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

did a quick check for any weapons left behind. He didn’t see any, although he did spot his backpack a few yards away from him. He stumbled over to it, picked it up, and looped it over his shoulders.

It was too light. Swinging it off his shoulders, he looked inside. His soda was gone. He dropped his head to his chest as an overwhelming feeling of defeat hit him all at once. He chastised himself, then straightened and slapped his cheeks to snap himself from the hopelessness of the situation.

Looking in the direction of the zoo, he once again set out on his mission to get antibiotics and supplies for Lexi.

He was thirsty, so thirsty, his mouth parched, his tongue dry. Recalling a water fountain on the ground level in the parking garage, he kept his fingers crossed it worked. He found it and drank greedily from it.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Joe stumbled along the back roads of the medical center until the front entrance of the zoo came into focus.

This was it.

Now or never.

Chapter 19

Joe Buck was hungry, dirty, tired, thirsty, his head hurt, and his next decisions would mean life or death, not only for himself, but also for the woman whose life depended on him.

His heart beat at breakneck speed and his lungs greedily sucked in air, his adrenaline propelling him in a run for his life.

His legs silently gobbled ground on the grassy esplanade leading to the entrance of the Houston Zoo, the earth and grass damp from the chilly air, heavy with thick fog. Sweat stained his blue work shirt, trickling down his back. With each step, he left the imprint of his work boots on the muddy mixture of what had been a perfectly manicured swath of Bermuda and St. Augustine grass three days earlier.

Society had imploded quicker than any expert had forecasted.

He was in the middle of Houston, reduced to an urban jungle of stalled cars, looted stores, shuttered hospitals, and roaming gangs, where he became the hunted instead of the hunter.

There would be no moon illuminating the tall pines or stately oaks, no lights from downtown, twinkling as if Christmas had never ended, no steady hum of people talking, nor footsteps padding on the sidewalk. There was only an unnerving silence.

Too quiet.

No movement.

Nothing to indicate life.

Joe Buck knew better.

Reaching the end of the esplanade, he stopped and crouched, aware of the dangers of outlining himself among the graveyard of cars and trucks, an alien landscape in the fourth largest city in the United States. His mouth was dry, his chest rose and sank with each breath, and the stink of a dying city and its occupants hung in the silence.

Stepping off the curb, he hunched over and crept along the sides of abandoned vehicles in the parking lot nearest the zoo. If the vehicle had already been broken into, Joe went to the next one. No need to waste time searching vandalized cars. Breaking into a locked car would have been easy, then again, the noise made smashing a window would have garnered unwanted attention.

As a seasoned woodsman accustomed to the cover the trees and brush allowed, the city landscape and its challenges proved daunting.

He sidestepped to the next car, the sound of his soles on gravel and broken glass magnified on this quiet evening.

He relied on the heavy fog to absorb the unnatural noises he was making, scattering sound vibrations among the moist particles floating in the air. If he was heard, it would be difficult to discern which direction the sound had come from.

He approached another vehicle, hoping the dusty, dented van might have what he was searching for. The driver’s side window was rolled down a few inches, an observation he noted and nothing else. The shiny new-model cars, trucks, and SUVs with all the latest bells and whistles had been looted already, hubcaps and wheels stolen, and anything of value would have been taken.

He carefully pulled on the door handle. No luck. It was locked, like the other cars he had tried to open.

Joe pivoted, eyeing the next car when he got an idea. His gaze drifted from the window opening to his arm then back again. It was worth a try.

Stretching, he squeezed his muscled arm between the window and the door frame as much as the small opening would allow. Reaching his fingertips in as far as he could, he fumbled around feeling for the mechanism to unlock the door, pushing various buttons meant to swivel the mirror, or roll the windows up and down, until he found the right button.

He unlocked the door.

Joe sweated bullets, partly from physical exertion, partly from his jacked-up adrenaline. If the noise he was making didn’t give away his location, the salty smell of sweat trickling down his face and back would.

Wild animals, regardless of whether they were caged or reared in captivity, smelled fear.

His dry mouth made him aware of how desperately thirsty he was.

He opened the door and as he tried to slide into the seat, he cursed. Whoever last drove the car couldn’t have been any taller than 5’2”, and probably tipped the scales at a hundred pounds. Joe Buck’s six foot plus, one hundred and eighty-pound frame couldn’t squeeze sideways into the cramped space.

Taking a chance regarding his next movement, aware more clicking would bring unwanted attention, he lifted the manual lever to slide the seat back. Holding the seat in one hand so it wouldn’t uncontrollably slam backwards, the lever in the other, he carefully slid the seat all the way back.

He climbed in and silently shut the door. He rested a moment and let out a breath he had been holding, savoring the moment of success, regardless how insignificant it was. He needed to relish these moments to