Joshua Gayou - Commune - Book One

We continued on along this narrow track for close to four hundred yards. Towards the end, the wall on the left lowered, disappearing into the ground and the track itself opened up into a large dirt triangle that was around the size of a professional baseball field; the exit point of our little path made up the South West corner. The triangle itself was bisected by the long, sweeping curve of the interchange as it wrapped back around on itself and provided South-bound access to the 6. In the top half of this triangular dirt area just off the highway 6 awaited our stranger as well as a minivan and what looked like a small campsite. There was an easy-up sun shade close by with some chairs positioned beneath it.

We spread out wide to either side of Jake and remained twenty feet behind him; far enough to keep a good field of vision but close enough to swing around in front of him to provide cover if things became violent. For his part, Jake walked deliberately toward the camp, never wavering or hesitating. We moved at a steady four or five mile per hour pace, which is actually a pretty good walking speed but was painfully slow for me as a driver. I instinctively understood the purpose of doing it this way; giving the stranger time to look Jake over and become comfortable to his presence. Unfortunately for me, it had the side effect of making my nerves feel like frayed cables. I stole a glance over at Billy and saw he was doing little better—he was bent over the wheel of the truck trying to choke the life out of it with a death grip.

One hundred feet out from the minivan, Jake extended his palms to us and fanned his hands slightly, telling us to wait there. I applied the brake but did not put the Jeep in park so that I could slam down on the gas instantly if I had to. Jake continued on his path to meet the stranger with his hands extended far out to either side of him. I saw the stranger nod and put his hands out as well. I noticed now that he was a black man, probably around the same age as Billy if not a tad younger, judging by the grey in his thinning hair. He was wearing brown cargo pants and a grey T-shirt with a button collar. Jake walked to within a few feet of him. They both dropped their hands and began to talk.

Both of them looked incredibly stiff during this exchange. Having been in close company with Jake for the past few days, I had become used to his body language and was to a point where I could read his basic moods through those cues fairly well. His arms hung long at his sides without fidgeting, his back was upright, and his head was thrust forward slightly; it was the way the cowboys always stood in the old spaghetti westerns just before having a shootout, only Jake didn’t have any guns. He was playing nice right now, but it was easy for me to see he was ready to get nasty very fast.

In the case of the other man, he held himself stiff and rested his weight on his rear foot with his thumbs looped into his front pockets. His expression was guarded, but he looked Jake directly in the eyes as they talked to each other, which I felt was reassuring. He struck me as a man who was both confident and not in the habit of hiding things.

Presently, the black man gestured back toward the minivan, where I could just make out the silhouette of a head in the passenger window. The sun was low, now, and to my back, throwing a glare and making it hard to see.

Jake nodded and extended his hand to the man, who accepted it while smiling. Jake nodded again to him, released his hand, and walked back in our direction. He positioned himself between our vehicles and spoke to us through our open windows.

“This man has people with him: his son and two others that they picked up on the road. He was out foraging for supplies when he saw us come off the freeway. They would like to trade and exchange news.”

Billy asked: “They seem okay to you?”

“Yes,” Jake said. “Pull up close in a circle around the camp. They have water they can part with. Bullets are the main thing they’re in need of.”

Billy and I both perked up at this; our water supply was getting low enough that we would have to stop soon to find more—not dangerously low but enough that we began to think nervously of the shape we would be in if we suffered a vehicle failure and had to go back to walking. If a trade was successful, we might be able to push all the way through without having to stop for any.

“There’s a kid!” Lizzy said from the back seat.

A boy had exited from the minivan and now stood by the man’s side; his son, I assumed. Billy pulled the truck forward in an arc and drove it around to the side of the easy-up opposite the minivan, parking in the opposing direction while obscuring my view. I swung out left and then made a large U-turn to pull up behind his truck.

The black man waved at me and nodded as I killed the engine. I nodded back and smiled. Smiles were cheap. I sat in the Jeep for an indecisive moment and finally opened my door halfway to speak to him. “I have a rifle here with me. Are we getting off on the wrong foot if I bring it out of the car?”

“No, ma’am. I’ve a rifle here, too. Just another tool we all have to carry, now, like a pocket knife.” He had a good Southern drawl on him, pronouncing words like “anothah” and “carreh.”

I thanked him, pulling the sling over my head and arm. I came out of the Jeep and heard the man chuckle. “What?” I asked as I looked back at him after closing my door.

“I was just thinking: that is one hell of a pocket knife,” he said while pointing at the Tavor. I didn’t know what to say to this, so I just waved for Elizabeth to get out of the Jeep. I walked over to the man with my left hand resting along the top spine of my rifle to keep it from swinging. I extended my right hand to shake.

“I’m Amanda,” I said. “This is my daughter, Elizabeth.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Amanda,” he said as he took my hand. His hands were warm and soft; well cared for. He put his hand out for Elizabeth, who took it shyly. “Pleased to meet the both of you ladies.” He shook with Billy as well, who had just approached (not carrying his shotgun, I noted). “My name is Otis; this here is my son Ben.”

Ben put his hand out to shake each of ours in turn and said either “Sir” or “Ma’am” as he shook each, even to Elizabeth. He was a beautiful young man of maybe eleven or twelve years who very clearly favored his father. He was on a definite path to break hearts one day, assuming he could find any to break.

Billy gave his name belatedly and said, “Jake mentioned you had two others with you?”

“Yeah,” Otis nodded and held his finger up in a wait-one-minute gesture. “They’re a bit skittish. I’ll have ‘em out. Make yourselves at home!” This last was shot out over his shoulder as he went around to the far side of the minivan and slid open the side door. We heard him conversing with those hidden inside behind the tinted glass. I noted Jake was already pulling chairs out of the truck bed and setting them up in a lazy circle opposite to Otis’s.

Presently, Otis came back out from around the minivan with two new people, clearly brother and sister. They looked to be either in their late teens or early twenties.

The girl was pretty in the way that all young people are pretty, with youthful skin, thick, lush hair, and a lean body; however it was clear that as she aged, her larger nose would become prominent if not distracting. Her brother featured the same nose but, with his stronger chin and masculine facial structure, the nose would serve only to add to his appeal in a Clive Owen kind of way as he aged. Any appeal he may have had right then was masked by an obviously sullen attitude. They were sandy-haired and Caucasian.

“This is Robert and Samantha,” Otis offered, coming around to stand behind a chair. They both nodded and said “Hi” but stood well back, neither putting a handout. Otis gestured to the chairs and said, “Please…”