World on Edge: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller (World on Edge Book 1)

by Chris Pike

  World on Edge

  An EMP Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

  by Chris Pike

  World on Edge

  by Chris Pike

  Copyright © 2021. All Rights Reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the proper written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  Other works by Chris Pike:

  The EMP Survivor Series

  Undefeated World – Book 1

  Uncertain World – Book 2

  Unknown World – Book 3

  Unwanted World – Book 4

  Undefeated World – Book 5

  Escape – An EMP Survivor Series spinoff

  American Strong 2 book Series

  Stand Your Ground – Book 1

  Don’t Look Back – Book 2 – coming in 2021

  World on Edge Series

  World on Edge – Book 1

  World of Suspicion – Book 2 – coming in 2021

  Available here on Amazon:

  Chris Pike books

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Quotes:

  “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”

  - - Winston Churchill

  “Scared is what you’re feeling. Brave is what you’re doing.”

  - - Emma Donoghue, Room

  “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.”

  - - Emily Dickinson

  Chapter 1

  Joe Buck’s life was about to change.

  A spur of the moment decision would impact his life forever, and it happened on a dusty, insignificant West Texas road. A stop sign, and turn to the right changed his life, but Joe didn’t realize it until much later.

  Right now, though, he was in a foul mood.

  He had been fired from his job, for no other reason than he was more skilled than his boss and refused to cheat customers by talking them into unneeded plumbing repairs. When the head honcho gave him his walking papers, Joe didn’t let the door to the shop slam behind him. He kicked it off the hinges.

  The boss ran out after him, yelling, “You’re gonna pay for that, Buck!”

  “Send me a bill, and while you’re at it get bucked,” Joe growled.

  He went to the garage apartment he called home, paid his elderly white-haired landlady the rent money for the next month, telling her, “Keep the deposit,” then hoisted all his worldly belongings—which fit into a satchel—over his shoulder.

  He revved up his black Ford truck, put it in gear, and said adios to the flea-bitten, one horse town by giving it the one finger salute.

  Good riddance. He never liked the place anyway.

  Joe drove until he came to the crossroads along the backcountry road. He skidded to a stop. Dust flew up, engulfing his truck in a choking mixture of lost hope and unfulfilled dreams of the desperate people living in the shoddy, run-down houses. When the dust cleared, he jerked the steering wheel to the right then sped along the two-lane highway. It didn’t matter which way he went because for a hundred miles in each direction, there was only cattle, oil rigs, cactus, and more cattle.

  Long, boring miles fell behind him.

  During the drive, he had no luck finding a decent radio station, and as night fell, the rumbling in his stomach reminded him he needed to eat.

  Driving into the next town, a neon sign flashing Hungry’s caught his eye.

  What the hell.

  He pulled into the gravel parking lot full of trucks and dented cars covered with the dust and dirt of West Texas. The only available space was beneath the hissing and crackling sign, hanging sideways by one rusty bolt. A breeze could knock it loose, but considering the heat on this still night, there was no chance at all. Even the biting flies were keeping a low profile.

  Joe opened the door to the joint and stepped inside. Country music blared from the jukebox.

  The place was a dive with tired colors and thick smoke courtesy of the greasy fryer. About ten tables were half full of patrons, while the one nearest the stage had five burly men laughing and drinking. The air reeked with the odors of the roughneck clientele who were looking for a good time after their twelve-hour shift on a nearby oil rig.

  Joe slid his six foot plus wiry frame into a seat at the bar. “What’s good to eat here?” he asked, casually opening a menu.

  “Hamburger and fries,” the bartender said. He wiped down the counter using a wet, discolored rag that probably hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in a month.

  “Medium well, no mayo, only mustard.” Joe peeked over the top of the menu and glanced at the bartender. “Lettuce and tomato okay?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Bought fresh the other day.”

  Joe raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Seriously,” said the bartender. “I’d eat it.”

  “Burger and fries then.” Joe placed the tattered menu between the salt and pepper shakers. “I’ll take a beer while I’m waiting.” He slapped a five on the bar.

  “What kind?”

  “Doesn’t matter as long as it’s cold.”

  The bartender shrugged, popped the top off a beer, and handed it over.

  Joe slugged down a gulp then wiped his hand across his mouth. “Cold. The way I like it.”

  “Want another one?”

  “Not yet.” Joe took another slug of the beer. “Does the jukebox play anything other than sad country songs? I’m not in the mood for a wishy washy, pinkie in the air, milquetoast type of song. I’m in the mood of some good old rock ‘n roll.”

  The bartender leaned into Joe and asked in a low voice, “Don’t you like country?”

  “In fact, it’s my favorite, but not tonight.”

  “Suit yourself, and don’t say I didn’t warn ya. There’s rap and zydeco. Some rock ‘n roll, but if I were you, I’d leave it alone. Those guys,” he jerked his head toward a table of five, “like country, and they don’t take kindly to people changing it to anything else.”

  “Really?” Joe’s interest piqued and he felt a challenge coming on. He ran his hand over the three-day old growth on his face, thinking.

  “Besides, we’ve got a local sin
ger coming in.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t even know her name. Probably some local teen. Doubt it’ll be a showstopper. If she sings anything other than country, she’ll be booed off the stage.”

  “Too bad.” Joe twirled the beer a couple of times and took another pull. “I’ve seen some good talent in these kinds of places.”

  The song on the jukebox ended, and Joe casually strolled over to it, located next to the group of five roughnecks. He bumped into a chair where one of the men was seated. “Excuse me,” he said in a barely audible voice. The man returned a go to hell scowl. Joe quietly smirked to himself. He perused the selections on the jukebox, running his finger along the plastic cover until he found the perfect song. He dropped a quarter in the slot and selected the song.

  There was no slow guitar strumming or gentle musical lyrics for an introduction, only the eardrum busting, pulse pounding beat of the drums and some bad-ass cords and lyrics. Joe strolled back to the bar, hips thrust forward while strumming an imaginary guitar, keeping beat to the classic rock ‘n roll piece. The high-octane song was what he needed to get him out of the slump he was in and inject some life into the place.

  The bartender offered Joe another beer and a bowl of popcorn. “It’s on the house. I was gettin’ tired of listening to country too.”

  Joe took a handful of popcorn and as he brought up the beer to wash the kernels down, two jabs to his shoulder interrupted his culinary pleasure.

  Joe glanced at the guy, a mean-looking forty-something roughneck, arms crossed over his barrel chest, hands darkened with dirt and grease. The guy stared daggers at Joe.

  “Can I help you?” Joe asked in a tone speaking loud and clear for the guy to get lost.

  “Yeah!” the man yelled over the music blasting. “As a matter of fact, you can. See the door over yonder?” The man dipped his chin in the direction of the door.

  Joe didn’t answer. He was tapping his foot to the beat of the music, while playing an imaginary set of drums on the bar, followed with an imaginary pop of the cymbals.

  “You can help yourself right out the door,” the man said.

  Joe casually took a swig of beer. “Don’t think I will. I kinda like the vibe of this place.” Joe picked up the imaginary drumsticks and played along with the drum roll, reaching a crescendo.

  “Me and my buddies like it here too, and we like a certain type of music. Something soft and peaceful. So, do yourself a favor and make yourself scarce.”

  Joe’s gaze drifted from the man to the table where he had been sitting. Four men returned a stare that meant business.

  “I’m all out of favors,” Joe said.

  The man put his hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Don’t make me—”

  Joe shot up out of the bar seat like he was a greyhound waiting for the bell to ring at the races. The man didn’t have time to react. Joe stood eye to eye, all six foot one inches of him, and while the man had about thirty pounds on Joe, he wasn’t as quick.

  “Why you no good—”

  The blaring music came to an abrupt stop. As if on cue, everyone swiveled to face the jukebox where a young woman was bent over, twisting her body, one arm thrust behind the jukebox. Mouths dropped open at the sight of her shapely derriere filling out a pair of jeans. She stood and held up the end of the electrical cord. “It was kinda loud in here, and it’s my turn to entertain y’all,” the woman said in an affected southern drawl. She pulled a chair to the center of the stage and sat.

  Someone booed, another one tossed an ice cube on the stage, and before the man or Joe had time to exchange uppercuts, the tapping of the stage microphone got their attention.

  The woman, around twenty-five, announced, “Hi, I’m Lexi Carter, and I’ve got a few songs for you tonight.” She tucked her long brunette locks behind one ear then adjusted the height of the microphone until it was even with her full lips, shiny with gloss. Though she was young, she acted with the poise of a veteran performer with years in the business who had introduced themselves a thousand times. Although the bar patrons didn’t know, her queasy stomach indicated otherwise.

  A hush fell over the crowd, and all eyes were on the singer on stage, her timeless beauty enthralling the male clientele, while the females in the place eyed over her style, thinking of ways to emulate the tight-fitting jeans tucked into her boots, a lacy white top, loosely tucked and showing just enough of a turquoise belt buckle.

  Joe’s eyes dropped to Lexi’s left hand, specifically her unadorned ring finger. One raised eyebrow unintentionally belied his interest.

  A few catcalls and high-pitched whistles followed. Lexi ignored them.

  The roughneck who had been giving Joe a hard time purposely shoved him. Joe was so mesmerized with Lexi he hadn’t noticed the intentional shove. He plopped back on the stool and adjusted it for optimal viewing, positioning the back against the edge of the bar.

  When the first song ended, Lexi let the guitar rest on her crossed legs. She took a sip of water. “How’d everybody like it?”

  The patrons clapped their approval and stomped their feet, rattling the wood floor. A man yelled, “Don’t stop there, gorgeous! Keep going!”

  A cackle of laughs followed.

  Lexi sang three more songs, effortlessly segueing from one to the next. “Before I take a quick break, this is a special song I wrote for the lovers in the crowd.”

  “Hell yeah!” a drunk yelled. He stood and thumped his empty beer mug on a table. “I’ll be your lover!”

  The roughneck who had been harassing Joe rocketed out of his chair and forced the drunk to sit. “Any more of that, and I’ll toss you outside. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” the drunk mumbled. “Now leave me alone.”

  Lexi strummed a musical chord, then another, until she was satisfied the tuning was spot on. She lifted her eyes and met Joe’s. “This is for you,” she said.

  For a man used to taking charge, to speaking his mind, his mouth dropped open, and before Joe had time to respond or to wipe the spittle from his bottom lip, Lexi closed her eyes, strumming the guitar with her elegant fingers. She began singing a mournful, heart wrenching verse describing the angst of unrequited love.

  The crowed quieted.

  Someone sniffled.

  One of the roughnecks coughed down a showing of emotion.

  Joe was touched by the soulful singing, a performance he swore was meant solely for him. He had to meet her, drawn to her by a strong force he had never experienced before.

  Then, as soon as the song began, it was over. Lexi lowered the guitar and inhaled deeply as if she was recovering from the song. She had reached deep inside her soul for the performance, baring it for anyone to see. It was both liberating and frightening.

  The drunk shoved aside a chair and barreled up the aisle leading to the stage. Lexi froze at the massive man coming her way.

  “I’ll give you some lovin’, honey!” Through the fog of his alcohol-soaked brain, he clumsily tried to crawl on stage and—

  Joe marshalled his way through the crowded floor, tossing aside chairs and tables. He stormed to the man crawling on all fours and looped his hand under the man’s belt. Using all his strength, Joe tugged the man off the stage and wrestled him to the floor.

  The drunken man grabbed Joe by the collar and tossed him sideways.

  Joe and the drunk wrestled on the floor, where Joe landed a few choice punches. While the man outweighed Joe, he wasn’t as agile, though his girth went a long way. The two men sidelining as security raced in, pinned Joe down, and as the drunk was about to place a kick, several other patrons manhandled the man away.

  Joe regained his balance and flung the security men away. “Don’t touch me again,” Joe spat. “If you had been doing your job, that man would have not been able to rush the stage. He could have hurt her!”

  “It’s only Bob,” one of the security guys said. “Everyone knows Bob don’t mean no harm and wouldn’t hurt a flea. Right, Bob?”

  “I didn’
t mean nothin’.” Bob made a show of dusting off his trousers. “I was tryin’ to be friendly.”

  “If you two gentlemen make nice and shake hands, this fine establishment won’t press charges,” the owner of the bar said.

  Joe scoffed at the drunk who was digging for treasure in one nostril. “I’ll pass,” he said. “I’m outta here. First, I want to thank the singer for her performance. She’s much too good for this place.” Joe scanned the room for her.

  “She’s already long gone,” one of the security guys said.

  Joe deflated like a balloon stuck with a pin. He regained his senses and raced to the door, throwing it open in hopes of finding the singer. All he saw were the taillights of a truck speeding away. He tracked it until it disappeared on the highway.

  Joe went back into Hungry’s and sat at the bar. “Do you know how I can get in touch with her?”

  “I was keeping your burger and fries in case you came back,” the bartender said, ignoring the question. He slid the plate in front of Joe.

  He took a bite of the now cold burger and chased it down with a sip of beer. He’d lost his appetite. “Any idea how I can get in touch with the girl?” Joe repeated.

  “Sorry. No can do. We have a strict policy about not giving out any personal information. Lawsuits and such.”

  Joe nodded. He paid for the uneaten meal, got in his truck, and drove. To where, he had no clue. One thing was for certain, he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

  ~ ~ ~

  Thirty miles away, Lexi sat in the passenger seat of the truck her dad was driving. “Why’d we have to leave? Why’d you pull me off the stage?” she protested. “I hadn’t finished the gig.”

  “That drunk would have been all over you if I hadn’t pulled you away when I did.”

  “It wasn’t necessary,” Lexi said. “And I don’t want you hurting yourself. I know you haven’t been feeling well.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Next time something like this happens let the security guys do their jobs. Besides, one of the guys in the audience acted faster than anyone did, including you. Maybe we could get in touch with him and ask if he wants to work security for us.”