World on Edge: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller (World on Edge Book 1) by Chris Pike (top ten ebook reader TXT) 📗

He planned to live.

First, he needed to help one family.

Chapter 7

Joe Buck didn’t know what had happened.

One second he was watching Lexi Carter sing the National Anthem, the next second he woke to a chaotic scene worthy of a post-apocalyptic movie. Someone must have forgotten to include his name on the email announcing a movie was being shot at the Super Bowl.

Joe rubbed his eyes, reddened and irritated from thick, black smoke billowing upwards towards the stadium roof then swirling back down to the field before being sucked into the stands and beyond. Pulverized concrete filled the air. Survivors coughed.

Perhaps it was a big prank or some famous celebrity was getting punked. He thought he’d like to be on the show too. In fact, he had seen some A-list movie stars mingling with the owners of the two teams playing. That would explain things. Or perhaps not. His brain felt like it was surrounded by a fog bank, rolling inland from a cold Arctic sea. He thought about his childhood dog, euthanized due to old age and illness. He thought about the time he was in second grade when a class bully picked on him. He thought about his high school graduation where he was the only kid whose parents didn’t attend. He thought about when he enlisted in the army after his girlfriend dumped him. He thought about the buddies lost during missions. He thought about the first time he saw Lexi.

He shook the cobwebs from his head.

God, he was having trouble keeping his thoughts focused.

People were stumbling around like zombies, and dressed about as well. Faces showing the effects of an explosion, hair singed and brittle, open wounds.

WTF happened?

Joe had been blown backward twenty feet, lost consciousness, had lost his tools and his cap. He still had his boots on and located his cell phone. At least that was positive.

He expected to see a director and the light crew, the prop guy, a make-up artist, and a sound guy responsible for the soundtrack of screams and cries sounding much too real.

A young woman blown back by the force of the explosion lay feet away from him. Her face had taken on the color of old chalk, blood pooled around her torso, and a large chunk of concrete had pulverized her legs. It was then he recognized what had happened.

One of the jets from the air show must have crashed into the stadium. There was too much security for a bomb of the magnitude required for this much damage to have snuck by.

This was no movie.

It was real life.

Joe summoned all his strength to push himself to a standing position. For several minutes, he leaned on a concrete support, teetered on wobbly legs, and watched the survivors who could run or walk scattering in all directions. Not one person offered to help him, though it didn’t surprise him. Joe was accustomed to being on his own and relying on himself. He had filled-up his truck the previous day because he never let the gas tank dip below half full. Living on the Gulf Coast of Texas, keeping the gas tank above the half empty mark was a motto he lived by. He also had an extra change of clothes, a first aid kit, and a Glock. Crap. No, he didn’t have a Glock. Any worker caught with a firearm in their vehicle would be fired on the spot. He had to sign an agreement his vehicle could be searched before he could step foot into the stadium.

He needed to get to his truck and get the hell out of Dodge.

Joe massaged his throbbing temples, courtesy of being knocked around like a tennis ball. Then he thought about Lexi, the woman who didn’t know his name, who probably wouldn’t give him a second look. A superstar, surrounded by people with money, by talent, by family, by fans.

Or maybe not.

It was the ‘maybe not’ that spurred him into action.

She was the woman of his dreams and he had to make certain she was alright. If she wasn’t, he needed to know that too.

Holding onto the railing, Joe took one baby step and another until he regained his balance. He stepped over rebar, chunks of seats, cups, purses, clothing, shoes, paper baskets meant to hold French fries, football equipment, and a plethora of other indistinguishable items. He kept his eyes focused on the opening leading to the field.

Reaching daylight, or what could be considered daylight, he noticed a triage had been set up near mid-field. Thinking it would be a good start to his search, he wove his way towards the injured survivors. Several football players and coaches were tending to the injured. Someone yelled for the team doctors. Another person draped a towel over the face of a deceased player, but nowhere did he see Lexi.

Joe’s eyes tracked from where the smoldering jet was located to where Lexi had been standing. A debris line clued him to her possible location.

He walked the path of litter leading to a clear space behind a wall.

There, curled into a ball, he found her.

“Lexi?” Joe knelt next to her and reached towards her neck, afraid to touch her, thinking she might be dead. “Lexi, is that you?”

“Do I know you?” she asked, slowing opening her eyes.

“Thank God you’re okay. Are you hurt anywhere? Can you move your legs?”

“What happened?” Lexi asked. She lifted her head, propping herself up with her elbows.

“It appears a jet slammed into the field. I’m guessing it was one of the Blue Angels,” Joe explained.

“Why?” Lexi’s enunciation was slow and calculated. Through hazy eyesight she focused on Joe.

“I have no idea why anyone would purposely slam a jet into the stadium.”

“Can you call 911? I need medical attention. My ankle hurts.”