G Hopf - Driver 8 - A Post-Apocalyptic Novel

Many Generates howled as they feasted while others openly had sex with their females for all to see. The Generate was a clear example of how humans could devolve and become something horrible. To Portia it was like they were soulless.

The Generate leader sauntered towards her.

Portia watched him and again wondered if this was her time.

He stepped in front of her and smiled. His teeth were blackened from the blood and grinded to sharp points with small chunks of flesh stuck in between. His chin, cheeks, neck and chest were covered in blood.

“Is this it?” she asked calmly.

He removed his knife and leaned towards her.

Resigned to her fate, she closed her eyes. Suddenly the pressure on her arms behind her lessened. She opened her eyes to find him putting the knife back in his sheath.

“Get up,” he ordered.

“Huh?”

“Get up,” he repeated.

He had cut her free. She rubbed her wrists and gave him a long stare.

Impatient, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up. “Get up.” He drew her face close to his and said, “You’re mine. Time to go fuck.”

“Why me?” she blurted out, shocked that she even asked a question.

He ignored her question. He tightened his grip and pulled her along.

A single shot cracked in the distance.

The Generate leader stopped and looked around. Near the fire one of his tribe dropped dead.

Another shot rang out.

Again, another Generate fell.

The Generate leader tossed her to the ground and cried out, “Run! Go scatter.”

Portia fell to her knees and watched as the Generates began to run in different directions. The Generates were fierce when dealing with captives but it was widely known they weren’t great fighters if up against a superior force.

The single gun fire became a barrage of bullets coming from all directions.

In order to protect herself, Portia crawled towards a ditch and rolled in. The second she hit the bottom she regretted the hiding spot. It was a mass grave filled with the skeletal remains of their victims. The smell of rotting flesh and decay was too much, Portia began to throw up. There was no way she’d be able to stomach this, she crawled out and just lay on her back. If she was going to die by gunshot, fine, at least she wouldn’t be skinned alive.

Some of the Generates had managed to get to their dwellings to get firearms but a large number hadn’t. Whoever was shooting at them were accurate and the Generates were taking heavy casualties.

Portia lay for what seemed like an eternity. The screams of the Generates were like music to her ears. She didn’t know who was attacking them but whoever it was they were like guardian angels.

The gunfire ceased. She rolled over and looked around, Generate bodies lay scattered everywhere. An eerie silence washed over the encampment save for the crackling fires and muted moans from wounded Generates.

Figures began to emerge from the shadows. They split up and began to assess the carnage. Any surviving Generate was killed immediately.

Portia didn’t move for fear these people could be as bad as the Generates, if that was possible. The sounds of heavy footfalls behind her sent chills down her spine. She thought about running, but where would she go?

“I’ve got one here,” a man said towering over her.

Portia began to crawl away frantically.

“Look at it go,” the man laughed as he pursued her.

She jumped to her feet but didn’t get one step as he grabbed her by the back of her shirt and threw her to the ground.

“Time to say goodnight, Generate,” the man said holding an axe above his head.

“No, please, don’t, I’m not a Generate, I’m not a Generate, they captured me, please don’t hurt me,” Portia begged holding her hands out in front of her in a defensive manner.

The man hesitated and looked at her closer. “Were you from that slave truck?”

“Um, yes, the slave truck, please don’t hurt me.”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” he said offering his hand.

Portia looked at him then his hand and thought she didn’t have anything to lose so she took his hand.

He lifted her to her feet and said, “Anyone else alive?”

She looked around and replied, “I don’t know. I know some of the women were taken to huts over there but you guys were shooting I just ran and hid in that pit but when I found out it was…” She stopped herself once she noticed she was rambling. “Listen, I don’t know.”

A shriek came from behind the man.

Portia looked over his shoulder and saw the Generate leader racing towards them with a knife in its hand.

The man turned around calmly, spun the axe in his hand and waited for the Generate to draw closer.

It continued to shriek as it came.

The man raised the axe, held it for a second then threw it. The axe spun through the air and came to a stop inches deep in the Generate’s face. It crashed to the ground and began to flop around. He ran over, put his boot on its neck and pulled the axe out its head, then for good measure swung it hard and planted it one more time in its face.

The Generate leader made an unintelligible sound, its body twitched for a few seconds before becoming still.

The man retrieved the axe and walked back to a stunned Portia. Using his long sleeve he wiped the blood off.

“You’re quite handy with that thing,” Portia said.

“This thing is amazing, you can’t really find them anymore. They’re called a Proof of Life axe, I don’t think that name fits, I call it my Proof of Death, as you can see,” he joked while motioning with a head nod to the dead Generate. He reached around to his back and pulled out a canteen, “Thirsty?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said taking the canteen and gulping most of it down.

“We got reports that a slaver truck was on the move south, we were going to ambush it but these fucking savages ambushed you first. By the time we found the truck you were long gone. From the attack we could tell it was Generates. Luckily for you, we knew this tribe had an encampment up here.”

“We could have used you earlier, but nevertheless, thank you,” Portia said handing the canteen back.

A woman walked up, she was adorned in heavy leather combat gear and was also holding an axe. Her thick hair was pulled back into a series of braids and across her face she had three dark blue stripes going diagonally from left to right. Attached to her vest was a frag grenade painted pink, with the name SALLY, written across it. She gave Portia a quick look, then faced the man and said, “No survivors."

“Thanks, Leigh,” the man said.

“Who’s this?” Leigh asked.

“A survivor from the slave truck,” the man answered.

“Then it wasn’t a total loss,” Leigh said.

“Go gather the team, tell them to post a watch while the others look for anything of value; weapons, ammo, etcetera. We leave in ten.”

“Sounds good boss,” Leigh said and marched off.

“I suppose I should introduce myself, my name is Jacob, I’m Leviathan.”

Cal unloaded his magazine into the door. When the bolt locked back, Kyle used that as his cue; he stepped forward and kicked the doors. Unlike before the doors didn’t budge.

“He’s put something in front of them,” Kyle yelled. He stepped back out of the way.

“What do we do?” Cal asked.

Kyle looked around, when he spotted the fireplace an idea popped in his head. “We’ll smoke him out.” Kyle ran to the fireplace and turned it on. “Grab me those papers and the waste basket near the desk.

“What are you guys doing, hurry the hell up!” Tommy said. All around him pieces of the door and frame flew as gunfire hit all around him. “I’ve been lucky but luck will soon run out!”