HOOD: A Post Apocalyptic Novel (American Rebirth Series Book 1)
Read HOOD: A Post Apocalyptic Novel (American Rebirth Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Evan Pickering
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Dystopian, #Post-Apocalyptic
Chapter 9 – No One Will Save You
Chapter 19 – At The End of a Long Road
Chapter 20 – The Lion and The Legacy
HOOD
American Rebirth Series Book One
Evan Pickering
First Kindle Edition
Copyright
©
2016 by Evan Pickering
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
For my Brothers,
And Mom and Dad.
Special thanks to my editor Karen Kendall, Kathleen Pickering, Dan Pickering, Josh Schubart, Alli Cohen, Eastin Deverna, Kandice Lacci, Will Trapani, Stan and Liz Longenecker. You all helped make this book what it is.
"Our world faces a crisis as yet unperceived by those possessing power to make great decisions for good or evil. The unleashed power of the atom has changed everything save our modes of thinking and we thus drift toward unparalleled catastrophe."
-Albert Einstein
Chapter 1 – Campfire
Shenandoah Mountains, Fringes of Kaiser Territory, Formerly Virginia
The iron sights of Hood's AK-47 lined up perfectly between each other, trained on the dark-haired man in the muted blue of predawn light. Something was wrong. This man wasn't some lost wastelander. Any loner with sense would've given their camp a wide birth. There was an undeniable purposefulness to this man's approach—he was looking for them. Hood's heart sped in his chest as his breath quickened.
The Kaiser knows we're here. How many more are coming?
The image of a host of the Kaiser's soldiers waiting in the dark mountain woods set his mind ablaze.
Focus.
Hood took a deep breath of crisp woodland air to level himself. The man hustled to the next tree and crouched down behind it, leaning over to peer around the mossy bark towards the campfire up the hill. No one else followed behind him.
Maybe he's just a scout.
The man's chest rose and fell quickly as he closed his eyes, pistol in hand. He switched hands on his pistol, wiped his palms on his pants.
He doesn't want this. He's just like you.
The thought surged into his mind unabated. Hood tried to cast it out, focused on keeping his aim true.
Just turn around and go back,
Hood pleaded. He had a perfect shot from his flanking position up in the tree, but his finger stayed still on the trigger.
You have to shoot him.
Hood chewed on the salty pull string of his well-worn hoodie, breathing in deeply and holding the air in his lungs as he squeezed the trigger on his rifle nearly to the firing point, keeping the sights steady.
The man stood up straight against the tall oak, steeling himself. He turned and dashed towards the camp. Hood kept the sights stable on him as he moved. A loud crack split the air from his rifle, a casing flying out of the chamber and down onto the forest floor below. The man cried out, then collapsed into a heap. He writhed on the ground, clutching at his shoulder. Hood let the air out of his lungs, running his hand through his short messy hair.
You had to do it.
The air split with another gunshot, and the man lay still. Hood knew it was coming, but hoped it wouldn't. Whiskey didn't take chances. Hood should have just killed the man himself rather than leaving him to suffer before Whiskey finished it.
You can't let it all weigh you down—
they were Ian's words in Hood's head. It was a resounding memory, but it meant something much different when Ian said it years ago—brotherly words of advice on love. He wished more than anything Ian sat beside him in the tree. Somehow, it would make all of this easier
. I know you're still alive out there. I can feel it.
Whiskey's broad, tall frame appeared from behind a nearby tree. He moved slowly with quiet steps towards the dead man with a lowered pistol at his side. He wore his usual stoic expression—it was surrounded by short cut black hair and a scruffy beard with a gray patch on his chin. A police issue black flak jacket rested over his dirtied, tan long-sleeved shirt. He always wore it with the sleeves rolled up. He should just cut the damn things off.
The distant cracking of more gunshots followed. Two, three, four, five-six-seven. Then silence.
That didn't go cleanly.
Hood whistled a melodic bird call. A similar one returned—so Billy had taken out whoever else was attacking.
Whiskey was crouched down low, waiting for anyone else to come. The seconds dragged on, Hood straining to hear any sound in the dark woods. The forest sat still, save for the leaves of the trees rustling lightly with the wind.
They must've just been scouts.
Hood laid the worn black metal body of his rifle across his knees and bowed his head.
This is the way things are. You have to accept that.
“Why didn't you make the kill?” Whiskey asked, his voice familiar, slightly southern.
“I missed.” Hood slung his rifle over his back and dislodged himself from his foothold in the tree, swinging down from one branch to another.
“Like hell you did. You can't change the way the world is, kid. You're wasting your talent. And our ammo.”
“It just doesn't feel right.” Hood landed on the forest floor, bouncing up to a standing position. He looked over at the dead man lying in the grass.
“I ain't sayin' it's easy, but it's them or us. You know that.” Whiskey stared off into the woods in the direction of Billy's post. “I'm gonna check on him. Head back to camp and get something to eat.”
Hood couldn't move, staring at the dead man in the wet grass. A memory of the old world flooded his mind:
The sun was going down in the country, Hood, Ian and their sister Taylor taking turns shooting their uncle's compound bow at a fake-deer target pincushioned with arrows.
“Do you think you could kill someone if you had to?” Ian said, releasing his shot to the sound of a satisfying
thunk.
The orange sunlight illuminated his short blond hair.
“Who is it you'd have to kill?” Hood said, taking the bow and nocking an arrow.
“You don't know. You just know its either you or him.”
“So it's a guy, then?” Taylor asked, shielding the setting sun from her eyes. Her phone
dinged
a text message tone in her pocket, unattended.
“Does it matter?” Ian said.
“Of course it matters. What if it was a girl you guys had to shoot?”
“I kinda feel bad just shooting this thing.” Hood aimed carefully, releasing the bowstring. The arrow snaked through the air and
thunked
an inch from the bull painted on the midsection of the fake deer.
“For feeling bad, you're pretty good at it,” Taylor said.
“The way I see it, you don't know if the guy is good or bad. But we know we're good,” Ian said.
“Just playing devil's avocado here, but if we shoot the other guy, are we still the good ones?” Taylor said with a smirk.
Ian laughed. “We can figure that out while we're still alive.”
Hood gnawed his lip. He missed that life so much that the memories had become more bitter than sweet. Part of him wanted to forget. He would do anything to have Ian, Mom and Dad with them in this brutal new world. It would make it all bearable. Family against the chaos. He thanked whatever god would listen every day that he had Taylor. He only wished he could tell her they were alright. She'd be worried back in Clearwater, holding down the fort until they returned with the supplies they purloined from the Sheriff.
Only a few years ago Hood had been in college, skipping classes about the history of war and the rare revolutionaries like Gandhi who stood against it. War and death were distant concepts. Now civilization was a memory, and war was a part of life.
A squirrel ran down a nearby tree, darting through the grass and away from Hood before scrambling up the bark of a tall maple. Hood's shoes tread softly on the wet grass as he moved toward the man’s body. He held the worn grip of his rifle, but kept it at his side. The corpse lay sprawled face-down, blood seeping into the dirt. The dead man was much taller than he’d looked from a distance. He was recently shaven, and his backpack sagged over the back of his head. Hood knelt down, opening it. A book, of all things, sat inside. He pulled it out, inspecting the blank black cover before flipping through the pages. It was hand-written. He tucked the book into the back of his pants, and removed the man's backpack.
What kind of person were you? At the very least, the type to keep a journal.
The guy wouldn’t be doing any more writing. Hood grit his teeth.
He kept the rifle in hand, headed back towards the campsite. From the other direction in the woods, he could hear the murmuring voices of Whiskey and Billy.
Hood walked up the sloping grass to their camp in the wooded foothills, the fire flickering outside the small, red oak cabin. He tossed the backpack onto the ground near the concrete slab the cabin rested upon. Doug and Tommy sat in folding chairs around the campfire, passing a flask between them, rifles at their sides.
“Kaiser's men?” Doug inquired.
“Yeah, a few of them. You two take watch. I'm sure Billy could use a break too.” The two of them rose to their feet with some effort, Doug stretching wildly.
“Damn, shift starts early, huh?” Tommy smirked. The two of them turned and headed northwest, in the direction Hood had come from. Tommy shoved the flask into Doug's midsection.
Whiskey and Billy emerged from the trees into the firelight. Billy was dripping blood from his left hand, which he held tight in his right.
“Oh shit, Billy Red's got some red on him!” Doug shouted as they passed by. “One of the bastards tagged you, huh?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Billy shouted, grimacing.
Hood moved to meet them halfway. Billy stared nervously at Hood with sharp blue eyes. He pulled his hand away, revealing the bloody hole in his left palm as his hand quivered uncontrollably. Hood flipped it around to the other side, saw the exit wound.
“You're lucky. It went clear through. Get the iron ready,” Hood said.
“Oh fuck me, this is going to hurt.” Billy bared his teeth as he stared at his bloody hand.
Hood clapped him on the shoulder. “Just don't think about it. And you might want to start drinking now.”
Before Hood had finished speaking Billy had snatched the bottle out of Lucky's hands as he sat beside the fire. The two of them immediately started to argue, Lucky ranting about how searing wounds shut did more harm than good. Billy was having none of it. Not like Lucky was a doctor or anything, he just didn't want to give up his booze. Really, none of them were. It was a sore area of need, one they couldn’t easily remedy. They didn’t find many doctors wandering the mid-Atlantic countryside these days.
Whiskey put an old iron rod into the fire, shaking his head. Joey and Wedge plodded out of the cabin with a squeak of the screen door, unmistakably hungover. Ever since they had found a case of vodka on the last raid, this had been a regular occurrence.