G Hopf: Driver 8: A Post-Apocalyptic Novel

Catching on, she said loudly, “That reminds me, Drive Eight came home with a CD last run. It’s classical music, someone called Bach.” Portia walked to a CD player at the far end of the kitchen counter and turned it on.

The sweet and melodic sounds of violins filled the air.

She looked at Terry and quietly asked, “Is she alright?”

Pretending to wash the bottles, he replied, “I don’t know, she keeps coughing, like a lot. She won’t stop.”

“Baby’s cough a lot… I think.”

“Sometimes she coughs so much she turns blue, like she’s not getting enough air,” he said gripping the bottle tightly.

Portia suddenly knew what was going on. “You don’t want to take her to the infirmary do you?”

“No.”

“You’re afraid they’ll find something wrong with her and then take her away?”

Sheepishly looking at her, he answered, “Yes.”

“Give me a day to ask around about what it might be, not being a mother, I’m not quite sure what it is,” she offered.

“Thank you," he said.

“Is that what you wanted from Kyle?”

“I thought, he seems to know everything on account of all his travels. I just figured he might know what it was and maybe had some medicine for it,” Terry confessed.

“I understand,” she said rubbing his arm to soothe his worries.

“Listen, I better get going, I have more deliveries,” he said turning the water off.

She handed him a towel.

Terry dried the bottles and without saying another word, he hastily turned and left.

Portia watched him go. When the door closed her heart sank. How sad was it that they were not taking their daughter to the infirmary for fear she’d be banished? She looked at the food but suddenly didn’t have an appetite. Her world felt lopsided, even upside down. While The Number One utilized a firm iron grip over the people, it naturally created an opposition in the form of The Underground, but it seemed to be in equal proportions. For every harsh system put into place by The Number One, The Underground would respond with something as harsh, often resulting in hurting innocents. As the two battled, the majority of people living in Collective Prime were caught in the crossfire, too scared to stand up to Number One to demand reasonable change, but forced to back him by The Underground due to their extremist responses. It was a bloody and now tiresome tug of war with The Underground at a major disadvantage. She turned the music off. How could she listen to something so beautiful after hearing about Terry’s concerns? She stored everything in the refrigerator and went back to getting ready for the day

Kyle hit the brakes causing his truck to screech to a full stop inches from a spray-painted sign that read. ENTERING ROCKY MOUNTAIN REPUBLIC.

It has been years since he’d crossed into the RMR and for a valid reason, he had a bounty on his head there and all because of a simple disagreement which resulted in him killing several of their people.

The Rocky Mountain Republic was anything but a real republic. Like, The Collective, they were led by a single person, a despot for all intents and purposes. The rule of law was simple, any law that was violated was punishable by death.

Another trait they shared with The Collective was their heightened state of paranoia. Newcomers weren’t welcome and if you stepped out of line, you’d find yourself hanging from a tree or quartered and fed to hogs. Neither was something Kyle wished upon himself.

If Number Two and Driver Ten had entered without an invitation and were looking to scavenge, the odds were high they’d been captured and almost immediately hung from the large oak outside of the captiol.

Kyle sat and thought. What were those two doing here? What possibly could have sent them here? The RMR wasn’t a thriving community compared to The Collective, they didn’t hold anything of significant value, at least that he didn’t know. So, what would make them come here and under what appeared to be the knowledge of Number One?

To the west, the sun was riding high. Plenty of day left, but he was tired and in need of a proper shower. With that in mind, he decided to make his first stop in the Republic, an old dive bar called The Rusty Nail. It was a place he and other travelers knew well. He hadn’t been there in years and for his sake, he hoped it was still there. The Nail as locals called it, not only offered booze but also hot showers, a welcome treat after being on the road for days straight. Excited about the prospect of cleaning up, he put the truck into gear and sped off.

Though it had been years since he’d ridden these last few miles towards Salina, the turns and bends soon felt familiar. After making the last S curve, the dim lights of The Rusty Nail came into view.

Is it still open? He thought as he pulled into the half empty parking lot. It is! He found a space near the back and parked. He turned off the engine and stared through the windshield at the faded horizontal wood planks that made up the siding of the establishment. A chuckle came out of him as he thought of how predictable mankind was. Hundreds of nuclear warheads had destroyed civilization. Gone were every retail and commercial business ever created, but one, the bar. Yes, people could find small roadside markets selling wares, but only things of necessity had value except one, booze. No one needed alcohol, but never the less, here was a bar, still standing after years. Why? Because everyone needed a good drink, sometimes.

Kyle was happy to see the place, but before he could partake in a much-needed libation. He needed to prep his truck. He placed a boot on the front tire, popped the hood, removed the battery and a spark plug and lastly, removed several fuses. Of course, none of this prevented someone from still attempting to break in so he also planned on paying the Rusty Nail’s security guard posted near the back.

“How much?” Kyle asked the guard.

The old man looked Kyle up and down and replied, “Nice looking rig you got there.”

“How much?” Kyle repeated.

“Where does someone get a rig like that?”

“I saved up for it. How much to keep an eye on it?”

The old man’s eyes widened. “Something tells me you’re a long way from home.”

“Am I confused or are you not the Nail’s lot guard,” Kyle asked sarcastically.

The man spit, wiped his mouth, leaving tiny black particles from his chewing tobacco along his

chin and answered, “That’s my job.”

“Good, then how much?”

“I don’t take republic dollars. In fact I don’t take any bullshit currency. What do you have of real value?” the old man cackled.

Kyle tore his backpack off, unzipped the top button, pulled out a large can of tuna and held it out.

The old man gave Kyle an odd look and asked, “What’s that?”

Kyle furrowed his brow and returned his question with one. “You can’t see, can you?”

“I can damn well see, it’s just getting’ dark out here,” the old man grumbled.

Kyle laughed and said, “I have the perfect thing for you.” He put the can away, dug into a side

pocket and pulled out two pairs of bifocals. “Here try them on.”

The old man grumbled something unintelligible under his breath and snatched the glasses from

Kyle’s hand. He brought them close to his face and examined them.

“Go ahead, try them on,” Kyle said with a smile.

The old man put on the first pair, blinked repeatedly and looked around. He grumbled and donned the second. He looked up at Kyle and asked, “Where’s that can?”