HOOD: A Post Apocalyptic Novel (American Rebirth Series Book 1) (26 page)

Hood fired.

His man’s head exploded, spraying another slaver five feet behind him. The only sound was the body slumping to the floor and the ringing in his ears from the shot that echoed in the halls.

Hood pointed the pistol at the gore-covered slaver.

“He must not know what ‘map’ means. Do you know what ‘map’ means?” Hood said to the gory man. The man nodded, turned and ran down the hallway.

“That's better. You all keep working on your snowman impressions and I'll be on my way in no time,” Hood said, surveying their faces. Some stared back in hate, some in horror. Not all of them were grizzled wasters. Even if they were doing the devil's own work. None of them said a word, frozen in place.

The gory man hurried back down the hall, holding a map over his head.

“That's the place right there. It's down the highway.” He pointed to a marked spot on the worn, folded road map. Hood snatched it with his left hand.

“You're not lying to me, are you? If I go there and there's no slavers, I'm going to have to come back here. And I'm going to be pretty unhappy about it.”

“It's the one. It's the place. I swear.” The man said, his close-set eyes wide.

“Good.” Hood backed away from them all to the front doors. “Well, it's been real. Next time try opening a lemonade stand or something.”

Hood turned to face the front door. He paused a moment.
The guy outside definitely heard the gunshots.
Hood pushed the door open and dove forward in a somersault. The machete scraped against the concrete as the man swung it down hard. Hood flipped onto his back with pistol raised, firing three times fast at the machete man as he lunged towards him.

The shots made a three-step ladder up the man's chest and he collapsed onto Hood's legs.

Hood kicked him off, the once-smug slaver gurgling on his own blood. Hood stood up, taking one last glance at the school before hustling away. He pulled his backpack out of the scrub brush beside the ivy-overgrown house, then tucked the pistol into his pants, the barrel warm against his body.

His right hand shook steadily, still bleeding out of his palm where the glass had sliced into him. He tore off the sleeve of his shirt and wrapped it tightly around the wound. As the adrenaline faded, the pain rushed back into his shoulder and his side while his hand throbbed.

Hood climbed the steps into an old apartment building the young boy had told him about.

Muffled voices argued in Spanish from an apartment as he walked down the empty hallway with filthy walls and peeling paint. He quietly went down to the basement, where an old laundry room featured a boarded-up earthen hole. It lead down to the sewers and out of the camp. His mind floated to Kerry, Whiskey, and Taylor, wishing they were with him as he splashed down into murky water that rushed down the slope of the sewer.

You're not alone. You'll never be alone. I'm coming. I'm not giving up until they kill me.

Chapter 15 – Deliverance

It was a long, quiet walk along the road. Too long and too quiet. Not one haggard soul had he seen after leaving the camp.

The route on the map was simple. He wished it were more complex, giving him something to focus on. Instead his days were filled with hunger and wild imaginings as to where everyone he loved had gone. His nights were filled with dreams of searching frantically in dark mountain forests only to have the mountain split open, heaving fire and swallowing up distant familiar figures until he could only turn and run. Being hungry gives you bad dreams.

As he got closer to his destination, he tried to focus on Kerry. In his gut, he was steeling himself to the challenge of freeing her from the slavers. But fears and questions ran free in his mind–where was Ian with Taylor? What had happened to Whiskey? Were any of them still alive?

One thing at a time, he'd remind himself. They're more than capable of taking care of themselves. You won't find them if you get yourself killed by some wastelanders while you daydream.

A sickly looking deer with patchy fur galloped out of the treeline beside the road, bounded across its cracked surface and into the thick layer of trees on the other side. Hood was so surprised by its appearance that he couldn't even line up a shot on it until it had vanished once again into the tree cover.

Goddammit.

His stomach rumbled in frustration. He consoled himself by thinking it would take too much time to skin and cook the thing. But he had found very little food in the few abandoned roadside stops he'd seen thus far. He eyed the woods, considering whether to give chase.

Stay on the road. You know how to get to the camp from here, and you could get lost in those woods.

He urged his body forward, drinking some water out of the bottle in his pack, which only made his stomach feel more empty.

What if you never find any of them?
The thought barged into his head. His heart sank at the idea that might have seen the last of those he loved. He wanted to refuse the possibility, but he couldn't.

If that's the way it has to be, you keep moving. You keep searching for any sign of them. You keep living and surviving and you fight because there is good in the world worth fighting for.

Hood desperately hoped someone, anyone, would come out of the woods. Friend, foe, he didn't care. There was too much time to think.

There's no one out here because they all get captured or killed by someone or another.

He was far enough north now that he was probably near where Rangers from the Sons of Liberty would come through. He was almost to the borders between which the Kaiser’s militants and the Sons held sway.

There was a crazy, expansive empty feeling to being alone, walking for days through this country he knew to be so huge. It gave him the sensation of being lost even though he knew where he was going. There were wasters and soldiers and slavers that would prey upon him, but the silent emptiness of the road in the woods felt as though it would engulf him, that it would never end.

As the long walk continued, he checked the Beretta he'd taken from Dame Pria. It was a beautiful pistol, but he only had three bullets left.
It's okay, he said to himself with a grin, just don't miss
. He felt a confidence bordering on cockiness.

You're acting pretty tough for a kid who got touched up pretty good in his last few fights,
Whiskey's voice said in his head.

Hood chuckled.

You're laughing at yourself. You've reached crazy territory.

Despite his aching injuries, Hood felt sharp. He felt ready now. He just hated the wait.

As each day wore on, he'd check the map for his progress far too often.

He realized he was close when a rusted exit sign for a nearby podunk town appeared amidst the tall roadside weeds. The trees slowly gave way to empty ‘civilization’ once again.

The mall on the highway service road was really more just a collection of large retail outlets surrounding a parking lot. The wind blew garbage bags and papers swirling into the air and skidding across the pavement. The waning sun offered little warmth.

He paused in front of the shattered glass doors of a huge warehouse-style store, scanning the area for movement. He didn't know what he was hoping for. According to the map, this was the place.

He hid outside and watched for movement for an hour. Nothing so much as moved. If it was empty, where were the slavers? Where was Kerry? Had Pria's slavers lied to him?

Pistol in hand, he stepped through the remnants of the door, ducking under the handle that ran across the midsection. The shattered plexiglass sheets crunched under his shoes. He moved forward cautiously, the building only barely illuminated by ambient light from the front doors. Racks of clothes lay knocked on the floor, and cash registers were smashed on the ground. Once proud retail items were strewn about everywhere.
This looks just like every other ransacked nightmare frozen in time.

Hood balled his free hand into a fist. This couldn't be the place. Had he read the map wrong? No. But there didn't seem to be anyone here.

He looked up at a sign hanging from the ceiling, directing him to the back of the store for the sporting goods department. Quietly he walked between a row of shelves holding a host of different kinds of shoes. The samples were all scattered across the floor, laid low with impunity. Hood tried to imagine a timeline for this place. He could only imagine the kind of anarchy that had ensued when the panic truly set in, and people realized they were on their own for survival.

Without a sound he turned the corner and hustled over to the hunting section of the darkened warehouse. The display cases were empty, devoid of shotguns. A large amount of blood stained the carpet.

On the other side of the counter he found several empty casings on the floor. In the cabinets below he found a case which was probably once full of shotgun ammunition, now only a few boxes remained. If he could ever find a shotgun they'd be useful. He tucked two boxes away into his backpack. The place was picked clean of weaponry. That was not a good sign.

He hustled down the aisles, looking for anything of value. Only stacks of garbage bags were left, along with bottles of laundry detergent, soaps and cleaning supplies. He found a garden hose and slung it over his shoulder, and tossed a bottle of soap into his bag. He could cut off a section of the hose; it would be perfect for siphoning gas. If he could find a functioning car.

A faint clicking sound echoed through the warehouse. It was rapid and soft, but incessant. Hood crouched low and quietly hugged the back wall of the building as he passed aisle after aisle, getting closer to the sound.

It was so dark he could barely see, but he recognized the faint smell of gasoline. As he approached the back corner of the building he saw a dormant generator. The clicking sound stopped. Hood froze. He could hear something sniffing, then growling.

The clicking started again. It was an animal's claws on the tile. He could smell the pungent odor before he could see anything. The clicking sped up greatly. Dogs barked. They were coming after him.

He saw one of them only as it leapt for him. He jumped back into the aisle, and it skidded on its claws against the floor. He raised his pistol and shot at it as it turned to face him, teeth bared. It yelped and fell into a heap. Another one crashed into his back, clawing and trying to bite down into his neck only to sink its teeth into the hose slung over his shoulder.

Hood spun around and it flew off of him, hose still in its mouth. It landed on all fours, dropped the hose and lunged at him. He fired at the animal but missed his mark. Its jaws nearly snapped off the front of his nose and he fell onto his back. It leaped onto him once more. Hood reached out to grab it by the neck to stop it from sinking its teeth into his face. He tried to position the pistol for a clean shot but the animal flailed so wildly he could barely keep it away. It foamed at the mouth, the warm spit dripping onto Hood's neck. It reared back to dive in for the bite.

In that second of reprieve Hood whipped the pistol into position and shot it through the neck. Blood spilled out of it onto Hood. It struggled for a moment before going limp. Hood tossed it to the floor, pulling himself to his feet. He leaned his hands on his knees as he caught his breath, adrenaline racing through him. The slide was locked back on the pistol. He was out of bullets.

Why in god's name would wild dogs be in this place? He turned back to the generator. Near it was a pile of refrigerator shelves. He followed the cord from the generator to the wall of food storage refrigerators. The smell seeping out was putrid.

Blood covered the floor.

But worse, the plexiglass doors of the refrigerators displayed at least a dozen human corpses flayed and hanging from meathooks. Some of the limbs were missing. A tall table used as a chopping block sat covered in gore just inside the wall of refrigerators. Hood threw his hand over his nose and mouth to cover it. His stomach tried to leave him repeatedly.

The bastard wasn't lying. This is the slaver's den
.

They would be coming back here. He needed to leave now.

But how many more people will they kill and eat if you leave?

“Would the extremely loud motherfucker please come to the front desk?” A raspy voice echoed through the warehouse. “I'm afraid we are not open for visitors, sir or madame. And I
do hope
it is a madame!” It boomed again with sardonic courtesy.

Hood looked down at his pistol, devoid of bullets. He cursed under his breath, looking around the warehouse in desperation. He ran quietly on the balls of his feet down the nearest aisle and climbed up as furtively as he could manage to the top of the shelves and

lay down among stacks of boxes, staying motionless. He waited. Time seemed to take forever. He felt that his breathing was louder than a foghorn.

He could hear several men murmuring to each other, and could see three flashlight beams illuminating different parts of the store. Slowly they scanned the building, moving closer and closer to the back where he lay. He had to be calm, wait for the right moment, and hope they didn't find him before then. Maybe if he waited it out, they'd leave again.