Driver 8: A Post-Apocalyptic Novel

by G. Michael Hopf

  Portia leaned in and whispered, “I meant they’re idiots because turning off the electricity doesn’t win allies, it only pisses everyone off. If you want to win the PR battle, you don’t attack all of us.”

  “Oh, yeah, right, of course, I thought the same thing,” Terry agreed.

  “So, how’s the little one?” Portia asked.

  “She’s great, thanks for asking,” Terry replied lowering his head. “Say, when does Driver Eight come home?”

  “In a week,” she answered.

  Terry shook his head. He glanced up, a nervous expression was written all over his face.

  Noticing this, Portia asked, “What is it?”

  “Is there anyway, ahh, God I don’t know how too ask,” Terry said stuttering.

  Portia and Kyle had known Terry for five years and liked him a lot. He was young, married just over a year and now had an infant.

  She came from behind the kitchen bar and stood close to him, “C’mon, tell me. I promise whatever you say will stay with me.”

  “I don’t know if I should,” he said looking around for the location of the camera in their apartment.

  “Is this about Grace?” Portia asked referring to the baby.

  He chuckled awkwardly and rushed towards the sink, “Would you look at that, there’s a bug in there. I better rinse it out.” He turned the water on the way and put the open bottle underneath. He glanced at her and said, “Yes.”

  Catching on, she said loudly, “That reminds me, Drive Eight came home with a CD last run. It’s classical music, someone called Bach.” Portia walked to a CD player at the far end of the kitchen counter and turned it on.

  The sweet and melodic sounds of violins filled the air.

  She looked at Terry and quietly asked, “Is she alright?”

  Pretending to wash the bottles, he replied, “I don’t know, she keeps coughing, like a lot. She won’t stop.”

  “Baby’s cough a lot…I think.”

  “Sometimes she coughs so much she turns blue, like she’s not getting enough air,” he said gripping the bottle tightly.

  Portia suddenly knew what was going on. “You don’t want to take her to the infirmary do you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re afraid they’ll find something wrong with her and then take her away?”

  Sheepishly looking at her, he answered, “Yes.”

  “Give me a day to ask around about what it might be, not being a mother, I’m not quite sure what it is,” she offered.

  “Thank you," he said.

  “Is that what you wanted from Kyle?”

  “I thought, he seems to know everything on account of all his travels. I just figured he might know what it was and maybe had some medicine for it,” Terry confessed.

  “I understand,” she said rubbing his arm to soothe his worries.

  “Listen, I better get going, I have more deliveries,” he said turning the water off.

  She handed him a towel.

  Terry dried the bottles and without saying another word, he hastily turned and left.

  Portia watched him go. When the door closed her heart sank. How sad was it that they were not taking their daughter to the infirmary for fear she’d be banished? She looked at the food but suddenly didn’t have an appetite. Her world felt lopsided, even upside down. While The Number One utilized a firm iron grip over the people, it naturally created an opposition in the form of The Underground, but it seemed to be in equal proportions. For every harsh system put into place by The Number One, The Underground would respond with something as harsh, often resulting in hurting innocents. As the two battled, the majority of people living in Collective Prime were caught in the crossfire, too scared to stand up to Number One to demand reasonable change, but forced to back him by The Underground due to their extremist responses. It was a bloody and now tiresome tug of war with The Underground at a major disadvantage. She turned the music off. How could she listen to something so beautiful after hearing about Terry’s concerns? She stored everything in the refrigerator and went back to getting ready for the day

  ONE MILE EAST OF SALINA, UTAH, ROCKY MOUNTAIN REPUBLIC

  Kyle hit the brakes causing his truck to screech to a full stop inches from a spray-painted sign that read. ENTERING ROCKY MOUNTAIN REPUBLIC.

  It has been years since he’d crossed into the RMR and for a valid reason, he had a bounty on his head there and all because of a simple disagreement which resulted in him killing several of their people.

  The Rocky Mountain Republic was anything but a real republic. Like, The Collective, they were led by a single person, a despot for all intents and purposes. The rule of law was simple, any law that was violated was punishable by death.

  Another trait they shared with The Collective was their heightened state of paranoia. Newcomers weren’t welcome and if you stepped out of line, you’d find yourself hanging from a tree or quartered and fed to hogs. Neither was something Kyle wished upon himself.

  If Number Two and Driver Ten had entered without an invitation and were looking to scavenge, the odds were high they’d been captured and almost immediately hung from the large oak outside of the captiol.

  Kyle sat and thought. What were those two doing here? What possibly could have sent them here? The RMR wasn’t a thriving community compared to The Collective, they didn’t hold anything of significant value, at least that he didn’t know. So, what would make them come here and under what appeared to be the knowledge of Number One?

  To the west, the sun was riding high. Plenty of day left, but he was tired and in need of a proper shower. With that in mind, he decided to make his first stop in the Republic, an old dive bar called The Rusty Nail. It was a place he and other travelers knew well. He hadn’t been there in years and for his sake, he hoped it was still there. The Nail as locals called it, not only offered booze but also hot showers, a welcome treat after being on the road for days straight. Excited about the prospect of cleaning up, he put the truck into gear and sped off.

  SALINA, UTAH, ROCKY MOUNTAIN REPUBLIC

  Though it had been years since he’d ridden these last few miles towards Salina, the turns and bends soon felt familiar. After making the last S curve, the dim lights of The Rusty Nail came into view.

  Is it still open? He thought as he pulled into the half empty parking lot. It is! He found a space near the back and parked. He turned off the engine and stared through the windshield at the faded horizontal wood planks that made up the siding of the establishment. A chuckle came out of him as he thought of how predictable mankind was. Hundreds of nuclear warheads had destroyed civilization. Gone were every retail and commercial business ever created, but one, the bar. Yes, people could find small roadside markets selling wares, but only things of necessity had value except one, booze. No one needed alcohol, but never the less, here was a bar, still standing after years. Why? Because everyone needed a good drink, sometimes.

  Kyle was happy to see the place, but before he could partake in a much-needed libation. He needed to prep his truck. He placed a boot on the front tire, popped the hood, removed the battery and a spark plug and lastly, removed several fuses. Of course, none of this prevented someone from still attempting to break in so he also planned on paying the Rusty Nail’s security guard posted near the back.

  “How much?” Kyle asked the guard.

  The old man looked Kyle up and down and replied, “Nice looking rig you got there.”

  “How much?” Kyle repeated.

  “Where does someone get a rig like that?”

  “I saved up for it. How much to keep an eye on it?”

  The old man’s eyes widened. “Something tells me you’re a long way from home.”

  “Am I confused or are you not the Nail’s lot guard,” Kyle asked sarcastically.

  The man spit, wiped his mouth, leaving tiny black particles from his chewing tobacco along his

  chin and answered, “That’s my job.”

  “Good, then how much?”
<
br />   “I don’t take republic dollars. In fact I don’t take any bullshit currency. What do you have of real value?” the old man cackled.

  Kyle tore his backpack off, unzipped the top button, pulled out a large can of tuna and held it out.

  The old man gave Kyle an odd look and asked, “What’s that?”

  Kyle furrowed his brow and returned his question with one. “You can’t see, can you?”

  “I can damn well see, it’s just getting’ dark out here,” the old man grumbled.

  Kyle laughed and said, “I have the perfect thing for you.” He put the can away, dug into a side

  pocket and pulled out two pairs of bifocals. “Here try them on.”

  The old man grumbled something unintelligible under his breath and snatched the glasses from

  Kyle’s hand. He brought them close to his face and examined them.

  “Go ahead, try them on,” Kyle said with a smile.

  The old man put on the first pair, blinked repeatedly and looked around. He grumbled and donned the second. He looked up at Kyle and asked, “Where’s that can?”

  “In my pack,” Kyle answered.

  “Let me see it,” the old man barked.

  Kyle gave it to him.

  The old man held it at arm’s length and read, “Tuna in olive oil, hmm.” He spit out some chew, gazed over the lens at Kyle and said, “I’ll take these.”

  “Deal,” Kyle said reaching for the tuna.

  “And this,” the old man said holding the can tight to his chest.

  Kyle cocked his head and said, “Then you better doubly watch my rig. Anything happens, I’ll skin you alive with this.” Kyle tipped his head towards the sheath knife on his hip.

  “That’s a good-looking blade you got there. Looks legit, what kind”

  “A Jake Hoback, got it years ago.”

  “I’ll take that instead of these glasses,” the old man said taking the glasses off his face.

  “No, we made our deal.”

  The old man grunted. “Fine. And don’t you worry. Your truck will be fine,” the old man said as he nodded to his hip.

  Kyle looked and saw the man had a Model 1911 holstered. He laughed and said, “With those glasses, you’ll be able to see what you’re shooting at.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll have you know…”

  “Listen…what’s your name?”

  “Conrad.”

  “Listen, Conrad, I’m tired and in need of a hot shower, we can chat later,” Kyle continued and turned away to walk in. He took two steps and stopped when he saw the large sign posted on the door.

  NO FIREARMS. CHECK THEM WITH THE GUARD

  Kyle turned and declared, “I’m not checking anything.”

  “Those are the rules.”

  Knowing how the world worked, Kyle pulled out two more cans of tuna and offered them to the old man.

  “How do I know these cans aren’t hot,” Conrad asked referring to radiation.

  “They’re not.”

  “Regardless, I can’t be bought,” Conrad said.

  “Fine, I’m over this bullshit,” Kyle said. He shoved the cans back in his back, ripped the glasses off Conrad’s face and hurried back towards his truck.

  “Hold on, hold on!” Conrad called out.

  Kyle stopped but didn’t turn around.

  “Give me the glasses and those extra cans. I didn’t see a thing,” Conrad said nodding towards the back door.

  Hearing what he wanted to hear, Kyle whipped around, gave everything back to Conrad and stepped inside. He was instantly greeted by the sweet smell of marijuana. Tobacco was just about impossible to get, but marijuana was easily grown indoors with limited space, making it a perfect crop and replacement for tobacco. He waved his hand in front of his nose and pushed his way past a menagerie of interesting looking characters until he reached the bar. He looked at his reflection in the large mirror that stretched the length of the wall behind the bar.

  A potbellied man strutted over and asked in a raspy voice, “Whatcha drinking?”

  “Rye whiskey,” Kyle answered.

  The bartender reached behind, grabbed a half full clear bottle and placed it in front of Kyle with a small glass. “You look like you need more than just a single drink.”

  “That bad, huh?” Kyle asked rubbing his fingers through his thick dark stubble.

  “Name is Frank, I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” Frank said.

  “Passing through,” Kyle replied.

  “We don’t get too many passing through, mostly locals is all,” Frank said.

  “Why?”

  “On count of the proclamation.”

  “What proclamation?” Kyle asked before tossing back the entire glass of whiskey. “Ahh, that’s good stuff, you distill that yourself?”

  “Yep, in the back,” Frank said.

  “Pour me another?” Kyle said sliding his glass towards Frank. “And tell me about this proclamation.”

  Frank poured another double and answered, “The president declared all cross-border trade shut down until further notice.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows, that fat fuck always makes overreaching proclamations. Many ignore, but the word has spread around enough that we get only a small percentage of the traders coming in now.”

  “I’m sure he had good reason,” Kyle said and tossed back his second drink.

  “Will you be needing a room?”

  “Rooms, you have rooms to rent now?” Kyle asked surprised to hear of that amenity.

  “Yes sir, when I took over management of this place I put in about seven rooms. It’s not the Ritz but they have clean sheets. I rent them by the hour.”

  “Tempting but all I need is a shower,” Kyle said.

  “Well we have you covered, we have six showers. I believe they’re all open, so take your pick.”

  “How much?”

  “We deal in Republic dollars,” Frank replied referring to the standard currency of the RMR. He looked both ways, leaned over the bar and whispered, “But if you have anything of value, I’ll take that instead.”

  “You need food?” Kyle offered.

  “I’m good with food. I could use some batteries but I could really use some sanitary wipes if you have any. You know the wet wipes that you use to wipe baby’s asses with would be perfect.”

  “I don’t have any, but I do have the little individual packaged ones. The little square ones,” Kyle said using his hands to show the size.

  “That’ll work, how many you got?”

  “A pack of five hundred,” Kyle replied.

  Frank held out his hand, “You got yourself one hot shower and two drinks.”

  Kyle took his hand and shook it. “Deal.”

  “So, will you be needing some company?”

  “No. But maybe you can help me find someone.”

  “Who might that be?” Frank asked, a curious look on his face.

  “Two men, one a driver with The Collective and his partner. They’re in their late twenties.”

  “Nope, sorry, I haven’t seen a driver from The Collective in here, ever."

  “Know anyone who might be in the know?”

  “Say who are you anyway, some sort of marshal?” Frank asked referencing the republics wandering law enforcement members.

  “I’m no one, just looking for my friends.”

  Frank nodded and asked, “You sure you won’t need any company? We have some real tight pussy here.”

  Kyle gave Frank an odd look and asked, “Just a shower, nothing more.”

  Frank laughed and said, “If you change your mind, let me know. I’ve got more than a few girls just waiting in the back.”

  “You’re running hookers out of here? Boy this place is sure different than it was ten or so years ago.”

  Frank leaned in and whispered loudly, “We even have some young ones if that’s your speed.”

  Kyle froze. His grip tightened around the glass.

  “Si
nce we don’t get too much traffic and you seem like a nice guy, I’ll give you a discount on one of the young ones, they’re coveted by some of the locals on the count of being tight,” Franks snorted.

  “These young ones, they yours or your bosses?”

  “I am the boss, this is my joint.”

  “You don’t say,” Kyle said.

  “Yep, took over management a few years back. The old owner had a run in with a bureaucrat from Logan,” Frank proudly said.

  A large green door opened to the far right of the bar. Moans, whimpers and cries came from the dimly lit hallway beyond.

  Kyle could feel rage building inside him. He knew prostitution made a roaring come back not long after the bombs dropped. What turned him off was the human trafficking, and child sex slave trade that blossomed in the power vacuum quickly after the United States government fell. How quickly mankind reverted to their old barbaric ways.

  “What you say?” Frank said.

  “If I did want something else, do I get it down that hall?” Kyle asked pointing to the green door.

  “Yep, pussy to the right, showers and sleeping to the left,” Frank replied.

  Kyle glanced to his left and saw a red door. “Why are the doors painted different colors?”

  “That’s the way the place came,” Frank chuckled. “I have no damn idea. I should paint that one pink. Huh, what do you think?”

  Kyle didn’t reply, he stood and stared at Frank.

  Feeling uneasy, Frank asked, “You look…tense. You sure you don’t need a massage or something.”

  “Just a shower,” Kyle replied tossing the whiskey back.

  The green door opened and out stepped a young girl, no older than eleven. She wore a tube top and a min-skirt. Her tender face was covered in bruises and smeared make up.

  The sight of the girl boiled Kyle’s blood.

  She made her way over to a group of older men.

  Kyle watched her and the group exchange. One of the men grabbed her and pulled her close, he ran his hand up her skirt. That was enough for him, he put his glass down, turned and took a few steps before stopping when he heard the distinct and unmistakable sound, the action of a pump shotgun. He craned his head back and saw Frank pointing what looked like a Remington 870 at him.