Ballistic: Icarus Series, Book Two Read Free

lived. Unfortunately, we were a few days past anything remotely resembling normal.
    Solar Storm Icarus had seen to that.
    What had started as a small flare had quickly erupted into an atmospheric event the likes of which even the global scientific community had not been fully prepared for. Icarus had completely crippled the world. The primary flares brought with them destructive solar winds, scorching temperatures, and dangerous levels of radiation. The electromagnetic storm and fires that followed soon wiped out what was left of the world’s primary power grid. The collapse of the infrastructure eliminated all traditional forms of communication.
    Icarus had been the killshot , the last news report had said. From what we had seen so far, that was pretty spot-on. According to the emergency census numbers scrawled onto each of the houses in the last two towns, nearly ninety percent of the people were gone.
    Whether they had died in the storm, the fires that raged after, or from the virus that Icarus had dragged to Earth in its wake, Icarus had effectively wiped out the last visages of our modern society.
    In less than five days, the world had gone almost completely silent.
    Metal tombs with shredded tires and blackened windows lay scattered throughout the neighborhood, clogging the once quiet streets with the stench of decay and the tangled remains of failed exodus. Downed trees and power lines sliced across yards and alleyways making it nearly impossible to pass. We were forced to backtrack several times, losing miles in the process. Then, a new obstacle would lash out at us farther down the road. Without fail, for every step forward we fell two more back. The end of the world was a tango we were being forced to dance.
    To make matters worse, the constant detouring had taken us so far off track that now the sun was coming up, and the heat was almost unbearable. We were going to have to find shelter until after midday. It would be that much longer before I could get to my brother. As hard a pill as that was to swallow, the fact was, it wasn’t just about him anymore. My friends were counting on me to keep them safe. After all they had sacrificed for me, I owed it to them to do just that.
    “We need to get below ground,” I said, opening the phone book we had pilfered from the vet clinic back in Morrison. “What town is this, Zan?”
    “Oregon,” Zander said, not taking his eyes off the road.
    “Got it,” I said, scanning across the tiny print before settling on the tattered canary velum of the Yellow Pages.
    After about a hundred or so flips through the obnoxious auto parts ads, barbershop listings, and manicure coupons, I finally found a good place to hole up; a small strip mall toward the center of town. “Okay, turn right up there just past the McDonalds. There is a place downtown called Conover Square that should work, I think. This ad says there’s an old museum is in the basement.”
    “Right,” Zander nodded, cringing as he drove over a cluster of pods in the middle of the road.
    “Gross,” Falisha muttered from behind us.
    We saw quite a few of the blackened cocoon-type lumps littering the ground over the last few miles but, aside from the sickening smell that filled the cab of the truck as we crunched over them, they did little to slow our progress. By the time we turned from I-88 onto South 3rd Street, most of the major roadblocks were in our rearview. Abandoned vehicles, blackened tree branches, and other debris lay clustered in piles along the sides of the road as if a plow had cleared the way ahead of us. Zander and I shared a sideways glance. It was a silent agreement to stay on high alert.
    “Whoa,” Jake said, staring out his window as we slowly passed what was left of the local burger joint. The remnants of the golden arches were barely recognizable amidst the pile of charred rubble. “It looks like someone bombed the place.”
    A few minutes later, we pulled up in front of the Conover Square