HOOD: A Post Apocalyptic Novel (American Rebirth Series Book 1) by Evan Pickering Page A
Authors: Evan Pickering
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the road was stuck in his mind. Lucky would never again drunkenly try to breakdance or hide in the bushes to scare Whiskey on patrol. Billy would never again sing inebriated guitar ballads about Kate Anderson's ass or about Lucky's made up sex stories or the day they stumble upon a wandering band of women to correct 'the ratio' of Clearwater. They're all gone. Hood's eyes welled, and he gnashed his teeth, trying to fight it back. It doesn't make sense. How can people who were once so alive just disappear? Gone for good.
Stop it. You can't think about them now. There will be a time and a place to mourn those you've lost, but it is not now.
Hood walked over to the old man's fading cigarette on the ground. He snuffed out the remaining embers with his foot.
“Sorry, Sheriff,” Hood said quietly, squatting next to the body. “Maybe try not to be such a murderous bastard next time.”
Hood picked up the old man's Glock. The black finish was worn down to metal on all the edges. He pulled back the slide and caught the bullet that came out of the chamber. The same bullet that could've ended up as shrapnel in his brain, under different circumstances.
“You deliverin' a eulogy?” Whiskey said impatiently. “We gotta get what we can and get out.” He picked up the keys to the truck on the nearby table, holding them up and shaking them for Hood to see, a thanks-a-lot gesture. “The old man kept fuel out here somewhere.”
Hood couldn't look away from the body. The slack-muscled look of the dead still unsettled Hood. The smell of urine was hard to ignore. The old man's face was stuck in mid- sentence, mouth open and a bloody chasm in the back of his head. Hood wanted to bring him back to life and kill the old man himself for what he did to the people he loved. But that anger quickly faded. Is it his fault? Or is he just a depraved old man who's lost his mind? It's the Kaiser who did this. He built an empire of violence and control. But maybe that's just an inevitability. Remove law and government and someone will take over.
“I know this bastard deserved it twice over,” Hood scratched the stubble on his cheek. “But I still feel kinda bad for him.”
“It's about time you get over that nonsense.” Whiskey said, his words calm but the demand clear. “There's no room for that anymore.”
Hood still crouched over the Sheriff's body. “Don't worry. I won't hesitate to waste any evil fucks trying to stop us.”
He stared at the lifeless body, trying to accept it. A person one second, nothing the next. You forfeited your right to live, you sick bastard. You and everyone else like you.
“What, you wanna ask him out on a date? Or are you gonna do somethin'?”
Hood looked over at Whiskey, who was waiting for him to acknowledge the need to get moving. His jaw was set but his bushy black eyebrows sat calm over his eyes. Hood tossed the Sheriff's pistol to Whiskey, who snatched it out of midair, glanced at it, and tossed it back. Hood didn't want to even carry it, vaguely afraid that it had absorbed all the horrible things the Sheriff had done over the years.
Hood walked over to the workbench and picked up his AK, along with two magazines taped together upside down for quick reloading. He unwound the leather strap that was wrapped loosely around the stock. His .38 with chest holster sat on the table too. He took off his hoodie and put the pistol back in its rightful place. He tucked the Sheriff's pistol into his backpack, throwing it over his shoulder.
"Looks like you're headed back home to D.C.," Whiskey said, picking live rounds out of a toolbox.
"Yeah, looks like it." D.C. Was a wasteland now. It was home only in the nostalgia of his mind.
Hood walked outside the portable, arm resting on the AK slung across his chest. The sun had almost entirely disappeared behind the old dark shack and tall grain fields. A crow pecked at the corpse of one of the few wasters the Sheriff had kept around, skewered by one of Whiskey's
Stop it. You can't think about them now. There will be a time and a place to mourn those you've lost, but it is not now.
Hood walked over to the old man's fading cigarette on the ground. He snuffed out the remaining embers with his foot.
“Sorry, Sheriff,” Hood said quietly, squatting next to the body. “Maybe try not to be such a murderous bastard next time.”
Hood picked up the old man's Glock. The black finish was worn down to metal on all the edges. He pulled back the slide and caught the bullet that came out of the chamber. The same bullet that could've ended up as shrapnel in his brain, under different circumstances.
“You deliverin' a eulogy?” Whiskey said impatiently. “We gotta get what we can and get out.” He picked up the keys to the truck on the nearby table, holding them up and shaking them for Hood to see, a thanks-a-lot gesture. “The old man kept fuel out here somewhere.”
Hood couldn't look away from the body. The slack-muscled look of the dead still unsettled Hood. The smell of urine was hard to ignore. The old man's face was stuck in mid- sentence, mouth open and a bloody chasm in the back of his head. Hood wanted to bring him back to life and kill the old man himself for what he did to the people he loved. But that anger quickly faded. Is it his fault? Or is he just a depraved old man who's lost his mind? It's the Kaiser who did this. He built an empire of violence and control. But maybe that's just an inevitability. Remove law and government and someone will take over.
“I know this bastard deserved it twice over,” Hood scratched the stubble on his cheek. “But I still feel kinda bad for him.”
“It's about time you get over that nonsense.” Whiskey said, his words calm but the demand clear. “There's no room for that anymore.”
Hood still crouched over the Sheriff's body. “Don't worry. I won't hesitate to waste any evil fucks trying to stop us.”
He stared at the lifeless body, trying to accept it. A person one second, nothing the next. You forfeited your right to live, you sick bastard. You and everyone else like you.
“What, you wanna ask him out on a date? Or are you gonna do somethin'?”
Hood looked over at Whiskey, who was waiting for him to acknowledge the need to get moving. His jaw was set but his bushy black eyebrows sat calm over his eyes. Hood tossed the Sheriff's pistol to Whiskey, who snatched it out of midair, glanced at it, and tossed it back. Hood didn't want to even carry it, vaguely afraid that it had absorbed all the horrible things the Sheriff had done over the years.
Hood walked over to the workbench and picked up his AK, along with two magazines taped together upside down for quick reloading. He unwound the leather strap that was wrapped loosely around the stock. His .38 with chest holster sat on the table too. He took off his hoodie and put the pistol back in its rightful place. He tucked the Sheriff's pistol into his backpack, throwing it over his shoulder.
"Looks like you're headed back home to D.C.," Whiskey said, picking live rounds out of a toolbox.
"Yeah, looks like it." D.C. Was a wasteland now. It was home only in the nostalgia of his mind.
Hood walked outside the portable, arm resting on the AK slung across his chest. The sun had almost entirely disappeared behind the old dark shack and tall grain fields. A crow pecked at the corpse of one of the few wasters the Sheriff had kept around, skewered by one of Whiskey's
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