World on Edge: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller (World on Edge Book 1) Chris Pike (drm ebook reader .txt) 📖

God, she was tired.

So tired.

She became lightheaded, her body sluggish and heavy. Instinctively the muscles in her chest willed her to take another breath, and she made the motions of breathing like a fish gasping for air on a boat deck.

Her eyesight became foggy. Hazy images of things she couldn’t comprehend. Her brain registered the last images and sounds of her environment. Tangled, warm bodies trapping her; the smell of burnt organic and chemical matter permeated her nostrils; frightened screams of the wounded claimed the silence; the feeling of helplessness, and a blackness so dark it scared her.

So this was what death was like.

Cold and lonely.

She shuddered.

Then a warmness washed over her, starting from her toes, creeping up along her legs, her torso, arms, and she welcomed the unusual feeling.

Images of her children came to her, laughing and playing in the yard. The sun shone above; birds sang; a calming breeze brushed her long, sandy locks. She stood in her home, her husband embracing her lovingly with his strong arms while the memories of her life played like a slideshow in her mind.

Slowly, the slideshow waned, becoming distant until she could see it no more, like an ancient vacuum-tubed television powering down where the picture closed in on itself from the edges until only a tiny black circle remained in the middle.

Becca wasn’t afraid, rather she welcomed the relief of her agonizing ending, trapped in a tangled mass of bodies.

Her last conscious thought was about her children and husband.

This was it.

Becca thought she smiled, or had tried to.

Then there was nothing.

Chapter 5

Ethan Crossfield woke to a comforting breeze on his cheeks, the sun warming him as he strolled along a tropical beach, warm sand under his toes, a cold drink in his hand, an island girl next to him, and—

He popped open his eyes to the reality he had survived being ejected, only to face the horror of thick, black smoke wafting upwards from the open roof of NRG Stadium, which he floated perilously close to.

His legs dangled free after the seat had fallen away. He pulled on the cords of his parachute, desperately trying to guide himself away from the black smoke and jagged pieces of rebar protruding from the roof.

If he couldn’t control his parachute, within a matter of seconds he would become caught in the swirling draft of air and smoke, and be at the mercy of whatever peril was obscured from his vision.

He pulled the cords.

He yelled several obscenities.

The cords had been rendered useless, probably damaged during the ejection. His path was one in a direct line to the open roof where large chunks had been torn off.

All he could do was to take a big breath of air and pray he didn’t land in some burning inferno or get cut to shreds by the jagged edges of the roof.

He located the release clamps of the parachute, holding onto them for dear life because when he touched down, he’d have moments to get free of the parachute.

He sailed closer to the roof and was forced to close his eyes, caught in the crosshairs of the tug of war between hot air from the fire and the cooler air outside the stadium, Ethan was tossed around like he was in a boat on the high seas.

Unable to fight it, and needing to conserve his strength, he let his body move with the ebb and flow. He said a prayer to the Almighty to keep him safe, and if it was his time, then let it be quick. He wasn’t afraid to die, because he had made peace with his life and the things he had done, including some rather unpleasant acts – a necessary aspect of valor.

He kept his arms tucked in close to his torso and focused on keeping his knees slightly bent. If he was lucky enough to land on the field, he’d be ready to roll like he had been taught.

The smoke became thicker, and desperate for a breath, he covered his mouth with the flame-resistant material of his flight suit. He took a short breath, then another, waiting for his descent into the unknown.

He floated for a few seconds, letting his senses attune him to the environment. He heard the screams of terrified and wounded people, the crackling of raging fires, the creaking of joints fighting valiantly to hold together massive concrete slabs of the stadium.

He tasted the putrid smoke engulfing him, felt the heat of fires, heard the agonizing screams, sending shivers through him.

He rubbed his stinging eyes.

Closer he floated to the ground.

Taking a chance, Ethan opened his eyes to the mayhem beneath him. The jagged remains of a jet smoldered a thick plume of black smoke. A cacophony of mangled bodies of fans, players, cheerleaders, security personnel, coaches, football equipment, and unrecognizable pieces of debris littered the field.

The once green turf, decorated with the Super Bowl emblem and the teams’ names in bold colors on each end zone, had been reduced to a charred chunk of earth.

Ethan floated down to the field, and wiggling his body, he successfully diverted his landing to an area of the field, free of debris.

When he was on solid ground, he quickly extracted himself from the parachute and before he had time to take stock of his surroundings, he was immediately swarmed by a group of terrified survivors.

“The U.S. Airforce is here!” someone yelled jubilantly.

“Can you get us out?” a man pleaded. He held a rag to his forehead to stop the bleeding.

“What happened?” a teen girl asked, racing towards Ethan. Her face had drained of color, and she was hyperventilating. I need help for—”

“Can you help us get out?” the man with the head wound interrupted the girl, roughly pushing