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

were in a portable, arch-shaped metal warehouse.
    “Of course I’m right.” the old man said, pacing in front of him. “Sneaking through my land, thinking you and your gang could just run back home unmolested. You and your self-righteousness. I swear, I can smell your naivete on the wind.”
    Hood licked his lips and kept silent. The old man leaned in close. His breath smelled like old cigarettes. His bald, middle-aged face was worn and weary around blue eyes. It was disappointment, the look of a vulture flying over picked bones. He seemed to lament that his search for Hood was over.
    “You know what it is that did you in?” The Sheriff asked with a weak smile. “It's pride. The same pride that God saw in us when he smote us down.”
    Hood smirked, his head leaned forward to keep the light out of his eyes. “Granted, I've never read the good book cover to cover, but I'm pretty sure you don't qualify as the godly type.”
    The Sheriff swung his pistol at Hood's face. The handle connected with his eyebrow, and his head snapped back from the blow. There was a throbbing numbness at first, followed shortly by searing pain.
    The worn barrel of the Sheriff's pistol hovered in front of Hood's right eye. Inside the barrel was darkness. A tight frown quivered on the Sheriff's face. “You don't talk to me about godliness. You're just a mongrel, slinking around this hell on earth.”
    Hood breathed in slowly, closing his eyes. Despite being provoked, the Sheriff still hadn't shot him. Small victories. Gotta keep him talking. Why was he being held here?
    “What's that saying again? Morality ends where a gun begins?” Hood asked, looking up quizzically. “Shit, I can never remember who said what.”
    The old man laughed aloud, with a self-satisfaction that left him looking around for someone to share it with.
    “Don't conjure up the words of the dead like they mean something. You believe you are different. But you are too young to understand the truth.”
    Hood squinted up at him, then away at the rusted table-saw across the room. It was covered in coagulated blood. He remained still, averting his gaze from the gruesome sight.
    Is the old bastard going to torture me? What for? Is he just a sick fuck who loves to torture people?
    Fear filled his stomach, but Hood shook it off.
    Focus on what you can control.
    The wind howled against the thin metal siding of the portable. Then it was silent again. The old Sheriff resumed pacing, taking time to stop and stare him down.
    “This was so easy. After all this time, all this hunting you down. We just had to bait a trap and follow you home. I wish I could take the credit. The Kaiser is one crafty bastard. You don't get to be where he is without being one, I guess.”
    The old man sat down in a nearby folding chair, elbows on his knees, chin in one hand. “You are pretty, for a boy. Maybe the Kaiser's a damn sodomite.” The Sheriff chuckled, amused. “Frankly, I don't know why he wants you.”
    That makes two of us, old man. The Kaiser. What an idiotic thing to call yourself.
    He’d certainly turned the title into something to fear, though.
    “What happened to Taylor? I saw Ian taking her,” Hood said, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his brow as he searched the Sheriff's eyes for recognition of the names.
    “Ian?” The Sheriff snorted derisively. “That's nothing for you to concern yourself with, clueless boy. Your ass is being taken up to the Church of the Epiphany in D.C. Hell if I know why. Maybe the Kaiser wants to sacrifice you to the devil. Maybe he's just gonna make an example out of you to show what happens to those who stand against him. That is, if I don't kill you first for being a smug little shit.” His cold gaze locked on Hood.
    “Well, make up your mind soon, because I have to piss,” Hood said. “Haven't pissed my pants since I was three and I'm not about to start again now.”
    The Sheriff laughed, and stood up quickly.
    “You know it's better to die