HOOD: A Post Apocalyptic Novel (American Rebirth Series Book 1) (32 page)

“Harper's Ferry,” Whiskey said with a kind of nostalgic air. “West Virginia,” he pointed at the town. “Virginia.” He pointed at the tree-covered great hill on the southern bank of the river. “Maryland.” He said, gesturing at the wooded rocky cliff they stood on.

“It's gorgeous.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Why are we here?”

“I figure it’s our best shot at getting across the river without anyone noticing. It's a tiny place, probably less attended than the other bridges and crossings.” Whiskey tried to crack a stubborn knuckle unsuccessfully. “We can find out for sure when morning comes. With any luck, the town will be empty and we can scoot on through.”

“Wouldn't mind some luck,” Hood said emphatically. He walked over to the edge of the uneven cliff. His feet got chills just looking over the edge. “I think we're a bit overdue.”

“I'm overdue some sleep,” Whiskey said.

“Amen.” Hood moved over to his backpack and dug out a few cans. “No fire, I figure?”

Whiskey shook his head.

“Cold beans and mystery meat it is, then.” Hood tossed Whiskey a small pop-top can.

“What is it?”

“It's better if you don't know.”

“What is it?”

“I'm not kidding; it tastes better if you don't know.”

“What is it?”

Hood sighed, clapping his hands onto his knees as he stood up. “Cat food.”

Whiskey looked at the can. “Delicious.”

Hood pried open the beans and shoved a spoon into the can. Whiskey sat down on the grass, and Hood sat down beside him, placing the beans in between.

“There is no shortage of spoons in the apocalypse,” Hood posited.

“We should capture them all and create a spoon empire,” Whiskey said, completely serious as he stared out at the town like a conquering general.

Hood burst out laughing. “Hot damn! It only took us nearly killing each other, but you've let loose!”

“Don't ruin it.” Whiskey dug into the cat food. “You're right,” he said through a mouthful. “It would taste better if I didn't know.”

“Told you.” Hood proffered the can of beans. “Wash it down with some gooey beans and some nice murky water.” He plopped down the jug of water between them.

“I think I'd kill you for a nice cold IPA.” Whiskey cleaned out the bottom of his cat food can.

Hood nodded at him with a heartfelt smile. “The feeling is mutual. Maybe a nice stout.”

An owl hooted somewhere in the woods, and cicadas buzzed as the crisp cool air off the river swept over the cliff side. It had an intoxicating woodsy smell of wilderness to it.

Hood choked down his cat food as quickly as he could. As watery and salty as it was, it felt glorious in his empty stomach. The beans were an upgrade. He longed for the peanut butter- and-jelly, cinnamon graham-cracker sandwiches Kerry had made.

Is it wrong to say I miss you? Hood wriggled his toes inside his shoes. Only because you can't hear it.

Whiskey leaned back on his elbows, looking out at Harper's Ferry and the gleaming canopy of stars. The incredible night sky was one of the few benefits of the collapsing of civilization. As fucked up as everything was, Hood was happy to be on this planet and not any other. If this was going to be his last night alive, it was a pretty damn good one. Save for the food.
Every night could be your last one alive. Stop thinking so damn much.

Hood looked over at Whiskey, who seemed lost in thought himself as he looked out over the scene.

“Speaking of killing each other,” Hood started, pulling Whiskey back into reality. “There's something you've never answered for me.”

Whiskey nodded slowly, like he knew what Hood was going to say.

“Why didn't you shoot me when you first met me? Or just leave? You've always dodged answering this, but I know there's a reason. Ever since I've been with you, you've mistrusted every stranger we’ve ever met until they proved decent. Why did you trust me?”

Whiskey inhaled.

“And don't give me this 'you saw Taylor' crap, because you didn't, not at first. She was in the car.”

“I don't know,” Whiskey said at length.

Hood chuckled. “Saving your secret for the grave, huh?” He shook his head. “Figure it'll be a real knee slapper to tell Marlon Brando and John Wayne after you kick the bucket?”

“I'm like fifteen years older than you, so cut the old man bullshit,” Whiskey grumbled.

“Oh man, that's been pent-up for a while, hasn't it?” Hood said.

Whiskey ran his hand forcefully over his face in annoyance, still looking out at the river.

The owl continued his serenade.

“It's just not something I like to talk about, is all.” Whiskey said.

Hood leaned his head back and sighed.

“Well shit, I don't like to talk sometimes either, but I do it because I gotta get it out, and if I don't. . . Fuck man, if I was like you, our time together would have to be called The Silence Chronicles.”

Whiskey laughed to himself. “And here I always thought you talked way too much.”

Hood snorted. “I'd rather talk too much than too little.”

Whiskey rubbed the palm of his left hand with his right thumb.

“Yeah, I think you're right.” He stared up at the stars, exhaling.“I ain't never talked to anyone about this.” He hesitated. “I don't know how I'm gonna feel.”

Hood furrowed his brow. Whiskey leaned forward, resting his forearms on his raised knees.

“No one?”

“Not as an adult, anyway.”

Hood sat in the same position as Whiskey, forearms on his knees.

“My brother died when I was young.” Whiskey said it quietly. “It was my fault. We, I wanted to. . . Well, it don't matter how. But it was my fault.”

Hood looked down at the rocky grass. “Damn.”

Whiskey's breath hitched as he tried to talk. “I. . . It's crazy, I know it sounds crazy.” He worked his mouth. “But I swear, you're just like him. You even look a lot like him. I mean, you're grown up. He was much younger, but it's almost like. . .” Whiskey looked away. “It was like when I first saw you, I stopped in my tracks. I could'a sworn. And as I got to know you, I couldn't believe it.”

Hood watched Whiskey intently, giving him time to speak.
It makes so much sense. Why he's always looked out for me. Why he took on that brotherly role so fast.

“Wow,” he said finally. “I never would've known.”

“I never wanted to say it because. . . because I thought saying it might make it less real, make it sound dumb.”

“It doesn't sound dumb.” Hood said, feeling like his whole history after the collapse was some incredible feat of serendipity. “It's amazing. I'm sorry for your loss, but. . . whatever shit we're in now, Taylor and I never would have even had a chance at life if it weren't for you.”

“I was not ready for the apocalypse,” Hood said. “I really do think you saved us.”

Whiskey leaned his head back, taking in the sky. “I feel the same way, kid.” He seemed to breathe easier. Even if his eyes still carried exhaustion. “Taylor, she's something else. She's the most amazing woman I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah. She's pretty great.” Hood smiled. “Not when you're seven and she's beating you over the head with a water gun, though.”

Whiskey chuckled. “Oh, she's wanted to beat me over the head with somethin' a few times, I'm sure.”

An insect buzzed in front of Hood's face and he batted it away. “So does that mean you always looked at Taylor as your sister? Damn, you
are
southern.”

Whiskey threw his cat food can at Hood, who slapped it out of the air, making a Bruce Lee noise.

“You Goddamned asshole.” Whiskey complained loudly. “I can't talk to you about nothin'.”

“Man, that's so gross. What a sick bastard you are.” Hood said, cackling.

Whiskey
hmphed
in annoyance.

The wind gusted and shook the trees into a soft coo of rustling leaves. After a brief reprieve, the owl resumed his hooting. Hood picked up a smooth, flat rock and tossed it from hand to hand.

“Kind of makes you think, doesn't it?”

“About what?”

“That maybe everything does happen for a reason.”

Whiskey lay down on the grass with his arm behind his head.

“I don't much believe in that crap.”

“Yeah, I don't think I do either.” Hood assented.

“If this is all someone's design, it's a pretty fuckin' terrible one,” Whiskey said, eyes closed.

“Yeah. Most of it, anyway.” Hood said, putting his backpack down behind him, prodding it in the hopes it would transform into a pillow. He leaned his head back onto it, unsurprised to find it still lumpy and uncomfortable.

♦ ♦ ♦

Kerry tapped the bumper of the Sheriff's old truck with the heels of her shoes as she sat on the hood. It was on the other side of the broken bridge. The weather was sunny and beautiful.

“We're even, now,” she said, sporting a grin of satisfaction. “You didn't think I'd be okay.”

“I've missed you,” Hood said.

“I don't want to leave,” she said, now seeming wary of him.

“Where are you going?”

Kerry seemed to disappear; His mother and father were moving a coffee table in the middle of the cobblestone bridge that was simultaneously their living room. They looked at it, picked up either side and moved it again.

“Robbie, come here and give me a hand with this couch?” His father asked, staring at the table and scratching at his solar plexus.

“Dad, I want to talk to you.” Hood paused. “About so many things.”

“The new TV is coming in today. We want to rearrange the living room.”

“I should've been there for you guys. It was my fault. I was scared to come home,” Hood said.

His father suddenly held out a cell phone. “Tell your sister if she wants to talk, she should call me. I don't know how to work this damn thing.”

His parents were gone. Kerry was standing in front of him. The wind across the bridge blew her hair in front of her face. He longed just to reach out and touch her, pull her into his arms. She smiled a brief warm smile at him, then looked down at his hand. She was holding his right hand open, drawing the blade of a knife across his palm.

“It's okay, my mother was a nurse,” She said with calm reassurance.

“Ow, stop, that hurts,” Hood implored. “Stop that, what are you doing?!”

Hood blinked awake, his eyes hazy. His cut right hand was pinned between his body and the forest floor. It throbbed in pain. He must've rolled onto it in his sleep. He heaved himself up into a sitting position, his other wounds aching as he moved.

Exhaustion had made the lumpy earth into a luxury bed. It was already well into morning. The sun was obscured by clouds but the day was bright. Hood stood up and stretched before tucking his Beretta into the back of his jeans.

He glanced over at Harper's Ferry. The picturesque town looked even more beautiful by day. The two brown railway bridges stretched nearly parallel across the navy-and-green northern river, which had to be the Potomac, Hood figured.

He rubbed his eyes, feeling the urge to relieve his swollen bladder.

Whiskey lay in the exact position he had fallen asleep in, snoring softly. Hood shuffled off northwards into the trees, his feet soundless on the soft ground, the woods motionless.

He’d reached down to unzip when he heard the unmistakable sound of a stream of liquid pelting against the dirt. Hood looked to his left, suddenly alert. Framed by boughs a good forty feet away, a young blond man was pissing. He wore regular clothes with a red kerchief tied around his forearm, and then a complete look of shock as his brown eyes locked with Hood's.

He let go of himself and scrambled for the rifle that hung on his shoulder. Without pausing to think, Hood reached back, whipped the Beretta into aim perfectly and fired one shot. It rang out into the woods. His heart sank knowing it would connect.

The young man fell backwards into the dirt with a thump.

Hood lowered the pistol, looking around.

Nothing else moved.

He dashed over to the soldier. He lay in the dirt in a patch of sunlight, neck covered in blood. The young man stared up at Hood with tears in his eyes, gurgling and choking.

Hood reached down and took the rifle. He felt the stinging in his own eyes.
He's just a kid. There are people he loves and a future he wished for. But he dies so you can go on.

Hood couldn't turn away from the gaze of the dying young man.
Stop it. Stop thinking about it. You'll torture yourself. Just keep moving. It's the only thing you can do.

The young man's manhood still hung out of his pants. Hood picked up a nearby branch and placed it over him, making him decent.
I'm so sorry kid. I am.
The young man wordlessly pointed to his own forehead. He was pleading for Hood to end the pain. He reached out with a bloody hand. Hood knelt down and held it as the young man closed his eyes. Hood raised the Beretta and fired.