HOOD: A Post Apocalyptic Novel (American Rebirth Series Book 1) (33 page)

I'm sorry you had to die. In a different world, you wouldn't have to. I am going to stop this war. I am going to give the world a chance to be a place where you and I could've met in peace. In that world, I would fight for you as if you were my family.

Whiskey crashed through the underbrush, rifle in hand. He looked around frantically even after he saw Hood, and lowered the rifle.

“Just a kid,” Hood said, looking at Whiskey with bleary eyes.

“Get a hold of yourself.” Whiskey said. “Whoever he was, he's not alone.”

“He's one of the Sons. They're here.”

“We have to leave
now,
” Whiskey barked.

“Yeah.”

The two of them ran at full speed back to the cliffs where they’d slept. The deep echoing boom of an explosion was followed by the sudden distant cracking of gunfire. From their high vantage point, the situation was clear.

The Crusade has begun. The Sons are making their move while they still have the element of surprise. Or so they hope.
It was more than a scout or a raiding party. Hundreds of soldiers fired from the trees on the south bank of the river into the town as others forded the river below. Kaiser militants fired back from high windows and atop buildings. A single tank camouflaged in tree branches stood at the edge of the town, blasting into the trees on the other side of the river with reverberating booms.

“The Sons had the same idea I did.” Whiskey cursed.

“Well, it's not working so well.”

“Believe me, this is a lot less defended than the crossings up north.”

“So we gotta get out of here.”

Whiskey shook his head. “There's nowhere to go. This entire area is gonna be swarmed with Sons if this is where they're making their push.”

An earthshaking boom caused the two of them to duck. Farther down the southern river fork, a huge plume of smoke rose from the bridge road that looped past the town. A section of it was completely destroyed, collapsed into the river below. The militants had blown the bridge so the Sons couldn't use it.

This was only going to get worse.

“To hell with it. Let's knife our way through. We can take the bike onto the railway bridge. The north one stays away from town.” Hood felt a mixture of fear and recklessness surging within him.

“We'll get gunned down for sure.”

“Not if we play both sides.”

“What do you mean?”

“Get everything ready,” Hood said, dashing back into the woods. He found the young soldier lying still in the sunlight, undisturbed. He pulled the red bandanna off his arm.
I don't know if it means anything, but I am going to do everything I can to make sure you didn't die for nothing.

Hood dashed back through gnarled trees to Whiskey, who had slung his pack onto his back. He tossed Hood's backpack at his feet. Hood tore the bandanna in half.

“This is ballsy shit right here.” Whiskey looked up and rubbed his forehead. “They're gonna know we're not one of them.”

“It doesn't have to totally convince them. It just has to give them a few seconds of doubt.”

Hood wrapped one half of the bandanna around Whiskey's left forearm and the other around his own.

Whiskey sported a look of skepticism as he looked down at the red cloth. “This is going to get us killed.”

“Well, if so, at least we'll die while still free.”

“To hell with it. I'll drive. You shoot.” Whiskey levered up the kickstand of the bike and hopped on.

“That's what I'm talkin' about. Let's roll the dice. We've got something more important to do than this.” Hood said, checking the short magazine of the semi-automatic hunting rifle he'd taken from the young soldier.

Whiskey handed him his assault rifle, and Hood slung both of the guns over his shoulder. He strapped their packs to the back of the bike and hopped on. He gripped the Beretta tight in his right hand as he held onto Whiskey with his left, trying to physically force his nerves to stop firing wild. When adrenaline died down, only fear and doubt remained. Neither was useful in a gunfight.

If you don't take this shot, you'll never get another one. Focus on only the moment. Nothing else matters.

“Just don't miss,” Whiskey said as they took off, rumbling down the hill and back towards the road.

Hood kept his eyes ahead, scanning between the trees. The bike bounded over the rough terrain, through open treeless gaps of patchy dead grass and back into the tree cover. They approached the clearing where they had left the Jeep. A row of Sons were combing the area.

“Be ready, ‘cause I ain't stopping,” Whiskey called over his shoulder.

The soldiers turned and raised their rifles to Whiskey and Hood as they approached, but didn't fire. A few of them lowered their guns. As they grew closer, Hood could see the apprehension on their faces. Whiskey slowed down slightly as if to stop as they approached the soldiers, only to open the throttle a few feet away. They flew between two Sons’ soldiers into the clearing, where Whiskey steered the bike down the hill towards the road and the train tracks.

Hood could hear the Soldiers shouting at them. Then gunfire.

His heart clenched along with his gut, expecting the explosion of pain from a gunshot wound. None came.

He turned halfway in his seat and fired back with the Beretta.“Get us the fuck out of here!” He screamed.

“Hold on!” Whiskey shouted in return. He leaned the bike back to the west as they shot onto the tarmac of the road.

Hood turned to face forward just as Whiskey drove the bike off the edge of the short bridge crossing the train tracks. Hood's feet tingled as a feeling of weightlessness overtook him. Wooden crossbeams and glinting railroad tracks on a bed of dark stone ballast rose up to meet them as Hood braced for contact.

The bike slammed into the wooden beams, and Hood struggled for balance as Whiskey fought to regain control of the bike. The shocks absorbed the pressure, and Hood grabbed both Whiskey and the back fender to keep himself from being thrown off the bike.

Whiskey gunned the bike between the rails, bouncing them roughly as they rumbled over the wooden beams. The ride became smoother the faster they went. They crossed into the tunnel under the hill, cruising in complete darkness aside from the sunlit exit about five hundred feet away. Somehow Whiskey kept the bike steady, using the ambient light gleaming off the rails as a guide.

Hood reached up along Whiskey's arm and untied the red bandanna, making sure not to fall off the bike, before untying his own and letting the red rags float into the darkness of the tunnel.

“Act like we're running from the Sons!” Hood shouted.

“Isn't that what we're doing?” Whiskey shouted in return.

“You know what I mean!”

They burst forth from the dark tunnel onto the wood railway bridge across the north fork of the river, met by the glaring sunlight of the bright day and a deafening boom from the tank along with a continuing chorus of gunfire.

Hood pulled a rifle off his back and twisted to fire back into the empty tunnel.

“So far so good,” Whiskey shouted. “They see us but they ain't firing!”

Hood felt his blood rush through his body along with a fresh burst of adrenalin.
Come on, just a bit further.
From his view backwards it looked as though they were about halfway across.

Whiskey cursed and a shot rang off the track.

“They ain't buyin' it, turn on em!” He screamed as he crouched low on the bike.

Hood turned to face forward. The railway was curving away from town, but across the river atop the buildings and out the high windows a few militants had turned their rifles towards them. Hood tuned everything out as the bike rumbled down the wood struts and tried to keep the rifle steady on a man standing atop a tall red-brick building. He pressed the stock firmly against his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The shot cracked out of his rifle and the distant figure collapsed, the man's rifle falling off the building.

Holy shit. A surge of exultation ran through him. That was a fuckin' shot right there.

He sighted on another gunman peeking out a tall window and fired repeatedly at him. The man ducked back inside for cover.
It's a lot easier to pull the trigger when you can't see their faces, isn't it?
Hood banished the thoughts from his mind. He couldn't leave any room for doubt.

Hood unloaded suppressive fire towards the remaining gunmen while shots pelted off of the wood and ballast around them.
Just make it out of here. Make it past this town alive.

A row of trees lining the peninsula gave them cover as the railway bridge merged back onto land. Whiskey slowed down, bumped the bike over the rails and onto the ground level platform beside the red wood train station and opened the throttle. The road and railway curved with the land, revealing a massive wall of upturned cars and sixteen-wheeled trucks across the road. Whiskey cursed and turned the bike up a grassy, tree covered hill. Beyond it was the town.

“Get ready; this might get ugly,” Whiskey called over his shoulder, pulling his pistol out of its holster and gripping it along with the handlebars.

Hood pulled the automatic rifle off his back and put the hunting rifle in its place.

A deep shuddering explosion cut through the air and Hood ducked reflexively. They careened over the hill and sidewalk, then onto the main street that led through town. The tank at the bottom of the road was now a charred column of black smoke.

Gunfire screamed out the windows of the buildings.

Hood could see Sons of Liberty soldiers already entrenching themselves on the fringes of the town.

“Hood!” Whiskey's voice rang out as the bike lurched forward faster, moving west away from the battle. Hood spun around. Three Kaiser militants were scrambling away from a building when they saw Hood and Whiskey. They stopped and took aim at them.

Instinctively, Hood hip-fired towards them on full auto. They fired back wildly, but missed them as they sped by on the bike. Hood cut one of the three men down, and fired the clip empty at the other two, hitting one in the leg before the third dove behind a mailbox.

“Pay attention!” Whiskey screamed.

“I
am
fucking paying attention! There's hell all around us!” Hood snapped.

An arcing RPG blast drowned out his words as it sundered the side of a narrow gray building behind them. Hood glanced back at the flaming debris that floated out of the building with the wind.

Whiskey urged the bike onward down the small town road. He fired across his body at a group of militants that came charging around a southern street corner. The soldiers were taken completely aback, not expecting enemies this far inland from the river.

Whiskey then headed down the next side road north, between empty country homes. The road sloped away from town, the houses giving way to more trees.“We've got to get away from here and into the woods.” he yelled, over the rushing wind. “Put distance be—”

Hood shouted out Whiskey's name.

One of the Kaiser's soldiers stood tall at the end of the road and had his chrome desert eagle raised directly at them.

The moment felt frozen. Within seconds, the man unloaded multiple shots at them and Hood's body clenched in a cold, despairing fear.

Whiskey gave a gutteral gasp and lost his hold on the handlebars as he fell forward. The man had hit his target. The front wheel jerked to one side.

Hood flew through the air, the world spinning end over end. The dirt-bike smashed onto the concrete, scraping loudly. Hood hit the ground on his back, then tumbled like a catapulted meatbag along the grass until he came to a rest. His chest felt locked in place with the wind knocked out of him, barely able to pull in the slightest breath of air. His vision was narrow and blurry, the world reeling around him.

Fear of his own vulnerability seized him, and his body raged to regain its bearings. Hood grasped for the hunting rifle that lay in the dirt beside him, clawing the strap and pulling it into his grip. He struggled to his knees, trying to regain his breath.

The dark-haired militant was some way away, his shining pistol raised to sight. Hood saw two mirror images of the man, his eyes struggled to focus. His whole body screamed in pain.

Pull yourself together. You can't die here.

Hood somehow raised the hunting rifle to his shoulder. He could barely keep the thing straight. The militant fired at him as he walked closer. Hood snapped the trigger repeatedly, the
crack-crack-crack-crack-crack
echoing through grassy lawn until the trigger locked, the rifle empty. The shots had no chance—purely suppressing fire to give him a chance to get himself right.

The man dashed behind a tree. Hood jumped to his feet, stumbling towards where his Beretta lay in the grass, five feet from the sidewalk. He fell down as he grabbed it.

The man had reloaded and now strafed out from behind the tree, firing at Hood as he lay prone. Hood whipped the pistol towards the man, his vision slowly clearing. He mustered all the willpower left in his body to hold his battered arm steady and fire the Beretta empty.