Read Online HOOD: A Post Apocalyptic Novel (American Rebirth Series Book 1) by Evan Pickering - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Evan Pickering
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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
“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
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