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 25th 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.”
CHAPTER 2
COLLECTIVE PRIME, CAPITAL CITY OF THE COLLECTIVE (FORMERLY EAGLE, COLORADO)
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 clos
ed 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?”
Driver 8: A Post-Apocalyptic Novel Page 3