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

by Chris Pike

  “What’s wrong, Mom?”

  “I’m not sure.” Becca took a big breath. “My leg doesn’t feel right.”

  “Let me check it.” Ethan rolled up the bottom of Becca’s ripped and tattered jeans to assess her injures. Dried blood stuck to her jeans, and Ethan had difficulty peeling the tough cotton material away from her skin. “Am I hurting you?”

  “Not much. Kinda stings.”

  He pulled up her pants’ leg below her knee, and it was there he saw the problem. A piece of shrapnel had sliced through her jeans and embedded in the fleshy part of her calf. The area was red and swollen.

  “Becca, you’ve got shrapnel in your leg. How bad does it hurt?” Ethan asked.

  “It throbs somewhat.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Becca shrugged. “I chalked it up to being bruised from being tossed around and hitting God knows what. I didn’t want to complain. I’m lucky to be alive. Is it bad?”

  Ethan sat down, assessing her injury. “If we leave it in, you’ll have trouble. If we take it out, there might be trouble, depending on whether or not the shrapnel hit anything important, like a vein. Regardless of what we do, you could get an infection.”

  “Then let’s go to the hospital.”

  “Mom,” Kinsey said, “if there was any help it would already be here.”

  “I don’t understand.” Becca waited for Ethan to explain.

  “Becca,” Ethan said, “from my military training and what I’ve experienced so far, the United States, or at least Houston and the surrounding areas, have been subjected to an EMP.”

  “Electromagnetic pulse, right?” Becca asked.

  “Yup,” Ethan answered.

  “I thought that was something science fiction writers made up.”

  “It’s real. We learned about it in the military.”

  “Then it’s not good at all,” Becca postulated. “I’ve read some post-apocalyptic novels, and the picture the authors paint isn’t a pretty one. Society will collapse quickly.” Becca paused to take a big breath. “What about fallout?”

  “That’s the least of our worries. The bomb would have been detonated high enough in the atmosphere so as not to affect us.” Ethan ran his fingers through his hair, thinking. “Whoever detonated the bomb strives to cripple the United States, not destroy its natural resources. Radioactive fallout would contaminate water and the land. Someone, some rogue country, wants to take over the U.S. If the population is crippled by lack of food and medical help, we would be prime for a takeover.”

  “Surely our government will stop it,” Becca offered.

  Ethan shook his head. “If there was a coordinated EMP over the main hubs of the US, there will be no help. My state-of-the-art jet is a perfect example because it was designed to be EMP proof. Obviously, the theory failed. There is no communication and no way to get supplies. If we survive it will be because of our resiliency and willingness to adapt, and our fortitude to endure hardships. I don’t mean to be a downer either. I’m telling you this so you can make informed decisions for yourself and your family.”

  Silence fell on the group of three, each keeping their thoughts to themselves. Cries of anguish and hurried footsteps echoed along the concourse walkway. A scream emanated from deep within the stadium. The wind blew a breath of air into the hallway, rolling an empty coffee cup along the floor. Amongst all the carnage, a sparrow lighted on a railing, chirping a calming melody of hope and resilience. It was a beacon of hope for the survivors to follow, to believe in. And with the melody, a renewed sense of purpose silently spoke to them.

  Finally, Becca spoke. “Ethan, you must have family, and I appreciate your help. Kinsey, Tyler, and I will be okay, so you go on home to your wife.”

  “Becca, there’s no one at home waiting for me. Not even a goldfish. I’ll stay here to help you and your family.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Lean on me,” Ethan said. “And let’s find your son.”

  Chapter 9

  The only indication the dog was alive was his twitching nose. The first thing he smelled was the odor of blood pooling around his handler. The dog, a sixty-pound mix of Labrador Retriever, German Shepherd, and a few other indistinguishable breeds, named Oscar according to his collar, lifted his head.

  He was on his side, panting, listening, and observing his environment.

  Oscar did not understand what had happened while on patrol on the first level concourse with his handler as he searched for various compounds used in explosives.

  Sniff, sniff.

  The smell of burning jet fuel filled the air. Particles of pulverized concrete stuck to his black nose and fur the color of dark amber. The smell of fear hung in the air like a heavy, thunderous cloud. He smelled adrenaline, sweat, soda, beef fajitas, flour tortillas, chocolate, black powder and other flammable chemicals from the exploding fireworks used earlier.

  Those odors did not interest him.

  He was only interested in his handler. They had worked together for two years, patrolling airports, schools, concerts, and various events at NRG Stadium. Oscar had a nose for the work, and had been given awards for his superior olfactory ability to sniff out explosives.

  Oscar crawled to his handler and licked him on his face.

  There was no response.

  Oscar pawed his arm.

  There was no movement.

  Oscar nudged him, lifting his hand only for it to crumple to the floor.

  Though Oscar did not understand death, his senses detected his handler’s grave condition. The blood normally coursing through his veins like a river’s current had stopped flowing, and had pooled under his back where he had fallen.

  His heart was silent, and his unique smell had changed from one of sunny laughter and good times to a lifeless smell of a body missing a soul.

  Oscar sat next to his handler and curled into a ball, tucking his snout in towards his body.

  Desperate survivors ran past the two, a sad sight of a confused dog and his dead handler.

  A young boy, his hand grasped tightly in his mother’s hand, gazed upon Oscar with empathy. He said, “Can we take him home?”

  His mother said, “No. He might bite.”

  A policeman surrounded by a throng of people, leading them outside, failed to see Oscar.

  A man running wildly down the concourse stopped and approached Oscar. The man knelt and extended his hand for Oscar to sniff.

  Oscar sniffed the man, the piece of hotdog in his hand, and not recognizing him, turned away, uninterested in the lure of food the man offered.

  The man shuffled closer, reaching over the top of Oscar’s head, touching him on his back. Nobody, not even Oscar’s handler touched him on his back. If anyone gave Oscar an ear scratch or a tummy rub, he’d be as docile and affable as a newborn pup. Kids could even pull on his tail. But touch his back? No.

  Oscar whipped his head around and snapped to warn the man away. The man was a stranger, like all the rest of the people in the stadium. So many different types of people. Some old, some young, some laughing, others talking in hushed tones, some shuffled, some walked hunched over, some had blood on them, wounded. Some smelled of a life-threatening illness, while others smelled of a strong body and constitution.

  The man mumbled and tossed the hotdog to Oscar. He turned his back and walked away.

  The smell of food enticed Oscar to inch towards the meager meal. Carefully, he took the bun and hotdog in his mouth and ate it in one gulp.

  Time passed and the sun became low in the sky.

  Oscar heard a scream, lifted his head and cocked his ears, listening, waiting. In the low light survivors moved randomly around the concourse, their faces hidden by scarves or shirts. They would stop and rifle through pockets of the people who were not moving. They would remove leather wallets, take cash then toss the wallet aside.

  A woman vomited when she pried a purse from a dead woman. She wiped her mouth then unsnapped the purse and rummaged through
it. The man with her ordered her to leave, and as they walked past Oscar and his handler, the man stopped and eyed them. The woman hesitantly made eye contact with Oscar.

  The man said something to the woman, who took several hesitant steps toward Oscar. Her eyes were kind and she spoke to Oscar in soothing tones and words. “Good boy,” she cooed. “You’re a good boy.” She smelled of perfume and soap. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, only an odor Oscar recognized and filed away in his brain. Her body language and facial expressions indicated deceit.

  Oscar kept his eyes on the woman as she approached him, then swiveled his attention to the man.

  The man was tall and strong like Oscar’s handler, yet he moved nothing like his handler. There was no easiness to his gait, friendly eye contact, or welcoming arms. The man’s shoulders were angled slightly forward, and he moved with cunning and purpose. His eyes nervously flicked from place to place.

  The ruff on Oscar’s back prickled, and he eyed the man’s every move. The man spoke again to the woman, keeping eye contact with Oscar. The woman clapped her hands and Oscar flinched to pivot his gaze to her.

  The man rushed Oscar, yelling angry words, and as the man tried to grab his leash, Oscar rocketed up, twisted, and bit down hard on the man’s forearm.

  The man screamed, cursing with words and sounds Oscar had not heard before.

  The woman moved closer to Oscar, and he released his jaws from the man’s forearm. The man fell backwards then scrambled away. Oscar growled low in his throat, baring his teeth to the woman, showing an impressive set of incisors with the propensity to tear through flesh. The woman slowly backed away.

  Oscar leaned against his handler for protection, but unlike other times, his handler did not offer any instruction to Oscar.

  The man angrily waved his arms, swore again, crawling away from Oscar. Rising, the man dusted off his jeans and with an exaggerated motion, told the woman to follow him.

  Oscar tracked the man and woman until they were no longer a threat, and it was not until then Oscar stopped shivering. His ears flopped down, and an expression of grief captured his dark muzzle and eyes.

  With nothing else to do, he took refuge next to the body of his handler. Oscar huffed a long breath and closed his eyes, awaiting sleep.

  Chapter 10

  Ethan, Becca, and Kinsey slowly made their way to Tyler. They found him slouched in the same seat, awake, sipping a drink.

  “Tyler,” Becca called.

  “Hey, Mom.” Tyler gave his mom a ‘sup nod. He briefly glanced at the man accompanying her.

  “Thank God you’re okay.” Without anyone blocking her way, Becca held onto the back of the seats then alternately swung her legs and hopped to her son. Taking a seat next to him, she asked, “How long have you been awake?”

  “Not sure. Maybe five minutes.” Tyler slurped again on his drink, finishing it. He removed the plastic top and reached in to get an ice cube. He didn’t bother to look at his mother. “I was too lightheaded when I tried to stand, so I sat back down. I’m feeling better now.”

  Becca placed a hand on Tyler’s forehead, noting his temperature. “You’ve got a nasty bump.”

  “Here’s an icepack.” Kinsey handed her mom the ice wrapped in a towel. She placed it on Tyler’s forehead.

  “Ouch, that hurts!” Tyler glanced at his mom and his eyes widened, startled by her appearance. “What happened? You look like crap.”

  “What’s wrong with you, Tyler?” Kinsey snapped. “Mom nearly died and all you can do is to comment on her appearance!”

  “Mom? Are you okay?” Tyler asked.

  Becca nodded. “I will be.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it, Mom, but you do look like crap. There’s blood all over you, and your clothes are ripped.” Tyler crunched on a piece of ice, annoyed at his sister’s earlier comment.

  “That’s because she was trapped under a bunch of dead people.”

  “Gross.” Tyler sifted positions in the chair. “And what’s with you, Kins?” He scowled. “I woke up and you were gone. Why’d you leave me here by myself?”

  “I was searching for Mom.” Kinsey spoke in a calm manner, determined not to let her brother get under her skin. “And, I found someone to help us. He helped save Mom.”

  Tyler grunted.

  “By the way, I put a note in your pocket telling you where I was, so if you had found it, you’d know I hadn’t left you.”

  “How was I to know? I’m not a mind reader. Besides—”

  “Will you two stop your infernal bickering,” Becca interrupted, using her best mom voice. “We are together and we’re okay. And we’re damn lucky because we have this nice gentleman who has offered to help us.”

  Tyler warily glanced at Ethan. “What’s your name?” he asked sullenly.

  “Ethan Crossfield. Nice to meet you.” Ethan leaned over and extended a hand to shake.

  “Likewise,” Tyler said, shaking Ethan’s hand. Tyler was trying to hide his skepticism regarding Ethan. It was like the guy was trying to take his dad’s place, a fact Tyler didn’t appreciate one iota.

  “Let’s formulate a plan and decide what our basic necessities are.” Becca waited for a response.

  “Food, water, and shelter,” Kinsey piped in.

  “What’s the prognosis on those?” Becca leaned over and rubbed her throbbing leg.

  “We’ll need to gather as much water and food as we can, and once you can walk, we’ll leave,” said Ethan. “For shelter, we’ll use the stadium and anything we can find here to help us stay warm. Do you have anything in your car, like blankets or matches, anything?”

  “No.” Becca sighed. “I cleaned it out when I went to the car wash the other day. Weather was nice, and it hadn’t been washed in a long time.”

  “Any medical supplies?”

  Becca shook her head.

  “We’ll need to find warm clothes because a cold front is headed our way,” Ethan said. “Temps are forecast to be close to freezing at night.”

  “What are we going to do?” Kinsey asked. “It’s not like there’s a mall or clothing store near here.”

  “I have an idea, but you’re not going to like it.”

  Kinsey exchanged worried glances with her mom and brother. “Tell us anyway.”

  “We’ll take the clothes off the dead people.”

  “That’s so wrong!” Tyler made a face like he had eaten a sour pickle. “And gross! There’s no way I’m going to wear clothes taken from a corpse.” He shuddered at the idea.

  “I agree with my son,” Becca said. “It would be wrong.”

  Ethan shook his head at their naiveté. “There’s nothing wrong doing what you need to do to survive. We’re on our own in case you haven’t noticed it. If you, and you, and you,” Ethan pointed a finger at Becca and her two children, “want to live, you’d better get used to doing unpleasant tasks. This is only the beginning, and I can assure you it will get much worse.”

  Tyler had heard enough of this guy’s nonsense. He pulled his cell phone from his back pocket. It hadn’t turned on automatically, a fact he found odd. He pressed the home button. Nothing. Next, he pressed and held down the on/off button. No luck.

  “What are you doing?” Kinsey asked.

  “Calling a friend to pick me up. I’m not listening to this bullsh—”

  “Watch your language!” Becca ordered. “Your father wouldn’t stand for such bad language.”

  “Well he’s not here to do anything about it, is he?” Tyler retorted.

  Becca needed to keep her cool and be understanding. She lowered her voice, speaking softly. “I know it’s hard on you.”

  “You know nothing about it,” Tyler shot back. “You grew up with two parents. I don’t get that privilege.”

  “I’m sorry, Ty.” Becca reached to her son to push the hair back from his forehead.

  “Don’t, Mom.” Tyler shied away from his mom and stared at his dark phone, refusing to acknowledge his mother’s attempt to
diffuse his anger. “I’m not a little kid anymore.”

  “Phones aren’t working,” Kinsey said.

  Tyler huffed. “My battery must be low or else there’s too much interference from all the concrete here.”

  “No, Tyler. You don’t understand.” Kinsey folded her arms across her chest.

  “Understand what?” he growled.

  Ethan interjected at what would surely become another squabble between siblings. These teens, especially Tyler at fifteen with more testosterone than brains, needed a strong male influence, and considering his father was deceased, Tyler was only acting out his grief and frustration. It was hard enough navigating the teen years, but without one of the parents, it would be doubly difficult.

  “I’m a pilot, former military,” Ethan told the boy, “and I’ve attended conferences about the real possibility of an EMP. The electromagnetic pulse from a nuclear explosion would have destroyed the electrical grid and anything relying on electronics such as modern cars and phones. Infrastructure, the financial markets, will be crippled. City supplied water will stop working in a matter of days, grocery stores will be looted, and people will do whatever they need to do to survive.”

  Tyler scoffed. “Mom, do you believe this crap?”

  Becca didn’t reply.

  “Kins, do you?”

  “Ty, come with me,” Kinsey said. “I want to show you something.”

  “What is it?”

  “It would be better to see it for yourself. Are you alright to walk?”

  Tyler stretched and walked in place to test his legs. “I’m good enough.”

  Kinsey led her brother up the stairs to the walkway leading to the concourse. He was speechless as he tried to avoid the faces of dead people piled near the walls. The hustle and bustle of restaurants was silent, and the only meager light provided was from the setting sun. A survivor gave Tyler and Kinsey a wide berth when spotted. From there, Kinsey wended her way to the area with a good view of the city including downtown.

  “This is what I’m talking about,” she said.

  Tyler leaned on the chest level concrete barrier, resting his forearms on the rough surface, his eyes sweeping the city. His mouth dropped open at the scene. Cars stopped in the middle of the street, the parking lot full, people aimlessly wandering around. No sounds of the city could be heard, and no planes above with white contrails streaking across the sky were seen, no traffic helicopters, no sirens, honking. Nothing. The eerie quietness permeated the once noisy city. Even the wind blowing through the concourse had an eerie quality.