The patter of feet and yelling reverberated from the stairs, but the sounds were growing faint. Whoever it was, they were fleeing.
Kyle stood, turned on his flashlight and directed the beam towards the open doorway. There he saw a boy lying in a small pool of blood. He raced over, stopping more than an arm’s length away.
The boy, no older than fifteen, lifted his head and groaned, “Help me.”
Kyle looked at him and shook his head. He was amazed that Generates would venture this far into The Wastes and without any form of protection from the radiation that still lingered. “Idiots.”
The boy reached out with a quivering hand. “Help, please.”
Kyle cocked his head and for a moment considered helping but stopped when he saw the necklace the boy was wearing. “Who ever imagined ears would be a fashion statement.” The boy’s necklace was nothing more than a thick piece of twine but what hung on it gave a clear picture of Generates and their habits. A single ear was taken as a trophy from every human a Generate would kill. Kyle knelt down and said, “If I just look at you without knowing anything about your kind, I see a teenage boy. A boy crying for help, needy, and scared.”
The boy coughed heavily and spit out a considerable amount of blood. “Please.”
“I count, um, four ears. Wow, you’ve killed four people, good for you. Tell me, do you throw parties when you hit a certain number?” Kyle mocked.
Coughing louder, the boy cried, “Help.”
“You know something I will help,” Kyle said reaching out and dragging the boy close. He cradled the boy’s head in his lap, placed one hand under his chin and the other on the top of his head. “There are two different types of help. There’s helping someone else and there’s helping yourself. I’m gonna help myself as I know your people will be back soon and in greater numbers,” he said and twisted hard, snapping the boys neck. Showing disdain, he tossed the boy’s lifeless body onto the floor and stood. He got up, grabbed the basket and raced up the stairs towards his truck.
The first thing he did when he reached the truck was open the hood and reconnect the battery and the two spark plugs he always removed when parking overnight. It was a small precaution he took so no one would steal his truck. Without a truck, he couldn’t be a driver and if he wasn’t a driver, he wouldn’t be able to support himself and his wife, Portia. It could be said that his truck, a 2016 Ford-150 Raptor, was his life blood, because it was.
Driving at night was something he tried to never do but he had no choice. He fired up the 3.5 liter, V-6 engine, put it in drive and slammed on the accelerator. The tires spun, spit rocks, then gripped the surface and lunged forward. He pulled the wheel hard, turned left and exited the driveway.
“Driver Eight, come in, over,” the radio crackled.
Shocked that his truck mounted ham radio worked this far out, made him hesitate to pick it up.
“Driver Eight, come in, over.”
He took the hand mike and replied, “Go for driver eight.”
“Where the hell have you been?” a man barked.
“Doing my job. I’m out of area, you know that,” Kyle answered.
“We’ve been trying to reach you for over six hours.”
Annoyed, Kyle asked, “Is there a reason you’re radioing me?” Silence. “Well?” Kyle asked.
“It’s Number Two, he’s missing. He was with Driver Ten.”
“You do know I’m in The Wastes near Denver? I’m a solid three-day drive away.” No reply. “You there?” Kyle asked.
“We think…” the man said before another voice came on the radio. “This is Number one, my son is missing. I’m ordering you to go to look for him.”
“Sir, I’m in The Wastes, nowhere near Driver Ten’s route which was west towards…” Kyle said but was interrupted.
“They’re somewhere in Salina,” Number One said.
“Salina, like Rocky Mountain Republic, Salina?” Kyle asked.
“Yes.”
“They’re in Rocky Mountain Republic territory? Why would they go there?” Kyle asked confused.
“Pay no matter,” Number one said.
“Like I said, I’m a good three to four day’s drive from there,” Kyle said.
“Go find him,” Number One ordered.
“Sir, hasn’t he done this before?” Kyle asked. It was true, Number Two, had disappeared other times, only to pop up a day or so later. This must be different, so Kyle pressed. “How long has he been gone?”
“Three days out of contact ,” One said.
“Can you tell me why they were going there? It might help.”
“No, I can’t, but you know Two, he does these sort of things, but I fear he might have gotten himself into some trouble this time,” Number One said.
“Nothing, sir? A clue might help me.”
“Driver Eight, how long you been driving for me and The Collective?”
It was an odd question. In fact, merely having a conversation with Number One was odd. “Eighteen years now,” Kyle answered.
“If you’ll remember, I found you lying on the side of the road half dead.”
“I remember,” Kyle said, his thoughts going back to that day many years ago. It was day he’d never forget and the reason he ended up becoming a driver.
“I’ve been good to you and your wife. Be good to me. Consider this a personal favor,” Number One beseeched.
“Fair enough.”
“And Driver Eight?” Number One said, his tone becoming steely.
“Yes.”
“Don’t come back empty handed.”
CHAPTER 2
Portia Grant stared blindly out the window and waited for the dreaded sirens to stop blaring. Each morning, exactly at six, sirens around town would come to life followed by a monotone announcement that the third shift was ending and the first was just beginning.
Life in The Collective focused on productivity and what a better way to ensure everyone was reminded was the use of daily sirens and constant announcements.
She yawned and stretched, her right arm reaching far across to an empty and cold spot where Kyle slept. Unfortunately, that spot stayed empty more than not. Being a driver put Kyle on the road a lot. He played a vital role in The Collective and had been one of the first drivers drafted. She tried to pressure him to stay and he could if he used his seniority, but he’d resist and go. Many times doing so even when it wasn’t his shift. She missed him, but told herself the long absences were justified, with great sacrifice came great privilege and being the wife of a driver did bring privilege.
Her thoughts went to their last conversation just a few nights before. He told her he was given a new mission and not to expect him home for at least another week. She wondered what he was doing and prayed he was safe. She couldn’t imagine her life without him, he was good to her but there was no mistaking she wasn’t the first love he’d ever had. Many nights he’d talk in his sleep and often he’d simply mutter the name Tiffany. Early in their marriage, she asked about Tiffany, he told her she was someone he cared for before coming to The Collective, nothing more. When pressed he’d tell her he didn’t want to discuss it.
She dragged herself out of bed and towards the bathroom. On her way, the phone rang. She walked to the nightstand and picked the handle off the cradle. The phone was a rotary style phone, familiar with many people up until the advent of mobile and wireless handheld devices.