HOOD: A Post Apocalyptic Novel (American Rebirth Series Book 1) (8 page)

“There will always be people like the Kaiser. We got only one thing to do. Get Taylor back.”

“Yeah, of course,” Hood said. His jaw was set so hard his teeth started to ache. He worked his mouth, trying to relax.

“We'll be lucky if we don't die just trying to save her. It's only us, here. We're not saviors or revolutionaries, kid.”

I don't want to be either. I just want to live in peace with the people I love. The people I have left.

Hood reached up and grabbed the roof handle by the door. The truck had begun to shake again as it rumbled down the broken road. Whiskey rolled down the window and spat. The cold night air whistled into the cab. It smelled like dirt and ash. In the dark the emptiness around the road seemed to go on forever.
I lost everyone I knew in my old life. But in my mind they could still possibly be alive out there. I didn't have to see their bodies.

A loud bang reverberated through the truck, and the front right side sagged considerably. Whiskey cursed, slowing the truck to a stop.

“We better hope there's no one around.” Whiskey turned off the headlights, and they were swallowed whole by black.

“And pray this thing has a spare.” Whiskey finished, getting out of the truck and walking towards the bed. The weak cabin lights turned on with the door open, but it didn't offer much outside of the truck.

Hood got out, eyes searching for danger, though it was futile. He couldn’t see a damned thing. There was no moonlight, and they were out in the open. He looked down at the dark shape of the weathered, deflated front right tire. “Do we have any flashlights with us?” He said.

“Looking. Can't see shit.”

Hood leaned back in to the truck and checked the glove compartment. An empty pack of cigarettes and some papers fell out. Title and registration. Underneath was a picture. It was the Sheriff, some years ago, arm around a young boy who shared his features. A son, a nephew maybe, in front of this very truck in a nicely paved driveway. It had a shiny dark green paint job and the sun reflected off of it. Hood tapped his teeth together lightly. The look on the Sheriff's face was one Hood hadn't seen in the depraved old man he met. It was calm, a momentary contentment.

Whiskey rapped on the back window of the cab.

“What are you doing?” He grunted through the window.

Hood put the picture back in the glove box. “Nothing in here.”

“Well, we have a jack and a spare. Doesn't look to be in great shape though.” Whiskey jumped off the bed of the truck. “Not going to do us much good if we can't see anything.”

Hood stepped out of the cab. The cold wind roared past him. It had the smell of rain.

“We better figure this out fast.” Hood said. “I think a storm is coming.”

“I could turn the headlights back on.” Whiskey said, shaking his head. “But it won't give us much light and we'll be shining like the sun.”

“Yeah, well, I don't--” Hood stopped, turning his head to the road in front of the car.

Hearing a sound, he held his finger up to Whiskey.

It was faint, something scraping the dirt. Footfalls.

Hood crouched behind the truck door and pulled his Taurus .38 special out of its holster. Whiskey drew his Glock 9mm and crouched down behind the truck itself.

The footsteps grew closer. But they were off, somehow. Slow, a careless shuffle.

“Get the headlights,” Hood whispered.

Whiskey crawled into the cab and flicked on the lights. With the craggy road illuminated, they saw a man in worn slacks and a dusty button up shirt and jacket slowly moving towards them. He had a short, thick beard and looked only at the ground as he approached.

“This is a trap,” Whiskey growled. “Shoot him.”

“Show me your hands!” Hood shouted, standing up, still next to the car. The man lifted one hand to shield his eyes from the light.

“Take me to them.” His voice cracked, and he kept shuffling forward.

“Just shoot him!” Whiskey shouted. He slid out of the cab and looked frantically at the hill to the left of the car that was shrouded in darkness.

“Stop!” Hood shouted. “Get down on the ground!”

The man smiled a faint smile, no longer shielding his eyes from the light. His eyes were bright red and he looked blistered and sick. Probably irradiated. His arms were down and he continued to move towards Hood.

“Take me to them,” the man said. “I just want to see them one more time.”

“Just fucking stop!” Hood shouted, his blood racing. His eyes itched from the dust, though he didn't dare close them. He could feel the sweat from his palms on the knurled grip of his pistol. He took aim at the man and started to squeeze the trigger, but kept it from firing.
He's not a killer. He doesn't even look like he knows where he is.

The man shuffled closer. He looked to be in his fifties, his receding hairline wild and unkempt. The wind brought the smell of sweat and dirt and blood.

“Please,” the man said, tears appearing on his face, cleaning paths through the dirt and sweat.

Two gunshots cracked the air. Whiskey had opened fire. The man fell down to the dirt. Whiskey ran around the truck, gun still in hand. He looked down at the body, then at Hood.

“What the hell is wrong with you? If that guy was bait for a trap we'd be
dead
,” Whiskey shouted at Hood. “I told you we don't got any more room for hesitation, kid.”

They looked at each other momentarily before searching the darkness for motion. The wind blew and the door of the truck creaked as it closed slightly. Hood put his gun away.

“It wasn't a trap,” Hood said.

“But it sure as hell could have been.”

“Just someone at the end of his rope. I'm not just going to shoot everyone I see from now on, Whiskey.”

Whiskey shook his head. “They ain't gonna have a fuckin' sign on 'em that says 'bad guy.'” He put away his pistol forcefully. He glared at Hood, then back at the dead man. “Here's to guessing wrong.” He pulled his flask from his pocket and drank. He screwed the cap back on, and knelt next to the body.

The dead man's face was hard to distinguish in the shadows cast by the ambient light of the headlights. Whiskey closed the man's eyes and stood up, scanning the area. Hood recognized the worn, unexpressive look on Whiskey's face. It wasn't blame, or self-doubt. He did what he had to in order to survive. It was the countenance of exhaustion, of being sick of having to live like this.

The soft patter of pebbles and dirt sliding down the hill to the left of the truck drew their attention. They looked at each other, and Hood darted quickly ahead up to the hill, pistol in hand. He checked back with Whiskey, who had his gun pointed over the hood of the truck. He nodded. Hood took a deep breath, and ran up and over the hill, sliding down the other side with gun raised. His eyes hadn't adjusted, so he crouched down close to the ground and waited. He thought he saw a shape move in front of him along the ridge.

“Get on the ground if you don't want to die!” Hood boomed. His heart raced, and the itchy feeling of being watched crept up his neck and over him, raising every hair. The wind blew hard, whipping dust and dirt and still smelling of rain. His grip tightened on the handle of his pistol.

“I’m on the ground.” It was a woman's voice.

Hood was startled, and lowered his gun for a moment before raising it once more.

“Do you have a weapon?” he asked.

Silence.

He thought maybe Whiskey was right about the trap after all. This was awfully elaborate, though.

“No,” she replied.

Hood hesitated. “Come into the light.”

He backed up over the hill, keeping his pistol trained on her.

She followed him with her hands up.

He stood in the headlights and faced the road, watching as she became illuminated. She walked casually and stood a bit closer to him than he expected.

She was pretty. Beautiful, even. Brown hair that hung just above her shoulders framed her delicate face. She didn't make eye contact but Hood got the feeling she didn't miss a detail. She wasn't overly skinny, like most starving wastelanders. She had tight, womanly curves that weren't hidden under her black jeans and grey zip-up leather jacket. Hood thought he was dreaming. There was no way this was real.

“Hi,” she said simply. “Please don't shoot me.”

“Uh.” Hood scratched his head, gun still in hand. “What are you doing here?”

“Surviving,” she said simply. “I'm a bit more resourceful than the other clueless wanderers out there.” She nodded at the dead man on the ground.

She wore weathered, plain boots, gloves, and a red handkerchief tied around her neck for protecting her face, presumably, and a beanie. It was strange how calm she seemed. They had run into desperate or dangerous wanderers and dying vagrants out in the plains before. She was nothing like any of them. He seriously doubted she'd just wander here by herself. There had to be much more to her story than that.

Whiskey leaned against the truck, staring at her. No one seemed to know what to say.

“I'm Kerry. Nice to meet you.” She extended her hand to Hood. Pure blue eyes looked calmly into him.

“I'm Rob, and this is John—er, Whiskey. You can call me Hood though,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. It felt strange, uncomfortable even. He hadn't shaken a stranger’s hand in a long time. Her hand felt different, smaller. He glanced at it in the light as she pulled it back. She was missing most of her pinky finger.

“What are you doing out here alone?” Whiskey said, moving forward from the truck.

“Following that guy.” She pointed at the dead man casually.

“Why were you following him?” Whiskey said. Hood itched at the scruff on his jaw, unable to sort out his thoughts.

“Safest way to travel,” she said, putting down her backpack. “I always follow people. If something bad is going to happen, it will usually happen to them first.”

“That's not what I meant,” Whiskey said.

“Where are you coming from?” Hood interjected.

“Ah, that's a long story.” She took off her beanie, her shoulder length hair coming out, some of it rising from the static electricity. She smoothed it down with on hand. “This is obviously not the best time.” She paused. “Where are you guys headed? Do you think I might be able to catch a ride?”

Hood and Whiskey looked at each other. Whiskey's brow furrowed and he stared purposefully at Hood.

“You don't know who we are, where we're going. You're not worried about any of that?” Hood asked, feeling strange for stating the blatantly obvious.

“Well, I figure you didn't shoot me on sight, and it's pretty clear you guys aren't slavers.”

Whiskey laughed. “Wandering the wilderness, alone, not a care in the world, asking two guys who just shot someone for a ride.” He shook his head. “Now
this
has to be a trap.”

She shrugged. “It's complicated how I ended up here.” She paused. “And I saw what happened. I would've done the same in your shoes. You can't trust wanderers out here.”

“That's exactly my point,” Whiskey growled.

Hood put his gun away. “Do you have a flashlight?”

“I got a lighter.” She patted the pocket of her jeans.

Whiskey gave Hood a disapproving look.

It's not like we couldn't use the help,
he wanted to say aloud.

“We could make a torch,” Hood said instead. He stared at Whiskey with a wry smile.
Remember who we are, Whiskey. Not everyone is our enemy.

Whiskey frowned, stepping forward to face her. “Turn around, spread your feet and put your hands on your head,” he barked. She complied. He patted her down aggressively.

“Don't get any ideas,” she quipped. The nervousness in her voice belied her joke.

“The only goddamn idea I have is to shoot you. Give me your backpack.” Whiskey grabbed the backpack, produced a pair of handcuffs from a Velcro pouch of his flak jacket and cuffed her hands behind her back. He walked to the back of the truck. Hood followed to get the jack and spare. Whiskey was staring at Kerry and hadn't put away his gun.

“Is this necessary?” Kerry asked. “I think I'm being pretty reasonable here!”

Whiskey ignored her.

She reached her hands down and stepped over the cuffs to get her hands in front of her body when he wasn’t looking.
Hood shook his head at her, sure his expression was beyond incredulous. She looked back at him and shrugged, as if to say
'I don't know what to do either.'
This girl is either very dangerous or has been very sheltered.

Whiskey got an old yardstick from the back of the truck and wrapped a cloth around the end, dousing the cloth in gas.

Whiskey stuck the makeshift torch in the ground beside the blown-out tire. Kerry reached into her pocket with her hands cuffed together, and produced a zippo. She handed it to Whiskey, who looked considerably annoyed she had moved her cuffed hands to the front. Flames jumped up as he lit the torch. Whiskey got to setting up the jack. Hood got the cross wrench and started loosening the lug nuts. Whiskey paused to toss the lighter back to Kerry.