “The important thing to remember is that you’re not alone. We’re all going through this; learning how to deal with it. We’re here with you, and we’re here for you.”

I reached out to squeeze his forearm. It was thicker than I expected it to be. “Thanks,” I said. “How about you? Are you working through all of this okay?”

“Am,” he confirmed. “But, I regret to report that sleep patterns will most likely continue to be affected. Can’t say for how long. I’m pretty new to the whole thing myself.”

I became mildly curious as to how many people Billy had killed since he’d been on the road but didn’t bother asking. It seemed like a pointless and idiotic question.

“Ow…”

I woke up the next morning to (or maybe I was awakened by) the sound of Jake just outside our tent signaling his discomfort with a flat and emotionless “ow.” I was disoriented at first. Billy had eventually turned in for a few hours the night before while I stayed outside working through my problems. Sometime later, I heard him moving around inside the tent. He came back out, smacking his lips, and told me to go get some sleep. I was finally able to by then (the whiskey had helped) and I don’t remember very much past laying down that second time. I don’t know what time it was when I did go to sleep, but it seemed to me that I had slept only an instant before the sound of Jake’s voice had me up again.

Lying on my back, I reached out with my right hand, ran it over slippery, cold nylon, and felt an elbow. Elizabeth was still there with me asleep in her bag. I rolled onto my left side and saw the Tavor. Satisfied that all was as I had left it, I sat up, grabbed the rifle, checked the safety, and exited the tent.

Billy and Jake were just outside. They were both sitting in chairs facing each other, with Jake’s hand resting on Billy’s knee. In front of Billy on the ground was a small box with a blue bottle of disinfectant and some bloody cotton swabs. Billy was working on the back of Jake’s hand with a hook needle, needle-nose pliers, and some black suture thread.

“Morning, boys,” I said.

“Hey, Little Sis.”

“Good mor-ning!” Jake said as a new stitch was begun.

“Anything for breakfast?” I asked.

“Sure,” Billy said. “Have a look in the pantry.”

I went to the truck bed, which was looking a lot emptier this morning. I realized Billy must have redistributed some items over to the Jeep, which surprised me because I hadn’t heard anything; I must have really been out. I noticed the gun bag was gone, but many of the infamous plastic bins were still there. He must have picked these up sometime after he met Jake but he’d had them for as long as I knew him. They were large, plastic containers about two foot by three foot—the basic three-gallon bins that you could find at just about any home store. Billy had a few of these all labeled in black Sharpie as though they were areas in a house. There was one that said “kitchen,” another that said “tool shed,” and even one that said “bathroom,” which is where he kept items like the toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, and toilet paper. He’d even managed to pack away different brands of deodorant in this container.

Such things may seem trivial in a survival situation, but I’m here to tell you: we were all grateful Billy had the sense to grab these items when he saw them. We were all pretty close in together at various points of our day to day lives and the ability to not smell like animals was a real bonus. It made it a lot easier for us all to get along. You don’t spend much time thinking about something as basic as a stick of deodorant, but just try going without it for a few days. When your pits start maintaining a base layer of greasy sweat (if they’re not just dripping outright), a speed stick becomes the only thing you can think about.

I pulled the lid off the bin marked “pantry” and dug around in it. The MRE rations were starting to get low, mostly because (I suspected) they were just so convenient. All we had to do was mix in a little water to get that chemical heater fired up, and in a few minutes, the food was ready to go. Even if some of the meals tasted like boiled cardboard, it was hard to argue with. I pulled out a bag of Maple Sausage breakfast.

“Can I get you two anything?” I asked over my shoulder.

“Nah. We both ate already. You go ahead, Little Sis.”

There was a jug of water on the ground by the guys, probably used to clean Jake’s wound. “Can I steal some of that?” I asked. Billy nodded; he was bent nearly double over Jake’s hand while tying a knot. I got my food pack set up, leaned it against a rock, and claimed a chair (two additional chairs had been put out for when Lizzy and I finally woke up). I messed around with the positioning of the rifle in my lap; it dangled on its sling much more comfortably than it rested on my legs in a narrow chair.