Driver 8: A Post-Apocalyptic Novel

CHAPTER 1

Kyle stared at the shadows imprinted on the concrete wall. Who were they? Did they feel anything or was it over in the flash of a second? He asked himself as he reached out and touched the darkened marks. These weren’t the first shadows he’d seen and they wouldn’t be his last, but each time he wondered. How could something do that? He recalled reading the stories about Nagasaki and Hiroshima and how people’s shadows there were sheered onto walls and sidewalks. It’s one thing to read about something, quite another to witness it with your own eyes.

A strong wind whipped past him. He turned and looked out on the barren and dead landscape. In all directions, for as far as the eye could see, a once great forest lay flattened, its trees lay like blackened matchsticks. What had taken nature generations to grow, man had destroyed in a matter of seconds.

Kyle enjoyed his solo runs into The Wastes, it was always dangerous, but there he could find peace amongst the remnants of war. Today marked the furthest he’d ventured in The Wastes, in fact, he had the record now and would no doubt hold it for some time as the other drivers didn’t like the runs here and knew Kyle was always available to take theirs if they didn’t want to go. They preferred to stay on relative easy terrain, avoiding any area near where a major city once stood.

He stepped onto the shattered foundation of the house. His eyes darted around until he spotted what he was looking for…a stairway that led to a basement. Other drivers often overlooked basements. Not Kyle. They tended to be undisturbed treasure troves for scavenging. A pile of debris, mostly the charred remains of the house, blocked the stairway. Methodically, he pulled one piece after another out of the way, being careful not to puncture or tear a hole in his hazmat suit. Patience was his friend and thankfully he had it. In The Wastes, one moved and acted differently. Rushing often led to mistakes and in this environment, mistakes could be fatal.

Once the stairway was free and clear, he proceeded down only to stop at the bottom. A large metal fire door stood in his way. He reached down and turned the knob. Fortunately for him, it was unlocked. He turned the knob and pushed the door but it didn’t open. He put his weight against it and shoved.

The door cracked followed by a gush of air. That signaled to him this room hadn’t been accessed in years, maybe even since the day the war started. Kyle stepped back. He pulled out a flashlight and pushed the door fully open. He shined the light across the room before entering and confirmed what he surmised, no one had been down here for a very long time. The room was a snap shot out of time, all preserved under a thick layer of dust. Deciding it was safe, he entered.

His first observation of the basement was that it had been used as living space. In the far corner to his right, a sectional couch sat. On the wall in front of it hung a fifty-inch flat screen television. To the right of that he spotted a pool table.

He cast the beam to the left. There he spotted a washer and dryer with clothes still dangling from a clothesline that spanned from a large support beam to the wall.

Kyle beelined it for the washer and dryer. He grabbed a large basket and began to pile in the bleach and detergents. He paused just before pulling the clothes off the line.

“Let’s make sure you’re clean,” he said out loud. From a utility belt, he removed the wand from his Geiger counter, flipped on the device and waved it just an inch above the fabric. “Hmm, no discernable radiation. Excellent.” Happily, he pulled every stich of clothing from the line and placed it in the basket.

Next to the washer, a large metal storage cabinet teased him. He opened the doors to find a motherlode. Batteries, lightbulbs, towels, paper towels and one of the most coveted items, toilet paper. He emptied the cabinet leaving only a small box of finger nail polish. Just before walking away, he stopped, turned back around and took the box of polish. He shoved it into the basket.

After inspecting the left side, he went to the right. The first thing he did was remove the batteries from the remote controls.

He opened a small media console but found nothing of value.

In his excitement, he had started to work up a sweat as beads began to form on his forehead. Outside of tearing your suit, nothing was worse than your visor steaming over and making it impossible to see.

He glanced at his watch. Two hours until nightfall. He had lost track of time. He’d never make it back to the eastern boundary of The Collective and he wasn’t about to take the chance driving at night.

With no urgency to leave. He decided to camp in the basement and leave first thing in the morning. He stepped back and plopped down on the couch.

A cloud of dust rose around him.

On the coffee table, he saw a stack of magazines. He picked the top one up, a copy of WOMEN’S HEALTH and dusted it off. He chuckled as he read the cover: LOSE TEN FOR THAT HOT SUMMER BODY. “Losing ten isn’t quite the problem it was back then,” he laughed. TRY THE GLUTEN FREE VEGAN LIFESTYLE FOR A HEALTHIER YOU! He burst out laughing because after the bombs dropped, he hadn’t met one person who was gluten intolerant or vegan.

Taking a needed break to cool down, he skimmed through the magazine, his thick rubber gloves sticking and tearing the fragile pages. Losing interest, he tossed it aside. He leaned back and exhaled deeply. Curious as to what lied further back in the dark reaches of the basement, he aimed his light in that direction.

The light scattered the murkiness.

He slowly traced the back area, stopping when he saw something. He got up and walked over.

There lying on the floor, in a circle, were the skeletal remains of four people. Once more he asked himself who they might be.

Strictly by the size, two appeared to be children and two adults. If this was a family, then whose shadows were seared into the concrete retaining wall above? Grandparents? Neighbors? Friends?

His light settled on a thick, pink covered book lying next to a small skeleton. He bent down, picked it up and dusted it off. MIA’S DIARY, was written on the front. He glanced back down. “Hi Mia. Do you mind if I read your diary? I promise, I won’t tell, I’m just curious what happened to you.” Pausing as if expecting a response, he stood. After a moment, he turned and went back to the couch.

Getting comfortable once more, he opened the book to the date the bombs rained down, or as the Number One, his leader, called it, THE REBOOT. The Number One, coined the name after having spent his life as a computer programmer. He’d preach that THE REBOOT, was a good thing for humanity which always resulted in Kyle rolling his eyes. How could the death of billions be a good thing?

Kyle found the page he was looking for and read.

August 19. I should be getting ready to go to the movies, but instead, I’m stuck in the basement with my annoying sister and my parents. Someone on the television just said that bombs, nuclear bombs, have landed back east. Dad says we will be fine. That Denver isn’t really a target. I admit I’m scared but I’m also irritated. Does this mean I’ll miss the End of Summer Dance? I can’t. Today was the day I was going to ask Hudson. Why is this happening? I hate my life.

Kyle looked over and flashed the light on Mia. “Sorry you missed your dance.” He frowned and continued reading.

Mom is freaking out and Dad won’t stop pacing. I hope Nana and Papa get here soon. Dad was able to reach them but now the phones don’t work, even my texts have stopped. My sister is crying. I feel bad for her….a little.

The television just stopped working and the power went out. I’m using the light coming from the window to see. I’m officially scared. What is going on?

Kyle paused and said, “The end of the world, sweetheart, the end of the world.”

A bright flash just lit the basement. Mom is sitting next to me holding Olivia, she won’t stop crying. The ground is rumbling, shak…..

Needing to know what she looked like, Kyle skimmed through the book to find a photo. Nothing. The invention of the smartphone made it easier to take pictures, but no one seemed to print them. An entire generation’s worth of photographic history was essentially lost because of THE REBOOT.

August 21. I don’t know why I’m writing in this. No one will ever read it. Dad keeps saying we will be fine, but Mom says otherwise. After the rumbling two days ago, Dad went to go see what happened. He came back right away. Says the house is gone. Knocked down. He says the basement saved our lives. The only window on the back was cracked but didn’t shatter. Dad says all we need to do is wait, that the police or firemen will come soon to help.

Kyle shook his head and thought, How sad.

August 25. Olivia died last night. The rest of us are sick. Dad keeps saying that soon the police or government will come to help. Mom and him argue all the time. I know Dad is lying. He just doesn’t want us to be worried. I’m scared. I don’t want to die. Why did this happen?

Kyle flipped the page. It was blank, he flipped to another only to find it blank as well. He thumbed the remaining pages of the diary. Nothing. August 25^th was her last entry. She must have died right after, no doubt from radiation poisoning, he thought.

He put the book on the coffee table and looked over at the family. “I’m sorry this happened to you.” He settled into the couch and closed his eyes. Thoughts of Mia and her family popped into his head. He imagined the dad, scared for his family but helpless. For a parent that most certainly had to be the worst emotion to have. As he dove deeper into thought, he slipped off into sleep.

A loud clang came from above.

Kyle opened his eyes but he was submerged in pure darkness. Night had come and brought with it the pitch black.

Shuffling and unintelligible chatter came from the top of the stairway.

He sat up just enough to so his arm could get over the back of the couch. He then slid his hand down and removed his semi-automatic pistol from its holster. He raised and pointed it in the direction of the door.

Footfalls and more chatter came from the stairs, just beyond the door.

Whoever it was, they were coming downstairs and would soon be greeted by a volley of forty-five caliber bullets. In The Wastes, one always shot before asking. For a second, he wondered if it was another driver, but quickly dashed that thought. He was the only driver willing to go out this far. This had to be Generates, a wandering band of nomadic cannibals who lived on the outskirts of the habitable zones. They were hellish to look at but one should never mistake their appearance for abilities. Their name was derived from the worddegenerate and over time they came to be known simply as Generates.

The door knob jiggled.

Kyle held the pistol steady.

The door flew open.

Not hesitating, Kyle squeezed the trigger rapidly.

A scream came, followed by the distinct sound of something heavy falling to the floor.

Kyle paused.

The patter of feet and yelling reverberated from the stairs, but the sounds were growing faint. Whoever it was, they were fleeing.

Kyle stood, turned on his flashlight and directed the beam towards the open doorway. There he saw a boy lying in a small pool of blood. He raced over, stopping more than an arm’s length away.

The boy, no older than fifteen, lifted his head and groaned, “Help me.”

Kyle looked at him and shook his head. He was amazed that Generates would venture this far into The Wastes and without any form of protection from the radiation that still lingered. “Idiots.”

The boy reached out with a quivering hand. “Help, please.”

Kyle cocked his head and for a moment considered helping but stopped when he saw the necklace the boy was wearing. “Who ever imagined ears would be a fashion statement.” The boy’s necklace was nothing more than a thick piece of twine but what hung on it gave a clear picture of Generates and their habits. A single ear was taken as a trophy from every human a Generate would kill. Kyle knelt down and said, “If I just look at you without knowing anything about your kind, I see a teenage boy. A boy crying for help, needy, and scared.”

The boy coughed heavily and spit out a considerable amount of blood. “Please.”

“I count, um, four ears. Wow, you’ve killed four people, good for you. Tell me, do you throw parties when you hit a certain number?” Kyle mocked.

Coughing louder, the boy cried, “Help.”

“You know something I will help,” Kyle said reaching out and dragging the boy close. He cradled the boy’s head in his lap, placed one hand under his chin and the other on the top of his head. “There are two different types of help. There’s helping someone else and there’s helping yourself. I’m gonna help myself as I know your people will be back soon and in greater numbers,” he said and twisted hard, snapping the boys neck. Showing disdain, he tossed the boy’s lifeless body onto the floor and stood. He got up, grabbed the basket and raced up the stairs towards his truck.

The first thing he did when he reached the truck was open the hood and reconnect the battery and the two spark plugs he always removed when parking overnight. It was a small precaution he took so no one would steal his truck. Without a truck, he couldn’t be a driver and if he wasn’t a driver, he wouldn’t be able to support himself and his wife, Portia. It could be said that his truck, a 2016 Ford-150 Raptor, was his life blood, because it was.

Driving at night was something he tried to never do but he had no choice. He fired up the 3.5 liter, V-6 engine, put it in drive and slammed on the accelerator. The tires spun, spit rocks, then gripped the surface and lunged forward. He pulled the wheel hard, turned left and exited the driveway.

“Driver Eight, come in, over,” the radio crackled.

Shocked that his truck mounted ham radio worked this far out, made him hesitate to pick it up.

“Driver Eight, come in, over.”

He took the hand mike and replied, “Go for driver eight.”

“Where the hell have you been?” a man barked.

“Doing my job. I’m out of area, you know that,” Kyle answered.

“We’ve been trying to reach you for over six hours.”

Annoyed, Kyle asked, “Is there a reason you’re radioing me?” Silence. “Well?” Kyle asked.

“It’s Number Two, he’s missing. He was with Driver Ten.”

“You do know I’m in The Wastes near Denver? I’m a solid three-day drive away.” No reply. “You there?” Kyle asked.

“We think…” the man said before another voice came on the radio. “This is Number one, my son is missing. I’m ordering you to go to look for him.”

“Sir, I’m in The Wastes, nowhere near Driver Ten’s route which was west towards…” Kyle said but was interrupted.

“They’re somewhere in Salina,” Number One said.

“Salina, like Rocky Mountain Republic, Salina?” Kyle asked.

“Yes.”

“They’re in Rocky Mountain Republic territory? Why would they go there?” Kyle asked confused.

“Pay no matter,” Number one said.

“Like I said, I’m a good three to four day’s drive from there,” Kyle said.

“Go find him,” Number One ordered.

“Sir, hasn’t he done this before?” Kyle asked. It was true, Number Two, had disappeared other times, only to pop up a day or so later. This must be different, so Kyle pressed. “How long has he been gone?”

“Three days out of contact ,” One said.

“Can you tell me why they were going there? It might help.”

“No, I can’t, but you know Two, he does these sort of things, but I fear he might have gotten himself into some trouble this time,” Number One said.

“Nothing, sir? A clue might help me.”

“Driver Eight, how long you been driving for me and The Collective?”

It was an odd question. In fact, merely having a conversation with Number One was odd. “Eighteen years now,” Kyle answered.

“If you’ll remember, I found you lying on the side of the road half dead.”

“I remember,” Kyle said, his thoughts going back to that day many years ago. It was day he’d never forget and the reason he ended up becoming a driver.

“I’ve been good to you and your wife. Be good to me. Consider this a personal favor,” Number One beseeched.

“Fair enough.”

“And Driver Eight?” Number One said, his tone becoming steely.

“Yes.”

“Don’t come back empty handed.”