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

story than that.
    Whiskey leaned against the truck, staring at her. No one seemed to know what to say.
    “I'm Kerry. Nice to meet you.” She extended her hand to Hood. Pure blue eyes looked calmly into him.
    “I'm Rob, and this is John—er, Whiskey. You can call me Hood though,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. It felt strange, uncomfortable even. He hadn't shaken a stranger’s hand in a long time. Her hand felt different, smaller. He glanced at it in the light as she pulled it back. She was missing most of her pinky finger.
    “What are you doing out here alone?” Whiskey said, moving forward from the truck.
    “Following that guy.” She pointed at the dead man casually.
    “Why were you following him?” Whiskey said. Hood itched at the scruff on his jaw, unable to sort out his thoughts.
    “Safest way to travel,” she said, putting down her backpack. “I always follow people. If something bad is going to happen, it will usually happen to them first.”
    “That's not what I meant,” Whiskey said.
    “Where are you coming from?” Hood interjected.
    “Ah, that's a long story.” She took off her beanie, her shoulder length hair coming out, some of it rising from the static electricity. She smoothed it down with on hand. “This is obviously not the best time.” She paused. “Where are you guys headed? Do you think I might be able to catch a ride?”
    Hood and Whiskey looked at each other. Whiskey's brow furrowed and he stared purposefully at Hood.
    “You don't know who we are, where we're going. You're not worried about any of that?” Hood asked, feeling strange for stating the blatantly obvious.
    “Well, I figure you didn't shoot me on sight, and it's pretty clear you guys aren't slavers.”
    Whiskey laughed. “Wandering the wilderness, alone, not a care in the world, asking two guys who just shot someone for a ride.” He shook his head. “Now this has to be a trap.”
    She shrugged. “It's complicated how I ended up here.” She paused. “And I saw what happened. I would've done the same in your shoes. You can't trust wanderers out here.”
    “That's exactly my point,” Whiskey growled.
    Hood put his gun away. “Do you have a flashlight?”
    “I got a lighter.” She patted the pocket of her jeans.
    Whiskey gave Hood a disapproving look.
    It's not like we couldn't use the help, he wanted to say aloud.
    “We could make a torch,” Hood said instead. He stared at Whiskey with a wry smile. Remember who we are, Whiskey. Not everyone is our enemy.
    Whiskey frowned, stepping forward to face her. “Turn around, spread your feet and put your hands on your head,” he barked. She complied. He patted her down aggressively.
    “Don't get any ideas,” she quipped. The nervousness in her voice belied her joke.
    “The only goddamn idea I have is to shoot you. Give me your backpack.” Whiskey grabbed the backpack, produced a pair of handcuffs from a Velcro pouch of his flak jacket and cuffed her hands behind her back. He walked to the back of the truck. Hood followed to get the jack and spare. Whiskey was staring at Kerry and hadn't put away his gun.
    “Is this necessary?” Kerry asked. “I think I'm being pretty reasonable here!”
    Whiskey ignored her.
    She reached her hands down and stepped over the cuffs to get her hands in front of her body when he wasn’t looking. Hood shook his head at her, sure his expression was beyond incredulous. She looked back at him and shrugged, as if to say 'I don't know what to do either.' This girl is either very dangerous or has been very sheltered.
    Whiskey got an old yardstick from the back of the truck and wrapped a cloth around the end, dousing the cloth in gas.
    Whiskey stuck the makeshift torch in the ground beside the blown-out tire. Kerry reached into her pocket with her hands cuffed together, and produced a zippo. She handed it to Whiskey, who looked considerably annoyed she had moved her cuffed hands to the front. Flames jumped up as he lit the