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

by Chris Pike

  “My prayers haven’t been answered,” a gruff male voice interrupted the mother daughter reunion. “Yeah, Lexi, listen to your mother next time about dental hygiene.”

  Lexi’s mouth dropped open. Seeing a ghost wouldn’t have been as shocking. It was an understatement to say she was surprised. “Cullen Pickers? You’re alive?”

  “Wow. Sounds like you hoped I was dead. Thanks a lot,” Cullen said.

  “That’s not what I meant. The area you were in was, you know, destroyed. I’m sorry, I assumed you were dead, like my mom, and I can’t believe you survived. How did you make it out of there alive?” Before Cullen answered, Lexi blurted, “You look,” she paused, searching for the right word, “great.”

  “What else did you expect? Of course, I look great. Fortunately for me, I was summoned to the same luxury box where your mom was.”

  “Why?” Lexi asked.

  “One of the team’s owners personally called me to repair the sound equipment in the luxury box. You had just walked onto the field when I got the call.”

  “Ahh,” Lexi cooed. “It’s so sweet they wanted to hear me sing.”

  Cullen waved her off. “Don’t flatter yourself. They were having problems with their sound equipment, and needed to be able to communicate with the coaches. Cell phone service isn’t reliable surrounded by lots of concrete. For example, try calling inside a closed mausoleum.”

  “Too bad you’re not in one,” Wanda muttered.

  Lexi’s eyes blazed at her mom. The silent communication to stop the sniping fell flat. Imagining her mom and Cullen having to share the same space wasn’t a pleasant thought. Their disdain for each other had become legendary.

  “I took the elevator specifically used for the luxury boxes, and when I arrived, your mother met me at the door. She refused to let me in. In hindsight, I should thank her for her rude greeting, otherwise, I’d be dead.”

  “Next time, I’ll be nice,” Wanda countered. She tossed a fake smile towards Cullen. “To make Mr. Picker’s long story short, because who wants to relive it, we were the only ones from any of the luxury boxes to survive. We were stuck together, and because I took pity on Mr. Pickers, I asked if he wanted to walk to my mom’s house. If by some chance, you were in a hospital, I came here because I knew you would too once you were able to.” Wanda paused. “Lexi, we spent hours looking and yelling for you. I feel bad I gave up on you.”

  “Don’t be, Mom. It doesn’t matter. It only matters we are alive and together,” Lexi said.

  A squeaking, thumping noise of an old car rattling along the dirt road interrupted the happy reunion.

  “Is that a Model T?” Wanda asked as she watched the old car stop in front of the house.

  “It is.”

  Wanda peered out a window, observing a group of people exiting a shiny Model T that looked like it just came off the assembly line. “Your grandmother is driving?”

  “Is there anything Granny can’t do?” Lexi asked.

  “If there is, I haven’t figured it out yet.”

  “Come on,” Lexi said. “I’ll introduce you to my new friends and a very special guy who saved my life.”

  “You met someone?” Wanda was having a difficult time containing her enthusiasm. “I need all the details.”

  “Play it cool, okay?”

  “Of course. I can’t vouch for your grandmother, though.” Wanda chuckled. “Lord help us all. We’re gonna need it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The survivors sat around a large table, eating, drinking, and sharing life stories. They took turns telling survival stories about the stadium, about kindness they had experienced, along with acts of cruelty they witnessed.

  Debra Sue told several bad jokes which the others graciously laughed at. Wanda mercifully steered the conversation away from her mother’s bad jokes to a debate regarding the best way to cook wild hog.

  Kinsey and Tyler sat together, and instead of sniping at each other, they complimented one another on their own acts of bravery and knowledge. They had pitched in and contributed to saving the life of their mother, and had demonstrated a maturity beyond their years.

  Ethan had set aside his own needs to help the family he had come to know and to respect. He depended on them as much as they depended on him. His allegiance to the military and considering it a family had changed as he observed the dynamics of a real family and the love and bonding they shared.

  Ethan mused how Becca had raised two children who would grow into fine adults. They were Becca’s legacy, and she would live on through them, through the DNA she passed down to the next generation. He also realized he had traded a real family for a massive, uncaring clog comprised of pomp and circumstance, of obeying orders, of politicians seeking power, of betrayals. He had given enough of his life. The time had come for him to put himself first, and those he cared for.

  Oscar sat by Joe’s side, resting his muzzle on Joe’s leg. Joe let his thoughts go to Hannah, and the decision they made to let her die in peace. She was one of the good ones, and during the short time he had known her, she had shown bravery and selflessness. She could have easily been his sister. He said a prayer for her, wishing her a peaceful end and a place in Heaven where she was the guardian for all the animals. Who would have ever thought Joe would have made a friend with an animal activist?

  Joe absentmindedly stroked the flat part of Oscar’s head, then massaged his warm ears. Oscar had been traumatized by witnessing the death of his trainer, a man who was respected for his knowledge and wisdom to view service dogs not as a commodity, rather a salient being with needs and emotions. Oscar chose Joe to be the man he’d be connected to, the man he’d give his loyalty to, and if necessary, his life.

  The gathering lingered into the night, and Debra Sue insisted Becca and her family should stay until daylight.

  “It’ll be safer,” Debra Sue said.

  Little did she know how unsafe the world had already become.

  Chapter 30

  “Let us out!” the prisoner yelled. He rattled the bars of his cell at the notorious Ellis 1 Unit in Huntsville, Texas.

  During the three days after the EMP struck, conditions at the state penitentiary had deteriorated quickly. Toilets weren’t working, there was no air-conditioning or central heat, showers were unavailable, and many guards had abandoned their posts to go home to their families, leaving a skeleton crew to oversee the overcrowded prison. Three bottles of water were provided once a day to each inmate for either hydrating or washing, leading to an overwhelming stench. Vomit dried on the floor, and to protest the worsening conditions, inmates had smeared bodily waste on the walls.

  The prisoner in 32B had been convicted of manslaughter and given a fifty-year sentence. Now in his early thirties, he wouldn’t see freedom until well into his seventies, that was, if he lived until then.

  The prison gained notoriety in the early 1980s when a lifer shot and killed a prison farm manager then murdered the warden by drowning him in a bucket of water. After the subsequent mass escape attempt, death row was removed from the prison. Regardless, violence at the prison housing inmates convicted of assault, rape, or murder continued to rise.

  The inmate known by the nickname of Nail because he used a nail gun to kill a man, rattled the bars again. “We aren’t animals! Let us out of here!”

  “They ain’t listenin’ to us, bro. Might as well sit yo ass down,” Dontrell muttered. He was stretched out on the bed, staring at the bleak ceiling, illuminated with emergency lights powered by the prison’s failing generator.

  Nail was on Dontrell as fast as a shark on a hapless seal. Nail grabbed Dontrell by his throat and shoved upwards. “Don’t you never tell me what to do again.” Nail’s eyes were black, hollow. The eyes of a soulless person who killed without conscious, who felt no remorse regarding the suffering of others. Nail felt more empathy towards the roach he stomped on earlier than he did about taking the life of a person.

  Dontrell quickly nodded his understanding. He cough
ed and massaged his neck after Nail released his grip. “What’s your problem, you crazy SOB?”

  “You’re my problem,” Nail countered.

  “You know what your problem is? You.”

  “And I suppose you’re as pure as the newborn baby boy in the manger.”

  Dontrell shot up off his bunk and came face to face with Nail. “You done crossed the line, Nail. I saved your sorry ass once when you tried to fight Fatboy when he was saying crude things about your sister, and what do I get? You dissin’ baby Jesus. I may have been convicted of killing a man, but no way would I ever disrespect Jesus. I should’ve let Fatboy kill you.” Dontrell gathered spit in his mouth and hocked it on the floor. “That’s what I think of you.”

  Nail screamed a slew of obscenities directed at Dontrell, the prison warden, the hellhole of a prison, the bland food, the prison guards, his lot in life, and whatever else had gone wrong. His vile words riled up the other inmates, resulting in a deafening cacophony of indecipherable sounds, drowned out by the inmates beating on walls and using anything at their disposal to bang on the cell bars.

  After a long minute of the eardrum busting noise, the inmates quieted. Nail threw himself on the other bunk, cursing the world and his bad luck at being convicted for killing that know-it-all supervisor on the construction site. The guy had it coming alright – ordering Nail around, criticizing his craftmanship, his tools, the type of work boots he wore. There wasn’t anything Nail could do right. To top it off, the guy was the reincarnation of Nail’s old man. Nag, nag, nag. Go to school, get a job, stand up straight, stop slurping, stop hanging around a bad crowd, practice throwing a football, study, study, study, join the band, do something with his life. It never ended. And his sister? She could do no wrong. She rarely cried as a baby, didn’t sass her parents, excelled in school, theater and arts, had loads of friends, and could walk into a store and get offered a job on the spot. Then the old man bought her a car when she was sixteen. She had the looks and the body of a model. Man, she got lucky in the DNA department.

  Nail became increasingly jealous of her and the attention of boys towards her. He despised the way the guys talked about her. And though he was jealous of her, secretly he admired her and wanted to protect her from the scummy guys attracted to her.

  When talk about her slid into vulgar locker room talk, Nail put a stop to it. Nobody dissed his sister in his presence – a fact not lost on inmates.

  Though nobody knew it, the murder that sent Nail to the slammer wasn’t his first. Several years prior to his conviction, Nail was sitting at the bar of a seedy dive when he overheard some lowlife graphically boasting about what he planned to do to his sister. Enough was enough, so when the lowlife left the bar, Nail followed him and ran his truck off the back-country road. A bullet through the head took care of the guy. Forever.

  “Hey, man,” Dontrell said. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

  “Forget it,” Nail said. “I’m more worried about what they plan to do with us. It’s eatin’ me up they’d leave us locked up to die of thirst.”

  Dontrell propped himself up on the bed. “I heard gossip we might get out.”

  “No kiddin?”

  “Fatboy has gotten real friendly with one of the guards who told him prisoners have been released in other parts of the state because of the EMP.”

  “You believe the crap about the EMP?” Nail scoffed.

  “Of course.” Dontrell answered the question like it was the dumbest he had ever heard. “I watch TV.”

  “Nothing works?”

  “Everything relying on a circuit board is useless now. No TV, cable, internet, phones, modern cars don’t even work. The list goes on and on.”

  “If cars don’t work, it also means trucks don’t work, which means no food delivery.”

  Dontrell chuckled. “You’re not as dumb as I thought you were.”

  “You’re forgettin’ one thing,” Nail said.

  “What?”

  “Police radios and cars wouldn’t work either, and that means the prison is a sitting duck for a takeover.”

  “Interesting.” Dontrell clasped his hands behind his head, thinking. “This could work out for us.” Dontrell turned on his side and propped himself up. “My old lady—”

  “Shhh.” Nail put his index finger to his lips. “Listen.”

  For a few moments, Nail and Dontrell listened to the quieting of the prison. The normal chatter waned and without the intercom, Nail focused on one particular sound, or rather lack of sound.

  “I don’t hear nothin’,” Dontrell said.

  “My point exactly.”

  Dontrell put his hands in the air. “I’m waitin’.”

  “The generator, you dumbass. Without a generator the prison has no power, which means the locks don’t work.” Nail’s heart beat fast as he approached the cell door.

  He tentatively reached for the door, placed his hand on it, and pushed outwards. Nothing happened. Nail put more pressure on the door. It didn’t budge. Putting his shoulder into it, he used all his weight to force it open. Nail’s jubilance at getting out quickly morphed into defeat. He slammed his hand on the door. “Piece of sh—”

  The sweet sound of clanging of bolts withdrawing from the steel reinforced cell doors echoed throughout the unit. A cornucopia of euphoric whoops and inmates praising God erupted, followed by a steady stream of inmates throwing anything at their disposal to celebrate their freedom.

  “Come on, man,” Nail said. “Let’s go.”

  Dontrell hadn’t moved from his position on the bunk.

  “What are ya waitin’ for?”

  “I ain’t got no place to go. Besides, nobody wants me. I’ll stay here and get three meals a day, free TV. Showers. Don’t gotta pay for nothin. Life ain’t so bad here.”

  “Come on, man. Don’t stay here. What about your old lady? You could go there.”

  “Last I heard my old lady shacked up with my best friend who’s now her baby daddy. She ain’t even taking my calls no more. My mama died last year, and I ain’t got no idea who my old man is. Nobody to go to.”

  “Then come with me,” Nail offered.

  “Where to?” Dontrell asked. “I didn’t think you had any relatives around these parts.”

  “I got a rich granny west of here.”

  Dontrell’s eyes perked up. “How rich?”

  “She’s got a sweet spread. And guns. Used to go there as a kid. My parents used to make me and my sister stay the summer with her so she could get to know us. I know where she keeps her money.”

  “No kiddin’?”

  “I’m tellin’ you straight. She’s rich. We can lay low there until this blows over. Hell, we could find us some country girls and have a good time.”

  “Suppose your granny don’t want us there? I don’t mean no offense when I say you’re not exactly the apple of anybody’s eyes.”

  “I’ll get rid of her.”

  “You ain’t got no heart. If you’d kill your granny, no telling what else you’d do.”

  “You got no idea what I’m capable of doin,” Nail stated.

  “Man, I don’t know. I’m city scum. I’d have no clue about country livin’. Am I gonna have to kill my own food? Killin’ a man is different than wringing some poor chicken’s neck. Nah, man. I’m staying here.”

  Nail thought about how he could convince Dontrell to go with him. It would be easier to have a partner to travel with because there was safety in numbers. If he travelled alone, he could easily be overtaken. He needed to come up with something else. Nail glanced at the poster on the wall of a young woman, all dolled up, holding a guitar, singing. It gave him an idea.

  “She your favorite singer?” Nail asked, pointing to the poster.

  “She sure has the voice of an angel, don’t she?”

  “Come with me and I’ll get you an autograph.”

  “Seriously?” Dontrell’s excitement grew at the prospect of getting a personally signed copy of the poster.


  “After all,” Nail said, “Lexi Carter is my sister, and I’m sure she’d love to see me again.”

  Chapter 31

  Fourth year medical student Jordan Hunt was walking on the sidewalk near the entrance to the convention center and was just about to pass the doors when a noise startled her.

  “What’s wrong?” Tom Edison asked. He was in the same graduating class as Jordan, had the same schedule as she did, lived in the same apartment complex, and had been sleeping when the EMP shut down society. Finally, and without any communication from the hospital where they were working, they decided to walk to the hospital.

  “I thought I heard something in there,” Jordan said, pointing to the door leading to the convention center.

  “The wind probably slammed a door shut,” Tom said.

  “Maybe.” Jordan wasn’t convinced.

  They walked a few steps past the doors when Jordan stopped. “I have to see what’s in there,” she said.

  “Let’s leave it. We’re not far from the hospital, and I know they must need us.”

  “We’ve been waiting for days,” Jordan said. “A few more minutes won’t hurt anything.”

  Jordan headed back to the doors, opened them, and stepped inside. The building was eerily quiet compared to the last time she had been in there for the Gem and Mineral show. The place normally would be bustling with chatter and people eager to browse the booths holding any type of jewelry a person could want.

  “There’s nothing here,” Tom said. “Let’s go.”

  “Let’s check one more thing, then we can go.”

  Jordan, or Jordie as she was known to her friends, opened the interior set of doors. The cavernous room was dark except for a sliver of light from another door that had been propped open.

  “Something’s over there.” Jordie spied a rectangular object, about six feet long, on the floor. From a distance it looked like a large box, except it appeared softer than cardboard, and not exactly square. Curious, Jordie hastily walked over to it. She clicked on the pencil sized ASP Scribe flashlight she carried in her shirt pocket and shined it on the object.