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

Joe opened his mouth to correct Hannah, then decided not to. At this point, he questioned her intelligence. All he needed to do was to procure a firearm, get the antibiotics then hightail it back to the stadium. Lexi’s life depended on his success, and so did Hannah’s.

Effing great.

On one hand, he couldn’t abandon Hannah to get eaten alive, on the other, he couldn’t abandon Lexi. Joe’s cool was evaporating as fast as the sweat on his back.

“Hannah, I’m not here to debate you about snakes. What you’ve done has been extremely reckless, and you’ve put my life, your life, and the countless lives of other people in danger. From here on, you do exactly as I say, or I leave you behind. Got it?”

“I suppose so.” Being contrite was not in the repertoire of Hannah’s abilities.

Joe opened the door to the aviary then carefully shut it behind him and Hannah. It was dark, and it took a while for their eyes to adjust to the lack of light. Joe’s flashlight Joe began to flicker. He clicked off then back on, then it flickered once more before it went dark.

“Great,” Joe muttered.

Hannah swung her pack around, unzipped it, and retrieved a flashlight. “Here, this might come in handy.”

“Thanks,” Joe said, cautiously flicking it on. “It works. Got anything else useful in there?”

“Only some of my stuff.”

“Like what?” Joe asked. He lowered the flashlight beam onto Hannah’s pack.

“None of your business.” Struggling with the heavy pack, Hannah covered the opening with one hand while she zipped it up using her other.

“What’s in there? An anvil?”

“Funny.”

“I thought so.” Joe snickered. His tone quickly turned serious. “Stay behind me.”

Joe and Hannah inched their way through the deserted aviary, watching for any unusual movement or eyes glowing in the flashlight beam. They walked past aisles of books and trinkets, bird seed, stuffed animals, coffee mugs, and sundry items tourists could spend their money on. At the back of the aviary, Joe spied a door.

“Is this it?” Joe asked.

“Yes.”

He opened the door to find a room with a round table with four chairs, one long cabinet, one file cabinet, and a looted drink machine. The long cabinet, standing around six feet tall, must be the prize he was after. It was locked. Using the flashlight, he did a 360 of the room, searching for a tool he could use to pry the door open. To the side of the four-drawer filing cabinet, Joe found a wooden utility cart. On the lower shelf was a hammer.

“This is going to make noise,” Joe said. “Stay by the door and let me know if you hear anything unusual.”

“Will do,” Hannah replied.

Using the hammer, Joe pried open the larger of the filing cabinets. He let out a satisfied sigh at the sight of the rifle. It had obviously, and ironically, belonged to an African safari hunter about fifty years ago. Judging from the lack of commercial markings, it was once a high-end European custom rifle using the solid Mauser action seated in the finest hardwood available. This very rifle had probably taken elephant, rhino, lion, and cape buffalo in its heyday. In all likelihood, the owner had passed and his wife had donated the rifle to the zoo. Joe wondered if she knew that such a rifle would have brought five figures on the used gun market.

A stock reinforcement bolt helped to keep the heavy recoiling action tight in the beautifully grained walnut stock. Joe noticed the once sharp wood checkering had been worn smooth from years of handling. The once pliable recoil pad was now hard and crystalized from age.

Hannah moved the flashlight’s beam and Joe understood the late hunter’s wife may not have made such a mistake in giving the rifle away after all. The additional light showed discoloration of the stock’s forearm from handling the rifle with greasy hands and not cleaning it properly. There was also the reddish orange powdery flaking of rust where the outside of the barrel met the wooden forearm. A look down the barrel using the flashlight on the other end showed a darkened barrel and rifling, clear evidence of damage from corrosive ammunition and lax cleaning discipline. Such a rifle could not be trusted to hit a target much beyond fifty yards.

Concerned about the reliability of the gun, Joe worked the bolt, checking the safety’s function, then dry fired the once top-of-the-line elephant gun. Despite the poor maintenance record, Joe was convinced the rifle would function properly. He wouldn’t mind taking this baby to the shooting range, although any safari fantasies he had about the rifle would have to wait. Satisfied with the mechanical function, he inserted some .375 H&H solids, chambered a round, then pocketed two boxes of ammo. He held up a third box of ammo. “Can you carry this?”

“Bullets? Really?”

“Tiddlywinks won’t protect us from what’s outside. Bullets will.”

“Give it to me.” Hannah roughly took the box from Joe and stuffed the heavy box into an outer pocket of her fanny pack. “I still don’t know what you’re worried about.”

“While you’ve been holed up in the van, society has derailed. You’re lucky not to have been eaten alive.”

“I told you,” Hannah protested, “the animals are my friends.” She wanted to let Joe know about how hurt she had been and how she had witnessed the depravity some humans were capable of. She kept her real thoughts to herself, hoping time and distance would solve the problem. Instead, she blurted, “I hate people. And, yes, animals are my friends.”

“That’s BS and you know it.” Joe approached Hannah and invaded her personal space. He towered over the slender woman which reminded him of a gazelle. “What do you plan to do when you’re face to