The Pulse: Book 1 in the Pulse Trilogy

by Shoshanna Evers

  Mason looked down at his hands, surprised to see they weren’t trembling.

  “It wasn’t my place to decide who gets to live and who should die,” he said. “I understand that now. But I can’t say I’m sorry for what I did. Because with that evil man dead, Stephanie could finally breathe again, you know?”

  Emily nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Do you see what I mean now, that I’m not a danger to you? I’d never hurt you, Emily. And I can’t let you run off. Because that would be like letting you kill yourself.”

  Emily dropped the backpack on the hospital bed and ran up to Mason, throwing her arms around his neck. “I’m glad you killed that rapist,” she said. “We need fewer of those in the world.”

  Mason hugged her tightly, burying his face in her hair. “Thank you,” he said. Knowing she didn’t hate him for his crime made him feel like a weight lifted off his shoulders.

  “But, Mason,” she whispered, “I can’t stay. No matter what you say to me, I can’t stay in New York. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. I’m not safe here.”

  Mason nodded even though he wanted to hold her here, tie her down and make her stay safe with him. He couldn’t keep her if she didn’t want to be kept.

  Emily picked up her backpack and hefted it onto her narrow shoulders, tightening the straps so the weight was distributed equally. She stood on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on his cheek.

  A chaste kiss. A kiss that said good-bye.

  “Good luck, Em,” he said, his throat tight. “It was really great meeting you.” He shook his head—that didn’t sound right. They had more than just met. “If you change your mind, I’ll be at my apartment.”

  He pulled a worn pencil stub from his cargo pants and scribbled his address on a scrap of litter.

  Emily took it from him with shaking hands and read it before putting it in her backpack. “Thank you.”

  She turned and walked out of the room and down the corridor.

  Mason stepped out into the dank hospital hallway and watched as she strode determinatedly toward the front exit of Roosevelt. With no way of communicating, no phones, no Internet, unless people were within walking distance of a visit they might as well be out of his life.

  He’d never see her again. Just like he’d never see his sister Stephanie again.

  * * *

  Emily shouldered her bag and walked out the front door of Roosevelt Hospital, refusing to look back at Mason. If she did it would all be over. She wouldn’t be able to leave.

  Why? Why did he have such a strong effect on her?

  Knowing he wasn’t the cold-blooded murderer she originally thought he was made her feel safer around him.

  Well, he is a killer, she amended. But at least he had honorable intentions. And after life on the Tracks, she could easily understand wanting to kill a rapist.

  She might try it out herself someday, if she had to. And if the army came for her, all bets were off. She’d fight to survive.

  She wouldn’t go quietly, no way in hell.

  Outside, Emily glanced around.

  Stalled cars littered the streets, many vehicles with their gas tanks open, the gasoline long since stolen and used for fuel for older cars and some rebuilt generators, or so Emily had heard.

  She hadn’t seen anything generator-powered at the camp. They must be saving the generators for important stuff. But like what?

  If there was radio, what else had Colonel Lanche hid from them?

  Emily needed to listen to the radio. Her shocked mental state had prevented her from listening to, from even touching the radio before Mason found her. She had to see what was going on in the outside world. But she needed to find a place she could hide out in privacy.

  Looking around, she realized she’d walked over from Tenth to Fifth Avenue, arriving at the Plaza. Tilting her head up, she took in the beautiful hotel. Here would work. Why not?

  It’s not like she needed a reservation.

  Emily stepped into the Plaza. The smell of stale urine floated in the air, and the once magnificent front lobby was in disarray. Some asshole had even sprayed graffiti across the main concierge desk.

  Looking around for the stairs, she stepped carefully over the broken glass on the floor and opened the door to the stairwell. She climbed up to the second floor, pausing on the landing.

  She had to go up higher.

  At the fifth floor, Emily stopped and opened the heavy door out into the carpeted hallway. The very first room door she tried swung open. Of course. The electronic locks and key cards wouldn’t work after the Pulse.

  She looked around the room in awe. It was beautiful—plush, luxurious, even though it had been obviously ransacked. The bedding was missing, and someone had smashed the table to shreds, most likely to use as firewood.

  She shut the door behind her and bolted it. At least the physical bolt still worked. Setting the radio on the carpet, Emily sat cross-legged in front of it and held it reverently in her hands. She cranked the hand-crank, grateful it wasn’t battery operated.

  The radio seemed to come to life in her hands and she nearly dropped it. It had been that long since she’d heard a voice come out of anything other than a person. The signal was very poor, and static-y. She raised the volume, pressing her ear to the radio’s speakers.

  “This is American Victory Radio,” a man’s voice said. “Check in daily for news from around the country as we rebuild, better and stronger than ever.”

  Yeah, right, Emily mused, but she listened anyway.

  “President Powers has declined, amidst much controversy, help from United Nations officials to rebuild,” the voice on the radio continued. “American Victory Radio supports our new president’s decision, as America must not cede control to outside forces.”

  The UN wants to help? Emily thought, listening in surprise. It made sense, she supposed. But once they came in and took over, they might never leave.

  America would be done for.

  “If you are in need of food, shelter, or medical care, there are state-sanctioned shelters in every state across the US,” the voice continued.

  “If you wish to take federal food rations, any food you have on hand will be taken and added to the federal food bank.

  “We at American Victory Radio do not advise, repeat do not advise, taking federal rations unless absolutely necessary for survival.

  “And please, on that note, Americans, don’t loot from your neighbors. Don’t steal. Don’t let the terrorists who destroyed us with the Pulse destroy our integrity as well.

  “We are still, after all, America.”

  Wow, lots of patriotism, Emily thought. Just like after 9-11. Americans, New Yorkers, rallying together to fight against the terrorists.

  She twisted the knob on the radio, hoping to find another station. Someone else in the whole of the country had to be on, right? Well, maybe they were, but she was too far to hear their station. White noise filled the room as she carefully searched the gamut of both AM and FM stations.

  Emily turned off the radio and stared at it. Those other state-sanctioned shelters, what were they like? They might be—hell, probably were—as bad as Grand Central. But maybe, just maybe, they were okay. Better.

  Maybe there was a farming community out there in the country somewhere she could be a part of, if she could only reach it. Someplace where she could eat chicken instead of rat. At the thought of chicken, her stomach rumbled. She was hungry already, but she couldn’t dig into her emergency supplies yet.

  Something outside the door fell down with a clatter. Gasping, Emily’s head whipped around the room.

  The door was locked, bolted. She should be safe. But what—or who—was out there?

  Someone knocked sharply at the door. Emily shrieked, clasping her hand over her mouth in horror.

  A man’s voice. “Open this door, by order of the United States Army and the New York State police under President Powers’s martial law.”

  Oh God no. This couldn�
�t be happening. How, how did they find her so quickly? Did they hear the radio? Did they follow her since she left Roosevelt?

  Her hands trembled as she slid the radio underneath the bed and stood up.

  “If you don’t open this door,” the voice said, “I am authorized to break it down. You have one last chance.”

  She froze, unable to move. No way in hell she’d open that door.

  She wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  “Back away from the door,” a voice barked, and she cringed. A terrible smashing sound filled her ears as the door fell in off its hinges.

  A group of five soldiers stormed in and she screamed. One large man stepped up to her and quickly ran his hands over her body.

  Oh God, they’re going to rape me. Then, nothing. Just a pat down.

  “Clear,” the soldier said. Then he turned to her. “Where is it?”

  Emily shook her head. “Where’s what?”

  The soldier slapped her then, hard across the face. The sound of his hand hitting her skin rang out like a shot in the hotel room.

  She held her cheek in shock. This wasn’t a soldier, couldn’t be.

  A real soldier would never do these things. These men who called themselves the army were nothing more than opportunistic thugs wearing uniforms, probably taken off the corpse of a real soldier, she thought bitterly. Her cheek stung.

  He grabbed her arm, yanking her forward, pushing her to the ground. She curled into a ball and covered her head with her arms, bracing herself for the blows.

  They never came. The men were ransacking the room for the radio.

  “Found it.” A soldier’s triumphant voice rang out.

  Her heart raced. They would kill her now. Mason had been right—this was a suicide mission. She hadn’t even gotten out of fucking Midtown!

  The thought of Mason steeled her resolve to fight. If she didn’t fight she’d never see him again.

  The soldiers, radio in hand, stood over her on the floor. “She’d be cute if she weren’t so dirty,” one said, laughing.

  “I don’t mind ’em dirty,” another said.

  Emily bit back her terror and fisted her hands, ready to kick his ass, even if it was the last thing she ever did.

  “Does Lanche need her for anything?” the man who slapped her asked the other soldiers.

  “Let’s bring her back in case he does.” The man who had spoken looked at her and rubbed his crotch lasciviously. “You’re a whore, I can tell. You’ll make a nice addition to the Tracks.”

  The other soldiers hooted and Emily spat in his face. She couldn’t go back, she’d rather die. “I’m not going,” she said, her voice hoarse from screaming. “Fuck you.”

  “Oh I will,” he said, his voice deadly serious. He wiped her spit from his face with a dirty handkerchief. “You can count on it.”

  He hoisted her up over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. She clawed at the soldier’s back, screaming at the top of her lungs in rage and fear. His hand came down hard on her ass, making her yelp in surprise more than pain.

  She stopped trying to claw at him. It was useless, she may as well conserve her energy for when she had a fighting chance at actually hurting him. She let herself go limp in his arms as he carried her back to hell. Grand Central Terminal. She didn’t know what would happen to her there, but it wasn’t going to be good.

  They might execute her.

  For treason.

  Mason lit a fire in his fireplace, but nothing could warm the chill that settled in his bones.

  Stop it, he ordered himself. You’re acting like a fucking idiot. She was just a girl.

  A stubborn, headstrong girl who wouldn’t listen to a word he said. He knew, if he thought about it rationally, that he’d be better off without her.

  But he couldn’t think rationally, not about Emily.

  Fuck.

  He did fine on his own—he could take care of himself. His first order of business would be finding a new gun so he could continue to take care of himself. Without a gun he was a sitting duck. It was just a matter of time before he’d be found, and he’d have no protection.

  If they found him, the army, like the law, wouldn’t care that the man he killed deserved to die. No—the only thing they’d care about was getting a “dangerous convict” off the streets. In these post-Pulse times, there’s no way they’d take him on as another mouth to feed.

  He’d be killed, and he didn’t blame them. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t fight.

  At least Emily has a gun, he thought. That should help keep her safe. At least, he assumed she had a gun. What else could she have stolen that would have caused such panic in her eyes?

  There wasn’t too much of value to people anymore. Just guns, ammo, and food.

  A year ago cigarettes had been a hot commodity, but after a while they were all smoked, every last one. With the nicotine out of everyone’s system, cigarettes were no longer a useful bartering tool.

  But ammo—hell, ammo was like gold. Better than gold, even. Gold he could maybe barter for a little food or supplies… but with ammo, he could hunt for food or trade for supplies—he could even steal supplies as long as he had ammo backing him.

  No one had been in Mason’s apartment while he’d been at the hospital. Part of him wished he’d never gone to the hospital in the first place.

  Then he never would have met Emily. Then he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his natural life wondering what happened to her, just like he wondered about his sister Stephanie.

  He lay back in front of the fireplace and closed his eyes. Visions of Emily’s beautiful face filled his mind’s eye.

  Thoughts of her naked body, hot and sweaty underneath him, rushed through him. He could almost smell her musk as he daydreamed, his cock stiffening in his pants.

  It had been so wonderful to thrust into her wet heat, especially after not being with a woman in so long.

  Mason pulled his cock out of his pants and stroked himself, but his cool, dry hand paled in comparison to the real thing… to Emily.

  He imagined Emily straddling his face so he could eat her pussy, suck her clit until she screamed in ecstasy and then suck it some more. The thought of her face as she climaxed urged him on, and he thrust his hips forward, fisting his hand, wishing it was her.

  Her name escaped his lips as he came, come splattering hotly across his abdomen. Fuck. He’d never see her again.

  Mason opened his eyes, staring into the fire. Was she okay, right now?

  He wondered how far she might have gotten on foot so far. Was she off the island? As much as he hated the thought of Emily not being nearby, he hoped so.

  She’d been right when she said New York was a dangerous place to be now, especially for a woman like her, on her own. Mason wiped his abs clean with his handkerchief and sighed.

  Kneeling to lace his boots, he shook his head. He stood up, looking around his apartment. His rats. He had to check on his second stash of rats, feed them, water them.

  They were probably fine—if there was one thing rats were good at, it was surviving. And then he had to find a gun. That would be the hard part. At this point, pretty much his only hope of getting a gun would be if he found one on a dead man.

  That, he realized, was actually a really sound idea. But where would he find a dead man whose gun wasn’t already stolen?

  Snipers.

  There had to have been some snipers during those first few insane weeks after the EMP hit. They’d position themselves on the roof or upper floor of a building, and if they got shot, their bodies might not have been discovered.

  Especially after the Pulse, since no one was in radio communications. No one would even know for sure that a man was down.

  He’d have to scour the rooftops of Manhattan and hope he lucked out. There had been so many men with guns those first few weeks. So much chaos.

  At the time, everyone was thrilled to see the army rush in to save the day. But now—now it was a different story.
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br />   Mason needed to protect himself from them. Dousing his fire, Mason left his apartment, locking it carefully behind him.

  He had a dead man to find.

  * * *

  “Put me down, asshole, or I’ll scream about that radio to this crowd until you shoot me,” Emily hissed in the soldier’s ear as he continued to carry her toward Grand Central.

  He set her down roughly and jerked her forward by the arm. She walked slowly, her legs feeling weak. She needed time to get her wits together if she was going to get out of this mess.

  “Walk faster or I’m carrying you again,” the soldier warned.

  Emily cursed under her breath. She couldn’t believe she was back at Grand Central. The last place on earth she ever wanted to see again.

  At the front entrance, an armed guard nodded at the group of soldiers in recognition. “Colonel Lanche said you’ve gotta bring the girl to him first thing.”

  One of the soldiers turned to her and said, “Aren’t you a lucky little whore. I’ll have to visit you later, I guess.”

  She shuddered involuntarily at his words and he laughed.

  Emily wished she could go back in time and take Mason up on his offer to stay with him. Then she’d be safe—or safer, anyhow.

  Now she was as good as dead.

  The radio stayed hidden from view in her backpack from the other people at the camp. They carried it through the main terminal with Emily by their side.

  Emily saw Jenna, her old roommate, her naturally blonde hair making her stand out amongst the other people. Without hair dye, there weren’t as many blondes around as there were before the Pulse. As much as Emily didn’t want to be at the camp, it was good to see Jenna’s face.

  Jenna caught her eye and leapt up, running over to her, wrapping her in a hug. “Emily! You’re okay.”

  Emily nodded. “They’re taking me to Lanche.”

  Jenna paled. “I didn’t know where you were, I wasn’t sure if you were okay,” she whispered. “I’m—I’m so sorry, Emily.”

  “They’re gonna kill me, I think,” she whispered back to Jenna. Jenna gasped.

  “Not on my watch, honey,” she said with an uncertain smile. “Lanche likes me—I’ll talk to him, okay?”