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