Driver 8

by G. Michael Hopf

“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 Mo
ntana. 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?”

  COLLECTIVE PRIME

  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.