G Hopf: Driver 8: A Post-Apocalyptic Novel

“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.”