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

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