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

The four spread out, surrounding him at twelve, three, six and nine o’clock. Six o’clock worried him the most, taking a position behind Joe.

Twelve o’clock asked, “What’s in your backpack?”

“Nothing of value. I don’t want any trouble,” Joe said. “Had enough already for one day.”

“I’m taking a shining to your backpack. Always wanted one,” three o’clock said. “Empty it out, or I’ll empty this into you.” The thug whipped out a Glock and pointed it directly at Joe’s head.

“There ain’t nothing in it. It’s empty ‘cause I’m looking for supplies.”

“Don’t waste your ammo on him,” nine o’clock said.

Without any more haranguing, nine o’clock charged Joe and swung a freshly stolen Astros souvenir bat like the police baton it resembled. Joe sidestepped at the perfect moment, the bat missing him by inches. Nine o’clock’s momentum caused him to lose his balance and fall flat on his back against the sidewalk. Helpless from having the wind knocked out of him, nine o’clock struggled to re-inflate his lungs while he tried to stand.

Still dangerously outnumbered, Joe gave nine o’clock’s jaw a front kick that put him flat on the ground. Joe slid off his backpack and tightly gripped one of the straps to give him a flail with some reach. The normally harmless Cordura backpack had been made exponentially more useful by the four full cans of soda Joe added when he left the stadium. He continued to build up momentum by swinging the pack in a continuous circle while changing his footing as he searched for his next target.

Six o’clock drew a two-foot military style machete out of its green canvas scabbard and began a long overhead swing to bring it down on the back of Joe’s vulnerable neck. The blackened blade had descended almost halfway along its deadly path when Joe turned by violently pulling his left foot back while descending the fast-moving backpack against six o’clock’s waiting right temple. Six had no time to alter his stroke, so the machete’s blade skated along Joe’s left triceps, doing only surface damage. The thug fell with a bleeding nose, a crushed eye socket, and a hemorrhaging brain that could no longer instruct his lungs to breathe or his heart to beat.

Three o’clock had seen enough and decided it was time to go. He helped the still dazed nine to his feet and took him around the corner as fast as possible. Three o’clock figured he would use saving nine’s life as his excuse if twelve o’clock survived his encounter.

Twelve o’clock slammed his pillowcase to the ground. Realizing his souvenir bat was not enough, he reached to the small of his back where he kept a seven-inch military Bowie knife. Drawing the knife like an expert, twelve thrust the blade toward Joe using a continuous figure 8 to confuse his opponent about his specific target. Twelve’s speed was impressive and the knife appeared to be at multiple places at one time.

Joe knew he was in real trouble as he did his best to keep track of the Parkerized blade. An act of desperation was called for, so Joe took his still circling backpack and threw it underhanded toward the knife to break the rhythm.

Twelve had not expected the thrown backpack and it was all he could do to hold onto the knife as the backpack’s friction tried to tear the blade out of his hand.

Joe had only a moment to lunge at the knife with both hands. Twelve o’clock struggled mightily, but Joe used both his arms to twist twelve o’clock’s wrist back towards twelve’s body with an upward push of his shoulders.

Joe had control of the knife, but to his horror saw a shadow coming toward the side of his head. He had ignored the other hand! He felt a sudden bone-cracking blow to his head and heard a sound like a wooden board being broken against a tree.

Joe’s eyes rolled up into his head, and as he crumpled to the sidewalk, and before blackness took over, he had one last fleeting thought. He had failed Lexi. Hitting the sidewalk with an uncontrolled thud, he exhaled involuntarily and laid still, helpless to protect himself and at the mercy of whatever befell him.

~ ~ ~

The throbbing in Joe’s head woke him. He moaned, fighting the overwhelming sense of exhaustion as his fuzzy mind slowly came to the realization that he was alive. He looked on the ground directly ahead of him and saw a broken souvenir bat in his opponent’s left hand. His opponent’s face was filled with surprise, and the thug’s right eye socket was filled with a Bowie knife, blade buried up to the hilt. Apparently, Joe had only been a fraction of a second faster than his opponent.

Joe put his hand to his forehead, massaging his temples to provide a smidgen of relief from the incessant pounding. That part was good. What wasn’t good was the nausea creeping up from his stomach, through his gut, and to his mouth. His stomach muscles contracted, his breathing came in ragged spurts, and instinctively he turned his head to the side and spewed vomit onto the grass.

Exhausted, he rolled onto his back. The cold grass tickled his neck. Somewhere a bird chirped. He willed his eyes open to a blurry dull sky and hazy tall buildings. Trees loomed above him, leaves rustling in the chilly breeze.

He shivered.

He closed his eyes again, sleep tempting him to unconsciousness where he could forget about his pain, his troubles.

No!

Willing his eyes open, he slapped his cheek several times.

Get up!

Joe did not know how long he had been out. The two men who escaped could be on their way with reinforcements. Pushing himself to a sitting position, he waited until the lightheadedness faded. He estimated he had been out for several hours based upon the available light. He stood and