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

and rubbed her eyes, trying to focus and make sense about what had happened. The ringing in her ears came loud and strong. A man ran past her, stopped and said something indistinguishable, and when Lexi didn’t answer, he mouthed, “I’m sorry,” before turning his back to her and darting into the maze of smoke and confusion.

She was missing a shoe.

How odd she thought. She had gone to great lengths to pick the right shoes for the occasion. Her outfit had been reduced to something a zombie might be seen in.

She concentrated on breathing slow and deep, filling her lungs, a necessity for singing and keeping calm.

“Help!” she cried meekly.

No help came.

God, her ears hurt. She tugged on her ears and wiggled her jaw in an attempt to clear them – a trick she learned from long hours in a commercial plane. One of her ears cleared, and her hearing improved.

She shivered at the unnerving silence.

She had landed behind a concrete pillar that supported the concrete passageway to the dressing rooms. A news reporter Lexi recognized from TV lay crumpled feet from her, a piece of rebar sticking out from her chest. Security guards rushed past Lexi, not even giving her a second glance, sidestepping bodies as they navigated towards the field.

Lexi lifted her head toward the field. Her eyes went wide. She had no time to react or to think. Instinct took over and she curled into a fetal position, covering her head.

A fireball roaring like an out of control locomotive barreled down upon her like a living, breathing beast.

What happened next was the stuff of horror movies.

Chapter 3

Ethan Crossfield worked hard to rid his mind of the time he had to eject from the fighter jet during his tour in Afghanistan. He was lucky to have landed in friendly territory, otherwise, he wouldn’t have the honor and privilege of being part of the Blue Angels.

Flying at 700 mph just below Mach 1 in an F/A 18E Super Hornet streaking across the clear February sky, he willed himself to forget the ill-fated flight. Yet the hollow, sick feeling in the gut of his stomach reminded him. He shook off his nerves and concentrated on the exact timing needed to pull off the acrobatic maneuver he and three other pilots needed for a successful show prior to the Super Bowl kickoff.

It was the 75th Anniversary of the Navy’s elite Blue Angels, requiring a new aircraft which replaced the F/A Hornet the Blues had used for over thirty years.

Viewing NRG Stadium from a height of 8,000 feet, home to the Houston Texans football team, a rush of adrenaline tamed his jitters. From his vantage point, the stadium, filled to capacity at 72,000 seats, was as small as a Monopoly game board.

Ethan and the other pilots had practiced for hours in the flight simulator before moving to the wide open sky where no room was allowed for errors, a sneeze, a cough, or any distraction during their tight formation. He had flown this particular formation so many times he could practically complete it blindfolded.

The choreographed maneuver required the expertise of many professionals who understood the mechanics of flying and the various weather exponents that could affect the jet’s ability to maneuver.

Ethan couldn’t have asked for better flying conditions. Visibility was at a maximum, winds were light and out of the north, and he couldn’t wait to get the show on the road. It was perfect timing to showcase his skills, and he savored each moment. After this, he’d hang up his wings. At forty-two, the other pilots jokingly called him Grandpa due to his age. Flying these jets was a young man’s job.

Almost ready.

Preparing to take the lead in the Diamond 360 maneuver, Ethan would soon give the verbal go-ahead signaling the start of the show.

He visually checked the other pilots, confirming their positions, spoke into his headset for a second confirmation, then noted the time. He descended and slowed the aircraft. The other aircraft followed.

5:23 p.m., Central Daylight Time.

In sixty seconds, the Blue Angels would streak back over NRG Stadium, showcasing their skills, then he’d be on his way home where he’d pop a can of beer and watch the halftime show plus the second half of the game.

As they had practiced, each jet descended according to plan.

Coming in from the south of the stadium, they flew over the woodland area of the Brazoria National Wildlife Refuge where alligators slithered in the swampy water.

Earlier in the day, they had traversed across the high plains of Texas, across the Edwards Aquifer, the Hill Country, then to the coastal wetlands near the Gulf of Mexico where they refueled at a local air base.

To the east was the Houston Ship Channel and the city of Pasadena, commonly called Stink-a-dena by the locals due to the rotten egg odor – a sulfur byproduct from numerous petroleum refineries.

The jets crossed the Sam Houston Tollway.

They skirted Hobby Airport.

Moments to go.

The stadium came into view over the horizon.

The jets descended to the safest altitude allowable, streaking over what was now south Houston – not exactly prime real estate with problems of increasing gangs and crime. It was a place where Ethan had grown up, playing in the streets, getting beat up on a regular basis. A place he had escaped. A young boy with a shock of light hair and freckles made for a good target by bullies.

“Everyone good to go?” Ethan asked. He got a verbal confirmation from each pilot.

Ethan gave the thumbs-up sign.

Breaking formation, he felt a hiccup from the finely tuned jet engine that normally purred like a newborn kitten. The jet wobbled.

One of the Hornets shot past him, and in its wake, the jet shuddered its last moments of mechanical life.

The dashboard with numerous readings about