HOOD: A Post Apocalyptic Novel (American Rebirth Series Book 1) (4 page)

The man raised his hands weakly. “Who are you? I thought for sure you were the Kaiser's men,” The guy broke into a wry smile, avoiding Whiskey's question. “You boys look like angels to me.”

“Don't go getting all excited,” Whiskey grunted at the man. “We ain't nobody's saviors.”

The man shook his head slowly, eyes closed but still smiling. “I disagree.”

“You were running from the Kaiser?” Hood asked.

“His militants, at least. I was one of their prisoners,” the man said at length, still breathing slowly.

“No you weren't,” Whiskey said, sizing the man up.

“Sharp, this guy. No, I wasn't. But I felt like it by the end. I joined 'em early. They were part of this whole separatist group, all military and doomsday survivalists at first. The Kaiser was just some wanderer. He showed up soon after the fall, covered in blood like it was no big deal. The leader at the time, an angry fella named Gary took exception to the Kaiser's attitude and he tried to kill him. I swear the Kaiser slit ol' Gary's throat before he even got close. Never seen someone move like that. He declared that he didn't want to fight, said he just wanted a place to be. He felt genuine, and many folks didn't like Gary—he was a wild, power hungry man. Soon enough everyone came to like the Kaiser and wanted him to lead. After he took over, we started raiding, and slaving, and everything got out of control. He had some grand plan but it all seemed sideways to me. My crew tried to fight back, tried to stop the whole thing. They been hunting us down ever since. I'm the last one left.” The man didn’t bother to hide his exhaustion.

“What were you doin' in here? Praying?” Whiskey scoffed, still holding up his shotgun.

The man shook his head. “Nah. Tabernacle usually has wine in it. Somebody beat me to it though,” He pointed at an ornate gilded container, lying empty on the floor.

“Do you know where survivors from D.C. might have gone?” Hood asked the man.

“Hell if I know. West, maybe.”

“You know of a man called Alan Dale?” Whiskey lowered the shotgun to focus on the man's face, though he still held the weapon at a hip-fire position.

“Why, he done you some wrong? Is that why you boys are out here?” The man looked back and forth from Hood to Whiskey, reading their expressions.

“Just answer the question.”

“No, I don't know of him. But I tend to remember the ladies a bit easier. . .” He seemed content to leer off into some fantasy.

Hood reached into his pack and pulled out a half-drunk bottle of water and a sleeve of crackers. He tossed them onto the man's lap. He looked up at Hood in shock for a moment, then drank greedily and started shoving crackers in his mouth.

Whiskey grimaced and rubbed his forehead.

Hood walked over to the jammed pistol on the floor and picked it up. He removed the magazine and tried to rack the slide. A casing was lodged in the ejection port. Hood handed the gun to Whiskey, who knocked the casing free with the heel of his hand and then successfully racked the slide. The dented round clicked as it fell onto the stone floor.

“How much have you seen out there?” Hood asked the man.

He wiped his mouth of cracker crumbs. “You boys haven't had much contact with the outside world, huh?”

“Not much. We try to keep it that way,” Hood said.

The man chuckled. “Smart thinkin'. It's all gone. I seen a man's arm fall clean off from the radiation, but the biological shit that tore through the cities was the real nightmare. If you was lucky it killed you, and didn't turn you into an animal while you was still alive.”

Hood and Whiskey exchanged a glance. Whiskey's face seemed to express some doubt. Maybe he didn't want to believe it was true. But it lined up with what Hood had read in the dead man's journal.

“You two got any alcohol?”

“No,” Whiskey snapped.

“It's for my leg. I need to clean it.”

Hood looked at Whiskey, nodding towards the man. Whiskey breathed deeply in annoyance, reached into his cargo jacket and produced a flask, handing it to the man.

He poured it onto a sizable gouge in his thigh, then took a swig, grimacing. He handed it back, then tore off his sleeve and tied it around the wound, baring his teeth as he worked.

Whiskey nodded at the man's pistol in his hand. “Keep the dirt out of the magazine, and keep the barrel clean next time.”

The man looked up at Whiskey inquisitively. “You sure you ain't angels?”

“No. I'm keeping it. Consider it payment.” Whiskey put away the pistol. “For your life.”

“I'm dead without it,” The man said simply.

“Or you can die right now,” Whiskey replied, holding the man's gaze. The man clearly deliberated saying something, but decided against it.

“Thanks for the food,” The man said eventually as he stood up, favoring his wounded right leg.

“Where are you gonna go?” Hood asked. The cool gust of wind through the broken window felt relaxing and unsettling all at once.

“West. Someplace in Colorado. I've heard rumors it's better out there.”

“Colorado, huh.” Whiskey looked ready to see the man gone.

“Col-o-ra-do,” he repeated, limping past them down the aisle.

Hood looked around the desolate church, ransacked of everything but prayer books and Bibles in the pews. Whiskey followed the man closely behind, shotgun still raised. The man pushed his way out the front door. Whiskey followed him. Hood turned and walked out, his footsteps echoing lightly.

The sun still shone strong. Their truck sat still and undisturbed. The man whistled at it.

“Damn, you boys don't mess around. Where'd you get all that cargo?”

Whiskey glowered at him.

“Never mind. Shit. You sure you don't need someone to help you with all that?”

“I thought you've got Colorado,” Whiskey replied, scrutinizing the man from under his intimidating eyebrows. They could damn near scowl on their own.

“Right, well, yeah. Right.”

“You gonna limp all the way there?” Whiskey didn't hide his doubt well.

“No, I'll catch a ride. I'll get some beater up and running,” The man said. “Was a mechanic, once upon a time.”

“Good luck,” Hood said plainly.

“Name’s Donte. I'm thinking I won't see you two again. You sure I can't get that shooter back?” The man asked Whiskey directly.

He shook his head slowly in response.

“All right.” The man turned, his gaze lingering on the two of them before hobbling over the small bridge heading west. Hood and Whiskey watched him as he walked out of sight.

“Something's not right about him.” Whiskey turned back to the truck, putting the man's pistol in the center of the seats.

“Why do you say that?” Hood walked around to the passenger side, putting the rifle down against the seat and climbing in.

“I just have that feeling,” Whiskey said. The truck started with a whine and a rumble.

“It's because he's black. You're racist.”

“Don't be an ass.”

“It's okay to admit it. Lots of people are racist,” Hood quipped, unable to hide his grin.

“It's because of his story about the Kaiser,” Whiskey snapped. “Why am I even answerin' this crap?”

“So are you like, self-loathing, since you're part Hispanic?”

“I'm going to fuckin' kill you.” Whiskey grunted at him.

Hood laughed, leaning his head against the back window.“Take everything more seriously, please. It's fantastic.”

There was a momentary lull in the cabin. The suspension squeaked as the truck bobbed back and forth.

“We should've killed him.” Whiskey's face remained stoic as he stared out the windshield, one hand on the steering wheel. Hood turned to look out the passenger-side window, the sunlit overgrown trees speeding by. He rubbed his bristly chin with his thumb and forefinger. He was glad they’d let the guy live, but he hated the fact that Whiskey was probably right.

Hood was ready to be home. The place he called home now, anyway.

Chapter 3 – Homecoming

The quaint streets of Clearwater rested peacefully in late afternoon sun. Hood breathed in the familiar smell of honeysuckles and wild growth on the air. He could feel the muscles in his back relax. With the window down, he rested his hand on the passenger door, his fingers drumming on the metal of their own accord.

Trader George stood out on his front porch, repairing the leg of a wooden chair. Probably something he'd soon be selling out of his garage-turned-trading post. He rose up from a kneeling position, nodding at Whiskey as they passed by. Whiskey held out his hand in acknowledgment.

“It's good to be back,” Hood said.

A young girl was chasing her teary-faced younger brother around on a black bicycle on their front lawn.
Micah and Katie. Ted Anderson's kids.

“Yeah.” Whiskey said, turning the corner to head down their street.

Whiskey wore his typical stoic expression.

Hood reached over and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey. We're still alive, we took a nice haul from the Sheriff, and it's a beautiful day. Save your worrying for when there's a problem worth worrying about.”

“I wouldn't mind gettin' a few steps ahead of our problems.”

Hood shrugged, smiling. “Y'know, the seeds will never grow if you never empty the bucket.”

Whiskey screwed up his face, looking over at Hood. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I don't know, I just made it up. Sounds profound though, right?” Hood leaned back in the seat of the truck, stretching his arms behind his head, holding his elbows.

“You're a strange kid.” Whiskey pulled the truck into the driveway of their home.

The gravel of the driveway crunched under Hood's feet as he stepped out of the truck and closed the door with a thud. Calling it home still felt a little strange, but in truth, after two years, it
was
home now. Hood had certainly never envisioned living in an old Victorian house out in the country. But he also hadn’t envisioned much of anything about the life he now lead.

The faded white paint was chipping off the siding of the house onto the grass around it, and the roof sagged under its own weight, but it was a warm, comfortable place plenty big enough for Hood, Whiskey and Taylor to each have their own space.

The heavy wood front door swung open and
thunked
against the mudroom closet as it always did. Hood pulled his rifle off his shoulder and propped it against the wall.

“Hello!?” Taylor's voice echoed from upstairs.

Whiskey placed his shotgun on a shelf in the mudroom.

Hood smiled, shaking his head at him. Hood mouthed, “No respect.”

Whiskey smiled, putting a finger over his mouth. The two of them stood at the bottom of the stairs that led to the second floor.

“Hello??” Taylor repeated, walking to the top of the steps and looking down at the two of them. Her green eyes lit up, a wide smile forming familiar dimples on either side of her heart-shaped face.

“Take your time, sis. It's only your family,” Hood said with a grin. She ran down the stairs, her dark hair flying behind her as she leaped into his arms. She squeezed the hell out of him. He lifted her off the ground for a second.

“Oh man! You been packing it on. I do hope there's some food left in the pantry,” Hood said, his head resting on top of hers.

She broke out of his hug and punched him in the arm. It stung like hell.

“Ah, come on, it was a joke!” Hood laughed, rubbing the sore spot.

“Asshole! I was so freakin' worried about you guys! How did it go?” She looked over at Whiskey.

“Yeah, we're good. It went well,” Hood said, “We're just glad to be home.”

“So... I take it you haven't found any sign of Mom, Dad or Ian.”

Hood shook his head. “I'm sorry.”

She smiled resolutely. “We'll find them.”

Maybe it's better this way.
Hood could live with believing they were out there somewhere, surviving and worrying about him and Taylor the way they were worrying about them. That they weren't dead.

Taylor moved slowly to Whiskey, getting on her tiptoes to kiss him. He held her in his arms, and they said nothing to each other. Hood admired their love. It wasn't ostentatious or needy, it simply was. They meant the world to each other, and they meant the world to him. If there was one good thing that had come of the collapse of everything he knew, it was the relationship between them. His parents would've loved Whiskey. He could picture his dad, especially, taking a liking to him. They shared the same no-nonsense demeanor.

Hood's feet carried him unconsciously up the creaky steps to his room. Fading orange sunlight came in through the windows at a sharp angle, casting long rectangles on the threadbare tan carpet. A thin layer of dust lay upon the old wooden desk and dresser. Simply entering his room, he felt lighter, the tension of survival melting away. His head hung heavy, though, and the pillow on his bed called to him.
We live like this because we have to. You're not just fighting for yourself out there, you're fighting for everyone else.
He tossed his backpack onto the desk. He stared at it for a moment, and considered taking the dead man's journal out again.
But everyone is fighting for someone.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
Give it a rest.