The Hive: A Post-Apocalyptic Life

Blake Shelton CD playing low, his fingers tapped out the rhythm on the steering wheel, the vibration of the truck comforting and familiar. His eyes caught a flash in the far-off distance. Then his heart nearly exploded in his chest with terror, as he witnessed four mushroom clouds in the distance, so far away, he nearly missed them. Had he been in the city, he would never have seen them. But he saw them, four nuclear explosions, the locations of which, he didn’t know.
He was so mesmerized that when he heard a horn blaring and realized he was running head long into another big rig he had to jerk the steering wheel hard, to avoid a head on collision. His truck swerved in sickening slow motion and he screamed in terror, either from the imminent wreck or the four nuclear blasts, he didn’t know.
Hogan fought desperately to gain control of his truck, but the heavy container pulled the cab and rig this way and that. Ahead of him was an SUV that was going to be crushed beneath him. His mind rejected that outcome. He could not let that happen. But he was helpless to stop the actions from happening. His screaming never stopped, and he felt his body tumbled into freefall, his arms and legs seeming to float and then all was black.

                                      ONE
Kansas City, MO
Odd beeping noises were the very first things that wedged its way into Hogan’s brain. Then the rhythmic whoosh and click of a machine, near his ear. His mind was foggy, and he didn’t know why. Was it time to get up? Had he overslept? His eyelids were so heavy, he couldn’t open them. That jolted him. Why can’t I open my eyes, he wondered? He heard voices, far away, and he couldn’t understand them. There were many voices, not just one. He also heard a TV, but the words spoken were unintelligible.
He could feel his heart beginning to race and the beeping he heard began to speed up. This frightened him, though he didn’t know why. Something wasn’t right, something was very wrong. He fought now to open his eyes. Why was it so damned hard to open his eyes? He heard someone speaking near him, calling his name. Was that Laura?
He felt something wipe at his eyes, it was cold and damp, it felt soothing. When it stopped, he tried to open his eyes again. This time, he saw a sliver of light crack through. He closed his eyes and once more felt the cool dampness of something wiping his eyes.
“That’s it, let me wipe them. Your lashes are glued shut. Men, why do they always have the longest lashes?” A woman quipped, humor in her voice.
When the wiping stopped, he once more tried to open his eyes. The light was bright around him and he squinted, sharp pain shooting through his brain. He tried to say something, but his mouth was full of something and dry. He choked and began to rise. He felt hands on his chest pushing him back down.
“Mr. Wrivier, please lay down. You’re in the hospital. You were in an accident. Mr. Wrivier, do you understand me?” The woman asked. Hogan realized it was a nurse who was pushing him down. She had light lavender scrubs on. She was about his age, maybe a little younger. Her skin was a soft pale brown and she had tiny freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. She had fine lines that creased out from her brown eyes, laugh lines, he thought vaguely.
His body relaxed back into the bed and his eyes searched around him. It hurt to try and turn his head. His dark blue eyes crossed when he looked down and saw the breathing tube coming out of his mouth. His eyes flew back to the nurse, frightened.
“Mr. Wrivier, you were in an accident. You’re in Kansas City ER. You were brought in four days ago.  The firefighters had to cut you out of your rig. You suffered head trauma, and a pneumothorax, that’s why you have a breathing tube. We had to intubate. You also suffered slight trauma to your left leg, a laceration. Your stats, your vital signs, are coming up, you’re looking better and better. Now that you’re awake, I’ll get the doctor over here and see if we can’t get that breathing tube out.” She smiled serenely down at him. Her hand was on his shoulder, not so much holding him down, but as to be a form of comfort.
He noticed the golden flecks in her brown eyes. The slight purple tones under her eyes. She was tired. Her sandy brown hair was pulled back, but he could see that it wasn’t neat, but slightly mussed. She’s been on duty for a while now, he thought. He nodded slightly at what she’d told him. The beeping of machines had slowed down and he figured his heart rate had gone back to normal.
“I’ll be right back in a few minutes with the doctor, Mr. Wrivier. Try to relax. My name is Trish Newman, I’m a nurse here.” She smiled again and left him. Blinking, Hogan tried to look around him, not wishing to turn his head. He felt as though he was floating on a cloud, he felt pain, but it was far away. Was that from the head trauma? His eyes moved around him, he saw the machines and the IV bags hanging from metal IV poles, along with boxes or pumps, with digital codes flashing and blinking. He didn’t understand the numbers and what they meant. He saw his heart rate and BP on a screen, just up and almost out of his peripheral vision.
It hurt to look up that far, so he brought his eyes down. There was a curtain around him except it was open at the foot of his bed. He