HOOD: A Post Apocalyptic Novel (American Rebirth Series Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

dark hair flying behind her as she leaped into his arms. She squeezed the hell out of him. He lifted her off the ground for a second.
    “Oh man! You been packing it on. I do hope there's some food left in the pantry,” Hood said, his head resting on top of hers.
    She broke out of his hug and punched him in the arm. It stung like hell.
    “Ah, come on, it was a joke!” Hood laughed, rubbing the sore spot.
    “Asshole! I was so freakin' worried about you guys! How did it go?” She looked over at Whiskey.
    “Yeah, we're good. It went well,” Hood said, “We're just glad to be home.”
    “So... I take it you haven't found any sign of Mom, Dad or Ian.”
    Hood shook his head. “I'm sorry.”
    She smiled resolutely. “We'll find them.”
    Maybe it's better this way. Hood could live with believing they were out there somewhere, surviving and worrying about him and Taylor the way they were worrying about them. That they weren't dead.
    Taylor moved slowly to Whiskey, getting on her tiptoes to kiss him. He held her in his arms, and they said nothing to each other. Hood admired their love. It wasn't ostentatious or needy, it simply was. They meant the world to each other, and they meant the world to him. If there was one good thing that had come of the collapse of everything he knew, it was the relationship between them. His parents would've loved Whiskey. He could picture his dad, especially, taking a liking to him. They shared the same no-nonsense demeanor.
    Hood's feet carried him unconsciously up the creaky steps to his room. Fading orange sunlight came in through the windows at a sharp angle, casting long rectangles on the threadbare tan carpet. A thin layer of dust lay upon the old wooden desk and dresser. Simply entering his room, he felt lighter, the tension of survival melting away. His head hung heavy, though, and the pillow on his bed called to him. We live like this because we have to. You're not just fighting for yourself out there, you're fighting for everyone else. He tossed his backpack onto the desk. He stared at it for a moment, and considered taking the dead man's journal out again. But everyone is fighting for someone. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Give it a rest.
    He unzipped his black hoodie and took off his black Taurus .38 special and chest holster, tossing them all on top of his bag. He flopped face-first onto his bed, the familiar stale smell of the bedding relaxing him completely. He felt the pull of sleep as his mind went quiet.
     
    He climbed the hill up to the defunct lighthouse. Ocean sprayed up all around the nearby cliffs. The door was open, and the spiral staircase inside had thin trails of blood trickling down the steps. Immediately he started to climb the stairs, holding onto the rope railing hooked into the wall. His heart went wild, his chest tight like it was belted in place. The farther he climbed upward, the more blood poured down. There was so much of it his feet slipped and more than once he fell forward, the blood soaking into his clothes. You know whose blood this is, the voice in his head said. He mind launched into a state of panic. At the top, there was a hatch in the ceiling. Blood dripped out of the corners of it. Hood pushed open the hatch and climbed up to the Lantern room. Tied up against the great lamp were Mom, Dad, Ian and Taylor. Blood poured from their slit throats, and beside them stood . . . Himself.
    His doppelganger was tall, skinny, with messy brown hair and green eyes, wearing jeans and a black hoodie. He held a bloody knife in his hand.
    Why did you do this? The other Hood seemed to say to him. Why would you do this to them?
    He moved closer to Hood, taking his right hand, and drove the knife deep into it.
     
    Hood startled awake, his hand a balled fist. It throbbed in pain, the muscles cramping.
    His skin was damp with sweat and his mouth had drained of all moisture. He felt more tired than when he’d gone to sleep.
    There was a knock at his door.