HOOD: A Post Apocalyptic Novel (American Rebirth Series Book 1) Read Free

miserable prick, just give me a way out of this.
     
    Hood exhaled slowly, closing the book. Every fight Hood won was someone else's loss. Whiskey said it was us or them. The whole world thinks it’s ‘us or them,' though.
    Hood could justify killing an evil man, if he had to. But this man? He felt a closeness to him in reading his raw thoughts. He could've easily been one of their crew.
    Hood wanted no part of this war. All he wanted was peace and quiet with his family, and maybe to find a girl who lived like the world wasn't in ruins. That's a greedy thought in a world like this, though. He'd be happy with peace alone. Not that it would happen. He dreamed that Ian and Mom and Dad would just show up at Clearwater one day. But back in reality, all he could do was protect his sister and pray his family was still alive out there.
    Billy's screams and curses reverberated through the walls of the cabin, interrupting his musings. Hood was glad he’d never had to sear any wounds closed with the iron.
    The screen door creaked open and the main door swung in with a crash.
    Billy's blue eyes were wide behind unkempt brown hair. He held his left hand in his right like it was a sick bunny.
    “I NEED SOME BOOZE!” He shouted, hurling bedding and clothes every which way with his right hand, desperately digging for someone's stash.
    Hood laughed, knowing full well Billy didn't want to hear a damn thing he had to say. He sat up slowly to make his way out of the cabin.
    Lucky was standing over the campfire trying to ignite the end of his hand-rolled cigarette. The orange glow lit up his round, olive face and the flames reflected in his dark eyes.
    Whiskey leaned back into the folding chair, crossing his arms and gazing absently at the dancing fire.
    “You guys aren't going to give him any?” Hood said, nodding towards Billy in the cabin.
    Whiskey hmmphed . “He already drank half of mine. Crybaby. I ain't giving him no more.”
    The fire crackled and popped as one log broke into two and fell into the embers below. Hood sat down on a tree stump and basked in the heat from the fire. It was a subtle comfort, but it was something. The three of them stared at the flickering flames, the occasional pop and crack accompanying the birds starting to chirp in the distance. The smell of burning pine brought Hood back to the old world again; he and Taylor and Ian as teenagers sitting around a bonfire at their cousin's house in Maine, roasting marshmallows on metal shish-kabob sticks and talking about their future in a world that still had one.
    Billy emerged from the cabin with another creak of the screen door. He walked over to a folding chair and plopped down, an entire bottle of vodka in one hand. He unscrewed the cap with his teeth and spat it into the dirt, taking a deep swig.
    “Man, this is boring,” Lucky said, leaning back and puffing smoke into the air.
    “Here, let me shoot you. It'll keep you distracted.” Billy pulled out his pistol and pointed it at Lucky, who flipped him off.
    “Why ain't we found any stand-up comedians from back in the day?” Lucky said, spitting out some tobacco that had made its way out of the butt of the cig.
    “Well damn Lucky, isn't that why you're here? I mean, you couldn't shoot a waster that was listening to the barrel of your gun to hear the ocean,” Hood said, aiming a finger gun and biting his lip in mock consternation.
    “Hey, fuck you, I got bad depth perception, all right?”
    Whiskey snorted. “Bad depth perception? That's a new one. I always thought it was on account of you being about as jittery as a cat in a washing machine.”
    “Y'all are just jealous of my devilish charm and good looks,” Lucky said through the cigarette, each breath punctuated with puffs of smoke. “You're lookin' at a superior male specimen, fellas.”
    “Male specimen, my ass,” Whiskey grumbled.
    Billy came up for air with a sigh, in between swigs from the bottle he clutched to his chest. “Seriously though,