Driver 8: A Post-Apocalyptic Novel

CHAPTER 2

Portia Grant stared blindly out the window and waited for the dreaded sirens to stop blaring. Each morning, exactly at six, sirens around town would come to life followed by a monotone announcement that the third shift was ending and the first was just beginning.

Life in The Collective focused on productivity and what a better way to ensure everyone was reminded was the use of daily sirens and constant announcements.

She yawned and stretched, her right arm reaching far across to an empty and cold spot where Kyle slept. Unfortunately, that spot stayed empty more than not. Being a driver put Kyle on the road a lot. He played a vital role in The Collective and had been one of the first drivers drafted. She tried to pressure him to stay and he could if he used his seniority, but he’d resist and go. Many times doing so even when it wasn’t his shift. She missed him, but told herself the long absences were justified, with great sacrifice came great privilege and being the wife of a driver did bring privilege.

Her thoughts went to their last conversation just a few nights before. He told her he was given a new mission and not to expect him home for at least another week. She wondered what he was doing and prayed he was safe. She couldn’t imagine her life without him, he was good to her but there was no mistaking she wasn’t the first love he’d ever had. Many nights he’d talk in his sleep and often he’d simply mutter the name Tiffany. Early in their marriage, she asked about Tiffany, he told her she was someone he cared for before coming to The Collective, nothing more. When pressed he’d tell her he didn’t want to discuss it.

She dragged herself out of bed and towards the bathroom. On her way, the phone rang. She walked to the nightstand and picked the handle off the cradle. The phone was a rotary style phone, familiar with many people up until the advent of mobile and wireless handheld devices.

“Hello,” she said. A long pause followed signaling the call was a recorded message.

“Good morning resident. Please be advised that Number One requests your presence at the forum today at thirteen hundred hours. This is a mandatory gathering. Don’t be late and remember, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the individual. Have a great day.” The phone disconnected.

Portia grunted her disapproval. She put the phone back on the cradle and plopped back on the bed. Today had been her permitted day of rest and she had plans but with a mandatory gathering those plans were squashed. Tired, she lay down. Her hand touched her belly and sent thoughts of what her life could have been if they had been able to conceive. It bothered her often that they couldn’t have children of their own but there wasn’t a thing she could or Kyle could do about it, so each time her mind would go there, she’d quickly dismiss it. Fortunately for them, procreation was the one thing The Collective didn’t require.

From birth through old age, The Collective monitored and tested every resident to ensure they were in the best health. If one was found with an incurable disease they were immediately banished outside the walls of the city. There were no exceptions. Life in The Collective was polite, orderly and by standards outside the walls, luxurious. The strict medical guidelines even extended to those who injured themselves and couldn’t go back to work. One had to be productive, if they didn’t or couldn’t contribute they were deemed a burden and cast out. Number One created these laws in the early days and found that by only allowing healthy and productive people, the whole thrived. With resources sparse, it was determined that it couldn’t be spent on those who didn’t participate or add value to the greater whole. It was a harsh position when compared to the morals before the war, but was widely accepted today.

For Portia, she hadn’t thought much of it. She had been twelve when the war destroyed everything so truly knowing how society ran before wasn’t something she was familiar with. All she remembered back then was how fortunate she was for being in the town that would eventually become Collective Prime. It wasn’t until she became a teacher did she grow to dislike the health laws, specifically the tests given to children to ensure they didn’t have or were carriers of diseases. Watching the children paraded off and never seen from again was heartbreaking. Fortunately, those tests were done annually and the last one was conducted a few months back.

A knock at the front door startled her as she wasn’t expecting anyone. She got up, threw on a robe and ran to the door. “Who is it?”

“Morning delivery,” a man said.

Recognizing the voice, she opened the door.

There stood, Terry, the dairy delivery man. “Hi ya, Teacher Seven.”

“Terry, just call me, Portia, please,” she insisted.

He looked up at a camera positioned in the corner and grew noticeably uncomfortable. “Ah, um, I think I’ll just call you. You know by your Collective Name if that’s fine?”

She frowned. Portia detested her Collective name.

Life in The Collective required the use of a community name given on graduation day. At the age of sixteen, all residents of The Collective graduated school and were sent to positions in trades based upon testing. In their chosen trades they’d go learn by following a mentor. Once the mentor thought they were ready then they’d officially start the one and only job they’d ever do. Though all jobs were said to be equal in status, there was one job that was coveted and looked highly on, that was of a driver. Drivers spent most their time away, scavenging and searching for anything of value from the ravaged and destroyed cities. The life of a driver was short on average, many never returning. One though was legend, and that was Portia’s husband, Kyle or as The Collective knew him, Driver Eight.

Her job as a teacher was also given preference as they were tasked with ensuring the youth were properly taught the laws, morals and ways of life outside of teaching them the basics of writing, reading and mathematics. Though using your birth name wasn’t against the law, it was highly looked down on if you didn’t. Birth names were for individuals and individuals were not welcome, once one became a part of The Collective, they gave up their birth name. One only need know the founding principle to know that. THE ONE FOR THE MANY AND THE MANY FOR THE ONE. It basically meant that the individual served the community and the community served the singular collective thought. Hence where the name, The Collective, came from. And the singular collective thought was simple, individualism was a destructive thing, it bred greed, lust, gluttony and a list of other negative attributes, while working for the whole with no concern of one’s self was the purist form of human existence. In order for The Collective to tamp down on any shred of individualism, everyone was monitored via closed circuit television as well as listened too.

It was this monitoring that struck fear in Terry. “Here you go,” he said extending his arms out. In them was an opened medium sized box.

“Are there fresh eggs?” she asked peeking her head into the box.

“Yes, I got you three,” he said with a smile.

Portia happily took the box.

“Any returns?” he asked referring to glass milk bottles. Anything that could be recycled, reused or repurposed was, the idea of throwing something away that could serve for other uses was against the law.

“Oh, yes, yes. Come on in,” she said rushing to the kitchen. She placed the box down, turned and grabbed two empty glass milk bottles from next to her sink. “Here you go?”

“Thanks,” he said placing the bottles in a paper bag. “Oh that’s a nice necklace.”

She reached up and touched the yellow gold locket and rubbed her thumb along the top of it. “It was a gift from Kyle. It’s a locket,” she said opening it to show Terry the picture of Kyle on one side and her on the other.

“That’s nice. Driver Eight is quite the romantic,” Terry said admiring the locket.

“Yep a real Casanova,” she replied sarcastically.

“Who’s Casanova?” Terry asked not understanding the cultural reference.

“Never mind.”

“Did you hear about the incident last night?” Terry asked.

“There was an incident, where, what happened?” Portia asked

“Yeah, I heard The Underground tried to cut the power to Prime but security stopped them, I heard they killed several Underground members.”

“Stupid, idiots,” Portia said shaking her head.

“They are idiots. We have it good compared to the outside world. Why do they want to change it?”

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

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.

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?”

“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.

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.

“Since 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.

“We don’t want any trouble, I suggest you go take that shower, stall two is open,” Frank warned, the barrel leveled directly at Kyle’s head.

Kyle noticed the bar was silent and that all eyes were on him. The temptation to draw down was there but so was the desire to not die.

“Hey stud, how about we not do that,” a woman whispered just behind him. Kyle looked and saw a young and attractive woman. She kept her hands in sight and again urged him to step away, “Come on sweetheart. How about I show you a good time, on the house.”

Kyle put his attention back on Frank and the men in the corner.

The woman leaned close and said, “Sweetheart, if you’re a smart man, you’ll come back with me, but if you insist on dying tonight, then please give me the courtesy of not being in the crossfire.”

Knowing she was right, Kyle looked at Frank and nodded slightly. He did the prudent thing, did an about face and headed towards the red door.

Frank lowered the shotgun and went back to bartending.

“Is that you?” a man hollered from the far corner of the bar.

Kyle looked towards the voice to see a bearded man waving and coming towards him.

“Oh, my God, is that you?” the man said walking up on Kyle.

“Not so close, okay,” Kyle said, his hands extended out in front of him.

The man leaned close and looked into Kyle’s eyes, “Holy shit, it is you? Kyle Fucking Grant.”

Hearing his name startled Kyle. Ways of how he’d answer popped into his head but he didn’t know which one to go with.

“It’s me, Tommy O’Leary, c’mon man, it’s me, Tommy,” the man said.

Kyle didn’t need to search his memory long. He remembered a man by the name of Tommy O’Leary but he was having a hard time putting this man’s face with that name.

“It’s my mug? I get it. I’m all fucking scarred up. Got burned on a job, I should say seared but whatever, the left side of my face about melted off.”

Kyle looked closer and but still he didn’t look like the Tommy O’Leary he knew from before the war.

“Hold on, this will jog your memory,” Tommy said lifting up his left arm sleeve exposing a faded tattoo of an American flag with a blue stripe and the words, The Thin Blue Line.

Seeing the tattoo confirmed it was Tommy O’Leary. “Tommy?”

“It’s me buddy,” Tommy said giving Kyle a tight embrace. “What the hell are you doing in a place like this?”

“I’m looking for someone and I used to frequent this place years ago before it turned into this. I was in need of a shower and well here I am.”

“They offer regular and golden showers here now,” Tommy joked.

“I can ask the same of you, what brings you to this shit hole?” Kyle said.

“I’m looking for someone too.”

“Really? Would I know them?” Kyle asked curious.

“I doubt it, he’s some scumbag from up north. I heard he comes here a lot, he’s got a bounty on his head and I’m here to collect.”

“You’re a bounty hunter?” Kyle asked a bit concerned about the bounty on him.

“Yep, I know not too long of a fall from being a detective, still looking for shitheads and criminals.”

“You work by yourself?” Kyle asked.

“No, I have a partner, we’re part of Leviathan,” Tommy answered. Leviathan was a syndicate composed of mercenaries, assassins and bounty hunters that operated across all boundaries and borders. Their reputation was similar to that of Drivers as they too were a feared and respected group. The core difference was Leviathan members had no allegiance to any government, group, or warlord, if someone needed a hired gun to kill or find someone, they were whom you called. If you happened to be a target of theirs, God help you, because Leviathan wouldn’t stop until they got you. Though they operated and cared less for anyone’s laws, they did live by a code. They never killed children and they didn’t work for slavers.

“You’re with Leviathan? I’ve heard of them and for full disclosure, I killed one years ago, and took his prized knife,” Kyle said tipping his head towards the hip where his knife was sheathed. It was widely known that once a person was accepted into the ranks of Leviathan, they were branded on their right forearms with the symbol of the group, an eight armed octopus and were given two distinct weapons, a sheathed knife and an axe, both manufactured pre-war by Jake Hoback, an edged weapons company long since gone.

“Do you mind if I see that?” Tommy asked referencing the knife.

“Sure,” Kyle said removing it and handing it over.

It took Tommy all of two seconds to know whose it was. “So that’s what happened to Kristoff. Hmm. We heard he went into The Collective for a bounty and I guess he ran into you.” Tommy said and handed the knife back. “Some advice for an old friend, don’t mention that you’ve killed a Leviathan to another Leviathan. We don’t take kindly to someone killing our own. Your only saving grace is that Kristoff was a pain in the ass. Pretty much everyone hated him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, but let me remind you. Inside The Collective, we’re the lawmen and if you don’t listen, you get a bullet. Kristoff didn’t listen very well,” Kyle said sliding the knife back into its sheath.

“What do you mean you’re a lawman in The Collective?” Tommy asked.

Kyle looked around to make sure no one ease dropping before telling Tommy, “I’m a driver for The Collective.”

“No shit! That’s fucking cool. How did you score that gig?”

“Oh, it’s not what it’s cracked up to be.”

“Fuck you, I’d burn the other side of my face to work for The Collective, I hear the streets are paved with gold. You know something, it’s the one place Leviathan doesn’t travel through much because of you motherfuckers,” Tommy said, his latter comment referencing drivers.

“It’s apparent you’ve never been to Prime, because you’d know the streets are pavement, not gold but I’d agree, it’s not too bad compared to everywhere else,” Kyle confessed.

“Well if you ever need an old detective like me there, please let me know,” Tommy said patting him on the arm. “I’m not bullshitting either.”

“You’d give up Leviathan?” Kyle asked.

“Are you fucking kidding me? In a second.”

A thought struck Kyle concerning Leviathan syndicate members. “I heard you guys have a code about taking out slavers?”

“Some of us. There’s a team that operates south of here, run by a guy named Jacob. He targets slavers just for fun. Me, I’m here to make a buck. I don’t ever do work for a slaver but I keep to myself and do my jobs. Nothing more. Are these people here total scumbags? Yep, but I just look the other way unless you’re going to pay me a shit load of gold or legit currency.”

“Aren’t you mister morality,” Kyle quipped.

“If I had to be the moral conscience of this shithole world, I’d be in a fight every five minutes,” Tommy joked.

“I heard you guys have to kill a puppy or something before joining?” Kyle joked.

“Don’t pay attention to all the rumors, we’re not a cut throat as people say. Nah, I’m joking, we’re fucking worse, we’d sell our own mothers if we could make a buck,” Tommy joked

“Weird that you’re Leviathan and I’m a Driver and that we’ve never crossed paths until now,” Kyle said becoming a bit nervous as the thought that this encounter wasn’t coincidental. “Listen, I should go. Great running into you. If you ever find yourself at the gates of Collective Prime, ask for me.”

“I will man, I will. How crazy to run into you. A long way from the mean streets of L.A.”

“Yep,” Kyle replied nodding his head.

“What are the odds we were both gone when it all went to hell,” Tommy said referring to them both being on vacation when the war started.

“Where were you, wasn’t it like Helena or something?” Kyle asked, his eyes darting around the room.

“Good memory, yeah I was in Montana. Thank God it wasn’t a target. And you?”

“I was in northern Colorado, like you, miles away from anything.”

“Yeah, that’s right didn’t you have some girlfriend up there and you’d volunteer at the summer camp she ran?”

“Something like that,” Kyle said not wanting to think about those days.

A strange man approached Tommy.

Kyle casually placed his hand on the back strap of his pistol.

The man didn’t even give Kyle a glance, he leaned in and whispered something to Tommy. Tommy’s eyes widened, “I’ll be right there,” he said to the man who quickly walked off. Tommy pulled out a notepad, pen and jotted down a number. “Here’s my sat number.”

Kyle took the paper and said, “I’d call you but I need a sat phone to do that.”

“Collective Drivers don’t have sat phones?” Tommy asked surprised.

“I don’t. I’ve found everything else driving the roads but never came across one,” Kyle said a bit jealous.

“They’re not all that. Work half the time. And the battery on mine is becoming sketch, barely holds a charge anymore and the coverage is spotty. I can only guess that some of the satellites are now offline. But when they do work, it’s great.”

“I have to go. I have a hot shower waiting for me. Like I said, if you ever wind up at the gates of Collective Prime, just tell them you’re my friend, I’ll get you in,” Kyle said, again wanting to break away from the reunion only because he was becoming increasingly nervous.

“Ha, you’re the abracadabra to get inside the pearly gates, huh?”

“You can say that,” Kyle said taking a step back, signaling with body language that he was done with the conversation.

Tommy put his hand on Kyle’s shoulder and squeezed, “So good to see you man.”

“Good to see you too, Tommy,” Kyle said, a slight grin gracing his face, an oddity for Driver Eight.

Tommy strutted off.

The woman walked up. “Old boyfriend?”

“Friend from another life,” Kyle replied, his eyes scanning the bar and picking up on more than a few people watching him.

She leaned in and said, “You’re still getting some hard stares. I think it’s time for that shower.”

“Okay.”

“This way,” she said and walked to the red door and opened it. “Shower Two.” She bit her lower lip and pulled down her shirt to expose the top of her large breasts.

Kyle gave her a look up and down and said, “I won’t be needing your services.” Then walked off.

She patted him on the shoulder as he stepped past and said, “I do more than give happy endings, I keep people alive too.” She laughed. “When I save people’s lives they normally say, thank you.”

Kyle waved but kept walking down the hall.

“And by the way, my name is Candace, everyone around here calls me Candy.”

He stopped at a door number two, cocked his head and gave her a look. “Thank you, Candace.”

She laughed and hollered back, “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Portia didn’t like to arrive at the gatherings too early for fear she’d be placed up front or volunteered to help. She waited until she had just enough time to make it and no more.

She cleared the corner of the cobbler shop and saw the forum had a bustling crowd milling around outside the large building. A sense of relief swept over her as she knew she’d easily slip in and snag a spot near the back. Weaving through a sea of people she found herself in a line to go in. It wasn’t unusual to have security placed at the gates going in, it just meant that today, Number One would be here and not broadcasted over the big screen.

The guards searched through bags, patted down and used a magnetic wand to ensure no one was bringing in any sort of weapon. They were also checking identification too, that was very unusual and could only mean they were looking for certain people.

For Portia, none of this was a problem. She reached the front of the line. A swarm of guards surrounded her and began the process.

The lead guard ordered, “Arms up.”

She did as he said.

Another guard ran the magnetic wand over her. When he finished he said to the lead guard, “Clean.”

One more guard came forward and patted her legs and wrists. He too looked at the lead guard and said, “Clean.”

Armed with a clip board, the lead guard asked, “Identification, please.”

Portia rolled up her left sleeve and extended her arm to the lead guard. Just below her wrist was a tattoo with her job and number, just beneath that she had an RF implant.

The lead guard looked at her wrist, and with a handheld scanner, pointed it at her wrist and pulled the trigger. The scanner peeped. He looked at the screen and glanced at his clipboard.

Portia was growing impatient. All she wanted to do was go inside, find the furthest spot from the stage and just zone out.

The lead guard looked up from his clipboard and to his subordinate. “She’s marked alpha, take her to the reserved section.”

Hearing this, Portia’s eyes widened with fear. “What does that mean?”

The guard who had patted her down looked at her and simply said, “Follow me.”

“No, what does that mean?” she asked not moving.

The lead guard leaned in and growled, “Go with my guard, now.”

“But where?” she asked.

“Front row,” he answered.

“Why?”

He held up the clipboard and answered, “Because you’re on the list, now go, you’re holding up everyone else.”

Knowing she wasn’t going to win the debate, Portia relented.

The guard escorted her down the long and gently sloping stairs to the very front row. He stopped and pointed, “Seat two.”

She looked at the seat and noticed it was just off center from the podium from where Number One would be speaking.

“Sit, the gathering will start soon,” the guard ordered.

Shaking with fear, she did as he said, her eyes darting around. Everyone around her stared and were thinking the same thing. What was she doing in the front row? The front row was reserved for top tier government officials, dignitaries, VIPs and occasionally prisoners who were going to be used as a prop for the gathering, public executions were common place in The Collective. She was none of those, so she couldn’t imagine why she had been called out. Nervously she sat and placed her quivering hands on her lap.

The minutes felt like hours for her. All that she kept thinking was, Why am I here?

The lights turned down. The crowd grew silent. A lone woman emerged from the curtains on stage left and came to the podium.

Portia recognized her. She was Number One’s top assistant and confidante. She went by the name Bravo One. No one knew why she used that name and for a vast majority, no one cared.

Bravo One tapped on the microphone, gently cleared her throat and said, “Years! It took years to build the past civilization.” She paused for effect and continued, “Minutes! It took minutes for the nuclear warheads to destroy it.” Another pause. “But we all know those minutes were but the last minutes in what really took years to destroy. Those bombs didn’t rain down because suddenly the nations of the world decided to destroy each other. No, the war came because of selfishness, because of a belief in self-determination, and because of greed. But out of the ashes came our hero, our savior; he stepped forward and in our hour of doubt and need showed us that the war, that the destruction of the old world was exactly what the human race needed.” She paused took a deep breath and chuckled. “And like a computer when it’s not functioning properly, all it needs is a reboot.”

Several people howled their approval from the audience.

She waited for them to calm down and continued, “Once we came to see that the reboot was a good thing, he set to making a new and strong society. One built on the needs of the many. One where the needs of the individual were tossed aside. He showed us that under the old system we weren’t really free, no, we merely thought we were. In retrospect, we had enslaved ourselves. We were prisoners in a prison of our own creation. Living lives focused only on our own needs while forsaking the greater good.” Once more she paused and took a long deep breath and appeared to get emotional. “I was there when the war came. I’ll admit, I was terrified. I felt certain death was around the corner for me, but then he came. His words brought light to the dark. He filled my heart with hope and I know he filled your hearts too. He gave us the tenents for which our new society was built upon. After many years of working together, we have a thriving community, a collective of singular focused people all working towards one goal, with one purpose. Collective, please stand and welcome to the stage…”

The entire crowd, which numbered in the thousands, rose to their feet. Many cheered, some cried and a few remained silent.

Bravo One turned and pointed to stage right, “The Number One!”

The crowd grew louder.

From stage right, a short and portly man appeared, his arms raised and waving. A single bright light beamed down from above and tracked him as he walked towards the podium.

Portia stood, applauding vigorously in an attempt to look overjoyed to see him but inside her stomach was tied in knots.

Number One reached the podium, gave Bravo One a warm embrace and took his place directly behind the microphone. Bravo One quickly raced off the stage.

One looked out on the cheering audience. A broad smile streaked across his face. His head protruded from the top of the green turtleneck sweater making it look like a small bowling ball sitting on top of a large green exercise ball. He started to wave his arms down, motioning for silence.

Ever obedient, the crowd grew silent and promptly sat down.

He looked from left to right and back to center. He leaned close to the microphone and hollered, “THE ONE FOR THE MANY…!

The crowd shouted, “THE MANY FOR THE ONE!”

His smile grew wider. “Yes, the many for the one, for the collective.”

“Long live the collective!” a man screamed from somewhere in the audience.

“Yes, long live the collective,” Number One repeated pointing at the man before giving him a thumbs up.

Whistles and screams of we love you, rang out from all around the forum.

Number One reveled in the praise.

Portia sat, her entire body now quivering at the anticipation of Number One looking down on her and accusing her of some unknown crime. She’d seen it before so it was possible. She searched her thoughts for what it might be, but couldn’t come up with anything she’d done that violated a law.

“Collective, I call you here this afternoon to give you some good news, some bad news and to give you an example of how a resident should live and shouldn’t.”

Hearing those last words amplified Portia’s fear.

“First the good news. Today we received word from Number Two that a new trade deal with the Rocky Mountain Republic has been secured. This will bring much needed items, mainly medicines like antibiotics here in exchange for some of our crops. Now that we have a surplus in our fields to the west, we can use that to make trades. This trade deal was critical and I am so proud of Number Two for securing this for us,” he hollered. As the crowd roared their approval, he glanced down at Portia.

Seeing he was staring, Portia shifted nervously in her chair. Why is he looking at me? She asked herself.

“Now the bad news. Our surgeon general has reported some unusual cases of an unknown virus…”

The crowd groaned and gasped.

“Settle down, please. Right now we don’t have anything to worry about. It appears this virus effects young children. Sometimes it doesn’t have any symptoms. Therefore, I am instructing the principals of our schools to schedule testing for all children starting first thing tomorrow. I am sorry but we must do this. It is the best thing for The Collective.”

A lot of cross talk erupted from the crowd.

Portia’s self-concern pivoted to the thirty-seven children she presided over. Knowing there would be a new round of testing meant some of the beaming faces she saw six days per week would be gone, forever. Her thoughts then shifted to one student she had grown immensely attached too. Melissa was her name and she held Portia’s heartstrings more than any student ever. had.

Raising his voice, Number One boomed, “Now I’d like to give you all an example of a good resident, a model resident, and then some that have violated the laws of The Collective and must be punished.”

Portia’s heart was beating out of her chest. She began to question whether she should just make a run for it. Her eyes shifted from left to right looking for potential exits and escape routes.

“I feel it is always important when we’re all gathered to recognize a resident that has gone above and beyond. This person has shown dedication to our Collective and without them, we wouldn’t thrive. They perform their duties with professionalism and has demonstrated the core virtues of our great society. Please let me call to the stage, Teacher Seven,” Number One shouted out while pointing to Portia.

A bright beam of light shot down on Portia, who sat in shock at the unexpected announcement.

“Teacher Seven, please, come to the stage,” Number One ordered, his tone jovial.

Portia stood, her legs felt wobbly so she steadied herself before making her first step towards the stage.

“Everyone, please give a rousing applause to Teacher Seven!” Number One shouted.

The crowd rose to the feet and applauded loudly.

Portia walked onto the stage and up to the side of the podium. She gave Number One an anxious look before bringing her gaze down.

“Teacher Seven, please come over and talk to The Collective,” Number One urged waving her over.

She walked over and stood behind the large black microphone.

Number One leaned in and whispered, “Say something, like hello and tell them why you love it here.”

Taking his cues, she did as he suggested. She lowered the microphone until it was near her mouth and said, “THE ONE FOR THE MANY…!

The crowd replied, “THE MANY FOR THE ONE!”

Her nervousness took over as she stood frozen behind the microphone.

One more time, Number One gave her a suggestion, “How happy are you to live here?”

“I am so happy to be a resident of The Collective. My life is truly blessed and I’m honored to give all I have to this great society.”

Everyone in the audience cheered.

“That is good, you may sit down,” Number One said motioning for her to leave.

She didn’t argue, she rushed off stage and took her seat.

“Residents, isn’t she wonderful?” he asked the crowd.

They responded with a loud cheer, “YES!”

“And did you know, she’s married to the legend, Driver Eight!” Number One said clapping.

The people around Portia all reached out with various forms of congratulations, some patting her back, others holding their hand out for her to take while some just wanted to touch her. This moment in the lime light was so odd for her, she had seen Kyle received praise but never thought she would, it made her feel very uncomfortable.

The Collective was built upon equality and abolishment of the individual but so often the opposite played out with people being singled out and given access to things others weren’t. It was proof that equality was a myth, if left to their own devices, human kind always reverts back to a default mode.

Number One quieted the raucous crowd, he lowered his head and paused, when he lifted it again, his expression had changed from jovial to anger. “My fellow residents, it’s that time. The time when we call out those around you who have violated our laws. These people, these individuals…”

Boos rang out.

“…these individuals, believe that the world I have given you is wrong. They wish to destroy it by implementing the ways of the destructive past, but we know what happened before. If we allow that sort of thought to take hold it will utterly destroy everything we have now and thrust us back to a dark age. These people would have you live like the Generates.”

Louder boos came from the audience followed by hisses.

“If you don’t believe what I have to say, listen and watch for yourself,” Number One said turning around and pointing to the large projection screen.

The screen came to life. On it were three people, two women and one man, sitting around a small dining table in what appeared to be someone’s house.

The man spoke first, “If I must listen to those damn sirens and those mind-numbing announcements one more time, I’ll die.”

Commotion broke out in the center of the forum. Screams and cries followed.

Portia looked back and saw a man wrestling with security. She looked closely and noticed it was the man in the video. Out of the corner of her eye she saw motion, she turned her head to get a better look and saw a woman racing up the far side aisle. Guards cornered and tasered her before she could go anywhere. Opposite that, another woman sobbed and moaned. That drew the attention of the guards who swept down and surrounded her. The culprits in the video were now apprehended.

Number One had the video paused and waited for them to be brought onto the stage. “Put them on their knees over there,” he said pointing to a spot a dozen feet from him. He looked back and said, “Continue.”

“I agree, sometimes I think those Generates have it better. To live free, being able to come and go. There’s something romantic about it,” one of the women said.

The other woman followed up, “Do you even think they exist?”

“The Generates?” the man asked.

“Yes,” the second woman said. “Or are they some sort of story to keep up afraid, to ensure we don’t leave the walls. Here’s something to think about, are these walls really here to protect us or keep us in?”

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” the first woman said.

“What’s wrong Simon?” the second woman said.

“Can I trust you?” he asked the two.

The two women looked at each other for a moment then turned to face him. “Sure,” the first woman said. “Yes, of course,” the second chimed in.

“I’ve been talking with The Underground, not like the entire group and it’s not like I’ve gone to any of their meetings, but I’ve had regular contact with one of their members.”

“Why would you risk your life?” the first woman asked.

“I can’t live like this anymore. I want to know what’s really going on. I don’t believe it’s as bad out there as they say. I think the drivers are liars. I feel more like a prisoner than a productive part of this bullshit so called collective,” he railed.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea you’re talking with those people, they’re terrorists ,” the first woman said.

“What did this person tell you?” the second woman asked.

“They need more people. For them to effect change they need a display, a big one, to show they’re a force to be reckoned with. Only then will One take notice. They wish to break free if he won’t,” the man said defiantly. He turned to the first woman and snapped, “And they’re not terrorists, they’re freedom fighters.”

“Are you going to help them?” the second woman asked.

“Yes.”

“Cut, stop, turn off the video, I don’t need to see anymore traitorous talk!” Number One hollered.

The screen went dark followed by boos and jeers from the crowd.

Number One stepped away from the podium and approached the three kneeling people. He looked down on their grieving faces. All were upset and knew what this meant. He looked out to the audience and asked, “What should we do with them?”

“Death!” Everyone shouted in unison.

Number One stepped in front of the man and asked, “What was it you said? I can’t live like this anymore?”

The man looked up and pleaded, “I didn’t mean it, I was, I was just talking, you know, bravado.”

“Bravado? Ha.”

“Please, Number One, I made a mistake, please show me some mercy,” he cried out.

“Me?” Number One asked laughing as he turned around to face the crowd. “He said, show me some mercy. Even in the darkest hour, he still clings to his selfish belief systems. I bet I could offer him a deal but in order to take the deal he’d have to allow the other two to die and he’d take it.” Number One turned back and asked, “What’s your name? Your birth name, give it to me.”

“Simon.”

“Simon, tell me. If I said I’d spare your life but these two had to die, what would you say?”

The woman to Simon’s right burst out, “Simon don’t make any deal with him, don’t do it. He’s a liar!”

Number One looked at the woman and laughed, “I’m the liar?” He focused his attention back on Simon and asked, “Well, Simon.”

Simon’s lips trembled and his eyes shifted back and forth. The conflict inside him was intense but his desire to stay alive was too much. “Yes. I will tell you what you want to know. I can be rehabilitated but these two? No. Spare my life and I will forever serve The Collective.”

Both of his accomplices cried out in anger and fear.

Number One smiled broadly. He turned around to face the crowd who now were on their feet, cheering for Number One to kill them. “Should I take the deal?”

“NO!” the crowd shouted.

He walked back to the podium, grabbed the microphone and said, “We are able to function as a society because we are built upon a foundation of laws. These laws have enabled us to thrive and exist surrounded by savagery. We are the light in the dark, we are the shining city on the hill. It saddens me that these three couldn’t see that. They lost faith. They even look upon these walls as something bad now. They romanticize about the free world that exists beyond these walls. So what I will do is give it to them. I will let them go live among the free people as they call them.” He paused and walked up to the three. “I will be merciful to you, Simon. You will not go and live outside of these walls, I’ll spare you the horror.”

“Thank you, thank you. You’re merciful,” Simon sobbed.

“You’re welcome, Simon. The other two, I will have a driver take you east and drop you off just outside of The Wastes. There you will live, free to do what you will. However, I will offer you this. If you manage to survive a year, you can return. I want you to come back and be witness to others who may hold these limited beliefs.”

All the women could do was whimper.

Number One turned around and hollered. “I have enforced the laws with temperance and mercy.” He turned to stage left and called out, “Guards, take the women to the driver’s depot. You’re to not give them anything, no food, water, clothing, weapons, nothing. They wanted to be free, they can. And take Simon to the Trees of Justice.”

Simon screamed, “No!”

Portia had been watching in shock but when she heard Simon’s fate, she started to cry. The Tree of Justice was a place of execution. Not a quick one, but a slow and agonizing one. Those sent to it to die, were lashed to the tree’s massive trunk. Their arms and legs spread wide apart and strapped down. There they would be left for whatever creature, Generate or human to torture or kill. It was a brutal way to die and set aside for those who had betrayed The Collective. Other death sentences were simple hangings in front of Number One’s executive mansion.

“You said were giving me mercy, you said so!” Simon wailed.

“I said I was going to show you mercy. Believe me, dying on that tree is merciful to what your friends will experience. You are the lucky one,” Number One replied.

A group of ten guards marched onto the stage and escorted the prisoners away.

Taking the podium once more, Number One said, “People of The Collective. I have since day one and until now been humbled and honored to be your leader. Thank you for this and let us finish this gathering by reciting our motto, together. ““THE ONE FOR THE MANY…!

The crowd replied, “THE MANY FOR THE ONE!”

Number One placed the microphone down and walked off the stage.

The overhead lights turned on across the expansive building.

Portia sat, her stomach still in knots. She never expected or had one inking she’d be called on stage and still couldn’t understand why it happened. Around her everyone chatted, laughed and debated the events of the gathering. She overheard many saying how thrilling it was. Those words disgusted her. There was not one thing that was exciting about what she just witnessed, but it was successful in its goal and that was to strike fear into the heart of everyone there. That no matter where you were, Number One was watching.

A guard approached her, “Teacher Seven?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Come with me.”

“Where?”

“I’m to take you to the executive mansion. Number One wishes to eat a late lunch with you.”

Knowing she didn’t have a choice, she nodded and stood.

“This way,” the guard said and headed towards the far exit.

Portia followed, her heart racing. This day had gone from peculiar to downright terrifying.

Kyle knew the world had turned uncivilized and downright savage and he knew child prostitution was real, but knowing about it and seeing it were different. He wanted to do something about it, but at what cost? He was one man and he had a responsibility not only to The Collective but to Portia. He couldn’t get lost in saving the world or going on a crusade that would jeopardize everything he’d worked so hard for.

Unable to stay any longer, he cleaned up, packed and headed out. Upon entering the main bar area, he looked for the young girl. She was gone as were two of the men. Revolting thoughts came back which again put him back into a state of anger.

Behind the bar, Frank called out, “How was the shower?”

Kyle nodded but kept walking towards the exit.

“Hey buddy, payment would be nice,” Frank said.

Kyle headed over and dug through his pack. He came out with a small pack of wipes. “Five hundred.”

Frank picked them up, gave them a look over and said, “Looks good. These will come in handy. Need these to clean up the girls.” Frank snickered knowing his comment would get under Kyle’s skin.

It worked, but Kyle kept his composure. “I’ll see you around.”

“Sounds good and if you change your mind, we get a fresh batch of younglings every few weeks,” Frank laughed.

“You know something, I just might come back to pay you a visit,” Kyle threatened.

“You do that,” Frank said his steely eyes locked with Kyle’s.

Kyle marched to the exit. There the young woman who had helped talk him down, stopped him and asked, “Where you off too?”

“Work.”

“What do you do?”

Annoyed, he told her the truth, “I’m a driver with The Collective, now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Ooh, a driver. Which one are you? I hear you go by numbers. What’s yours?”

“Eight.”

“Well, wouldn’t you know, that’s my lucky number,” she laughed.

“Good for you, now if you’ll excuse me, I have someplace to be,” he said and attempted to step around her.

She stopped him and said, “You come in here all high and mighty, but I’ll have you know this isn’t a choice. This is about survival. If I fight back, they kill me and my son. I don’t have anywhere to go, so this is what I do.”

Kyle didn’t know what to say, so he simply replied, “I’m sorry.”

“If I could get into your rig and drive off, I would, in a heartbeat, but not before cutting that bastards throat,” she said motioning towards Frank.

“Maybe one day you’ll get that chance,” Kyle said.

“Tell me, what’s a driver from The Collective doing here?” she asked.

“Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for two men. One a driver, tall, lean and the other…”

“Was he a short guy with a belly?” she asked cutting him off. “You can’t miss a fat person nowadays, it’s a sign of wealth.”

Kyle cocked his head and said, “That’s him. When did you see them?”

“Came in a few days ago.”

“Where did they go?”

“Go? Honey, they’re still here,” she exclaimed pointing towards the green door.

Kyle snapped his head around and looked. “They’re back there?”

She rubbed his arm and said, “Sweetheart, they’ve been knee deep in pussy since they came. Especially the fat one.”

Kyle shook his head in disgust.

“Want me to take you back there?” she asked.

Kyle thought but declined. The idea of seeing grown men with young girls made him nauseous.

“Who are they? Important people I presume? Are they dangerous” she asked.

Ignoring her question, he said, “Go get the tall one, tell him someone is here to see him.”

“Will do,” she said and headed off, she stopped and turned. “If he asks, who do I say is here?”

“Tell him, Driver Eight is here.”

Kyle radioed The Collective to inform them he had found Number Two and Driver Ten safe and that there was something sensitive that needs to be addressed upon their return. The dispatch asked what it was but Kyle kept it to himself only informing the dispatch to tell Number One that his son was found.

Back inside, Kyle waited for Number Two while he sat down to discuss the entire situation with

Driver Ten. The sounds of the bar and the brothel reverberated through the thin walls adding a contextual layer that felt dirty. Kyle had much to say to Driver Ten but all he could do at first was shake his head at the abhorrent behavior of a Collective driver.

The silence between the two was loud with Driver Ten unable to even look at Kyle, his head lowered in shame.

“We have a code?” Kyle reminded him.

Driver Ten lifted his head and locked his gaze with Kyle’s. “But in my defense, we’re not in The Collective, the code doesn’t count here.”

“Just shut up,” Kyle snapped knowing Driver Ten was partaking in sexual acts with children as Candace came right out and said so. It required all of Kyle’s discipline to not shoot him right there

In The Collective, child enslavement and prostitution was outlawed, even in the unincorporated areas around The Collective, The Number One frowned on it and had his drivers pass sentence whenever they encountered it.

“Listen, it wasn’t my idea,” Ten pleaded.

Kyle leaned on the table and said, “I can understand that Two ordered you to come here, but he didn’t make you do what you did once you got here. That’s on you.”

“But it was only one,” Two said. His sad defense falling on deaf ears.

“I’ll deal with you later. What I need from you now is to go get Two. Time to take him back home.”

“Sure, but, um, I’m not sure if he’ll come,” Two said.

Kyle looked at Candace who was standing across the room but in earshot.

She returned the look and said, “You want me to go get him?”

“Do you mind?” Kyle asked.

Candace exited the room.

“Please understand,” Ten pleaded.

Kyle rose his hand gesturing for Ten to be quiet.

“C’mon, what happens out of The Collective, stays out of the…”

“Do you not understand the meaning of shut up?” Kyle barked.

The door opened and in came Number Two, a shit eating grin stretched across his chubby face exposing his yellowish teeth. He had more wealth than ninety-nine percent and access to dental products but still his laziness showed through his lack of dental hygiene. He laughed like a giddy child as Candace lured him there saying there was a special treat inside for him. “You guys know how to treat your guests.” He looked around but only saw Kyle and Ten sitting at a small table in the far corner. “What’s this?” he asked Candace surprised.

She didn’t reply, instead she stepped inside the room and closed the door.

“I asked you, what’s this?” Number Two seethed at her.

“Number Two, I’m Driver Eight, I was sent here to get you. Now go get your things, we leave in ten minutes,” Kyle ordered.

“I know who you are but I don’t take orders from you, or anyone,” Two snarled.

Kyle stood and walked over to Two, stopping inches from him.

Even without touching him, Number Two could physically feel Kyle’s presence, but he wasn’t going to allow a driver to intimidate him. “Back off.”

“Barry, listen, you don’t want to mess with Driver Eight,” Ten warned.

“I don’t care who the fuck he is, I’m second in line to rule over The Collective,” Two said.

“How many times do I have to ask?” Kyle asked.

Two tried to stand tall, but his short five-foot five stature seemed small next to Kyle towering at six-foot three. He sucked in his belly, broadened his shoulders and snapped, “Back…the…fuck…off!”

“Listen, Barry, I’m under orders from your father to come find you and bring you back. Now, he didn’t give me specifics so I suppose I could hog tie you, stuff you in the back of my truck and haul you back or you can go get your shit, and come with me. Your choice, one is hog tie, two…”

“Go with two,” Ten shouted.

Barry tried to hold his stare against Kyle but couldn’t, he looked away towards Ten and said, “Fuck this.” He turned around swiftly, his portly belly juggling and headed for the door.

“Can I assume that means you’re going to get your shit?” Kyle asked. He normally would have treated someone like Barry with respect but couldn’t find the discipline to do so after knowing the kind of man he was. “I’m just trying to figure out how I’m going to explain all this to your father.”

Barry turned back and barked, “I spoke to my father yesterday, he knows I’m here. So fuck off.” He threw open the door and marched off.

Candace winked at Kyle. “I’ll go help him,” she said and sauntered off.

Kyle turned around and said, “Go get your stuff. We leave in ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Ten said jumping to his feet.

As Ten passed him, Kyle said, “I want you to know that when we get back. I’ll be holding you accountable for this behavior.”

Ten nodded and rushed out.

Kyle couldn’t be more disgusted than he was now. How long had Barry been doing this? Was this the reason he’d run off before? Did Number One know and was harboring a pedophile and grooming him to take over? So many questions but right now his first priority was getting Barry back home safely then find out the answers to these questions.

Portia was amazed by the grandeur of the executive mansion. Its tall ceilings, coffered with crown molding were impressive and beautiful. The travertine flooring with lush thick rugs gave the place a feeling of elegance. This ‘home’ wasn’t like anything in The Collective but who could complain? This was the home of the Number One, the founder and leader.

A guard escorted her up a long and gently winding staircase then down a long hallway to a double set of tall doors. The guard knocked.

“Come in,” Number One called out.

The guard turned the nob and pushed the thick alder door open. “Go ahead in.”

Portia stepped into the massive room. The guard promptly closed the door leaving her standing there. She quickly looked around and discovered the room was a bedroom. A strong uneasy feeling came over her. Not wishing to put into an awkward position she spun around and grabbed the door knob.

“No, please, don’t go,” Number One said walking into the room.

Portia stopped trying to turn the knob and like a church mouse, slowly turned to face him.

Number One was wearing the same green turtleneck sweater and blue jeans. “Please, come, sit down,” he said pointing to a large ever suede couch.

“I, um, I don’t think this is appropriate,” she said standing her ground.

“Why, because you’re in the front room of my master suite. I’m only asking you to take a seat here, I didn’t say go lay on my bed in the other room.”

“But still, this is highly unusual,” she said, her arms folded tightly in front of her.

“My dear, Portia, do you mind if I call you that?”

Unsure how to answer, she answered safely, “Call me Teacher Seven.”

“Nonsense, your birth name is fine. There’s no law against it, we just prefer that people call themselves by their Collective occupation, but we understand people will want to use their birth names in private and around friends.”

“What do you want?”

“Just a chat, a private chat over lunch, so please come, sit down, let me pour you a drink. What do you like?”

“I don’t need a drink. I’m sorry, but have I done something wrong?”

“On the contrary, you’re an exceptional resident and member of The Collective. Hence, why I recognized you earlier. You know something, I remember when I first met you. Do you remember that day?” he asked walking towards her since she wasn’t going to come towards him.

“Yes.”

“You were an orphan, your parents had been traveling, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

He closed in until he was just a few feet away. “And you came to the police station because your babysitter left you alone after she had heard about the initial attacks.”

“That’s right.”

“And I sat down next to you at the police station. I too lost someone that day, my wife, yes, I was married before my other wife you knew. She was in Denver giving a lecture. Oh, and get this, her lecture was on HOW THE DETERRENCE OF MUTUALLY ASSURED DESTRUCTION WAS AND STILL IS A SOUND FOREIGN POLICY . I’m not shitting you, can you believe it? Of all the lectures, she dies by a nuclear weapon. She’s literally giving a lecture on the benefits of mass proliferation and boom, gets nuked. Crazy. Like it was fate or something. Now here I am, alone. I’ve lost two wives and I have no one. Yes, I have my son and Bravo One, she’s nice but I don’t have anyone that I can have a real connection with. But you know, it’s okay, I have The Collective.”

“Sir, why am I here?” Porta asked nervously.

Ignoring her question he kept reliving that day. “I saw you sitting there and knew right then that I had to do something. There was so many helpless children like you were. What were you, twelve?” He asked still focused on the day they first met nineteen years before.

She nodded.

“I just knew my purpose was just beginning. And lo and behold, here we are, so many years later standing next to each other again. You married to the most notorious driver The Collective has had and me, a recent widower, but fulfilled with my life as the leader of this great society.”

She had met him before but never under these circumstances. Even though she never spent much time close to him, something seemed off about his appearance and she couldn’t put a finger on. His skin was pale and dark circles traced the skin under his eyes. He didn’t look well, but maybe he was just an overweight and unexercised older man.

“You are still happily married aren’t you?” he laughed.

“Yes, very,” she answered thinking the question out of left field.

“I can see you’re upset, so I’ll just get to the point of why I wanted to talk to you in private.”

Thank God. Portia thought.

“When was the last time you talked to your husband?”

The question made her nervous for Kyle’s safety. “Three or so days ago. Why, is something wrong? Has something happened to him?”

“Oh no, no. He’s fine. I was just curious if he talked to you recently,” Number One said.

“No, like I said I spoke to him days ago. He relayed a radio transmission through the network like he normally does. All he told me was he going on a new mission which was going to extend his return by a week or so.”

“Nothing about what or who this new mission was?” Number One pried.

“No, nothing, exactly like I told you.”

Number One stared hard at her. A long and very uncomfortable pause elapsed before he spoke. “Very well.” He turned away from her and headed towards his bedroom.

“Is that it?” she asked.

He stopped and turned. “Yes, that’s it. By the way, thank you for coming by and being so…honest.”

“Of course.”

“And tomorrow, make sure the children are ready for the testing. It’s imperative we get ahead of new virus. Nasty stuff. Goodbye, Portia,” he said before turning and disappearing into the bedroom.

Portia exited the room as fast she could and rushed out of the house. When the front door closed behind her, she exhaled heavily and began to cry. She hated feeling such fear. She hated feeling so powerless. She hated him beyond words could describe.

Kyle wasn’t going to leave the Nail without Barry by his side. So when Barry didn’t show up after ten minutes, Kyle marched down the hall of the brothel to the room Candace said he was in and without knocking, kicked the door in.

Inside Barry was putting the last of his things into a back pack. “What the hell?”

“You’re late. Hurry up.”

“I don’t know who you think you are but this is bullshit.”

“Like I said, your father sent me here. I was just doing my job scavenging in The Wastes when I got the call to come find you. I take my job as a driver serious and when Number One asks me to do something personal for him, I do it. Now, hurry up.”

“Give me a few more minutes.”

Kyle leaned up against the wall and crossed his arms.

Barry glanced back and barked, “Don’t stand here and watch.”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“My father will punish you for your disrespect, you watch,” Barry threatened as he stuffed the bag with the last of his clothes.

“I’m not worried, now put on your shirt and let’s go.”

“Where’s Sal?” Barry asked referring to Driver Ten.

“Ten is in the parking lot waiting on us. We’re all going back together.”

Barry put on his shirt and smirked, “Sal is a freak, a straight up freak.”

Knowing what that meant, Kyle became irritated. “Driver Ten will face consequences when he returns to The Collective, trust me and you, well, I’m not sure what your father will do.”

Barry laughed and quipped, “You’re clueless, man.”

“What does that mean?”

Throwing his pack over his shoulder and without answering Kyle’s question, Barry laughed then walked out of the room.

“What do you mean he’s gone?” Kyle barked.

“He’s gone, simple. He got into his rig and tore out of here,” Conrad said.

“What direction?”

“North.”

Kyle grunted and walked off towards his truck.

Barry was at the truck laughing. “That motherfucker took off, classic.”

“Driver Eight, Driver Eight!” Candace called out from across the parking lot.

Kyle turned to find her running towards him.

“Here, take this, please,” she said handing him a thick envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Some money I’ve had stashed.”

“Why are you giving this to me?”

“You’re a gun for hire, right?”

“No, I’m a driver for The Collective.”

“But I’ve heard you drivers are like vigilantes or mercenaries. I don’t know the correct word, sorry, no education.”

He handed the envelope back and said, “I’m not sure who you think I am but I’m not a gun for hire.”

“Please, take it. Just come back and free us, especially the kids. I could see it in your eyes. You’re a different kind of man. I saw the rage building in you, you know this is wrong and you want to stop it.”

He stepped back from her. “I’m not a gun for hire and this is none of my business.”

“But your friend in there, the guy with the burned face. He came back, I talked to him, he said he knew you from before the war, he told me all about you. That you two were partners. He said you were some sort of hero cop. Please, come back and save us from this. We’re all slaves, there’s nothing we can do. The little kids, they’re brought in from…” Candace said before being interrupted.

“My friend Tommy can help you, he’s Leviathan, this sort of stuff is what they do,” Kyle said.

“He’s gone now, if I had known I would have given it to him,” she said, her voice stressed.

“Candy! Get your ass in here now!” Frank hollered from the back door.

“I have to go or he’ll take it out on my little boy. Please, come back for us. I know you know this is wrong. Save us,” she said walking away.

Kids? He thought. Needing to know, he called out, “What did you say about the kids?”

Frank marched over to her and grabbed her roughly by the arm and spun her around. “You shut you fat mouth, bitch!”

“What about the kids?” Kyle hollered again.

Candace gave him one last look before being dragged back inside the bar.

Confused and conflicted, Kyle was tempted to go rescue her right then and there but his mission was leaning against his truck whistling. Knowing he was outgunned and outmanned, he went to his truck and said, “Get in.”

“I think she likes you,” Barry joked.

“Shut up,” Kyle said tossing his stuff in the back.