G Hopf: Driver 8: A Post-Apocalyptic Novel

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.”