The Forever Man: PULSE

by Craig Zerf

  The three soldiers had explained what a pulse was and the inevitable outcomes. They put forward a plan to fortify the village, pool recourses and start a militia. They did not brook any arguments. As a result of their meticulous planning and the backing of the village noteworthies, they had erected a ten-foot fence around the entire village within three days. This fence had been constructed from material pillaged from fences in the interior of the walled area, Then it was fortified with earthen embankments and had a walkway six foot up to provide sentries with a good vantage point from which to see and to fire.

  They had then collected all of the firearms and ammunition in the district and surrounds and put the priest in charge of the armory. The food was taken to the village hall and the Women’s Institute was put in charge of that. The local doctor and nurse were deemed to be in charge of all medicines and care.

  Axel had then taken all of the able bodied men, of which there were one hundred and fifty, and organized them into fifteen groups of ten. For no other reason than it was easy to do, he then put one of each of the local rugby team, into each group and designated them, Team Leader. These fifteen Team Leaders reported directly to him, Patrick and Dom. The groups were then put into three groups of five teams, the idea being that each group would spend eight hours on watch out of every twenty four with the second group being on standby as the third group slept.

  All told there were thirty-six weapons of various vintage and caliber. Enough to arm the watch group and the standby group plus the three officers. The weapons consisted mainly of 12 gauge double barreled shotguns although there were two first world war Webley revolvers with a surprising amount of ammunition (some one hundred rounds), owned by the ninety-four year old mister Sturgeon who was partially blind and almost wholly deaf. However, mister Sturgeon absolutely refused to relinquish both revolvers arguing that, if push came to shove it would be left to him to sort the whole mess out.

  Axel had taken the second revolver and eighty rounds of ammunition. He had also taken one of the two pump-action shotguns that they had found. Patrick took the other and they both removed the block in the magazine so that, instead of the legal two round limit, they could load a full five rounds plus one up. Dom opted for a Savage model 11 hunting rifle in a 380 round with a four plus one box magazine. Dom had also found a two-handed broadsword in the village hall that he had strapped to his back. But then, that was Dom for you. The rest of the weapons were handed out on an ad hoc basis.

  The British soldiers did not stop there. Firstly, Axel instituted a series of long sweep patrols, on horseback, to ensure that anything that was happening within twenty miles of the village was reported and planned for and, secondly, he and his two friends started putting in more defenses.

  They used villagers to dig a series of wide shallow ditches, not to stop, merely to impede any charge of people or horses. Then they stripped the hardware store of all of its steel nails over one inch in length. They took the nails to the local blacksmith who, with the help of a veritable crowd of villagers, soldered them together in sets of two. Each nail was then bent at an opposite ninety-degree angle to form a caltrop. Basically, an anti-personnel weapon that always lands with one spike facing up when thrown onto the ground. The blacksmith churned out over ten thousand of these and Axel got the villagers to spread them liberally around the approaches, particularly in the shallow ditches.

  Finally, the three officers collected all of the large kitchen knives, carvers, chefs’ knives and so on, as well as all of the broom handles in the village. Then, using a knife, a broom handle and a length of duct tape, they fashioned a rudimentary but deadly spear for all of those who did not have firearms.

  All of these precautions had been implemented in order to prevent roving gangs of outsiders draining the meager stocks of the village. All newcomers were turned away unless they were returning residents or blood relatives of current villagers. However, the soldiers were under no illusions that their defenses could easily be breached by a determined force of over two hundred armed desperados.

  ‘So,’ said Dom. ‘When do you think that they’ll get here?’

  Axel shrugged. ‘Can’t be one hundred percent sure. If it were me, then I would camp up a mile or so away. It’s getting late. Then I’d hit us at first light or just before.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ agreed Dom.

  ‘What do you rate our chances?’ Asked Patrick.

  ‘Zero to none,’ answered Axel. ‘Can’t see us keeping them out for more than a day. We’re outnumbered, outgunned and the perimeters too large.’

  ‘What about evacuating?’ Suggested Patrick.

  Axel shook his head. ‘Already spoken about that to all of the worthies. The general consensus seems to be, here we stand. I tend to agree. We all know what it’s like out there. One could run for now but not forever.’

  ‘My God,’ said Dom. ‘What I’d give to have ten fully armed chaps from the regiment with us. Now that would be a no-brainer.’

  Axel chuckled. ‘Yep, we’d win for sure. Pity.’

  ‘I notice that your father keeps a particularly well stocked wine cellar,’ ventured Patrick. ‘I think that I spied upon a magnum of Chateau Lafite Rothschild 2009. Do you think he’d be awfully peeved if we guzzled that down?’

  ‘Course not,’ answered Axel. ‘What’s a thirty thousand dollar bottle of wine between friends? Anyway,’ he continued. ‘You only live once.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Dom. ‘And sometimes not even that long.’

  They laughed and headed for the wine cellar.

  Chapter 15

  Sam crawled out of the cupboard below the stairs. He was hungry but still had water. Surprisingly, his diet of dry dog food was supplying him with enough calories and vitamins to keep him alert. It was merely the awful taste and consistency that was causing his hunger.

  And, by now, the body of his mother had putrefied and the stench was appalling. He decided that it was time to move on. First he went upstairs and found his scout rucksack. Into this he put a wooly jumper, spare socks and underwear, an extra shirt and a pair of shorts and a sleeping bag. Then he thought for a while. He rummaged through his father’s bedside table and found a Swiss army knife with about a million blades on it. Also a plastic cigarette lighter. After that he went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He knew that people needed medicine but he had no idea what medicine was for what. He spent a while reading labels and thinking, his face serious. Eventually he settled on a box of something called Ibuprofen and a large container of a drug that the doctor had recently prescribed to his mother. Amoxillin broad-spectrum antibiotics. He followed these with a box of various size bandages and a bottle of Dettol antiseptic. On the way out he picked up the rest of the dog biscuits and two bottles of lemonade that were hidden in his cupboard.

  He left via the front door, which he left open, and walked out, staggering slightly under the weight of the full rucksack. He had no idea where he was going; he simply felt that he needed to be somewhere else. After a while he left the road and walked close to the hedges and shrubs. He wasn’t sure why but he thought that he had better be as inconspicuous as possible.

  He walked until the sun went down, eventually stopping because he could no longer see. He burrowed into a thick hedge, unrolled his sleeping bag, crawled in and fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Above him the sky glowed with all the colors of the rainbow as the sun continued to pulse and flare.

  Chapter 16

  Seth Hil-Nu lay on his camp bed, arms by his side. He had fasted for three days and, after intense meditation, had now entered the objectless stage of existence having passed through gross, subtle, bliss and I-ness stages. He was now part of the vast stillness of the universe.

  And through the vastness of forever he wandered, letting the pull of the Life-Light find him. He knew that Ammon had placed a guard outside his tent so that he would not be disturbed. So he lay. For two days he traveled the cosmic infinite, encompassing his spirit in a protective bal
l of Life-Light, speeding through time and space like a comet.

  On the third day, all around him coalesced into a pageant of light and sound and he opened his eyes to find himself hovering above a world of blue and green. He let the Life-Light take him closer. And closer.

  Suddenly the air around him was torn apart with explosions of fire. He allowed the Life-Light to keep him away from danger and he concentrated, letting his mind meld with the creatures below.

  What he heard he did not understand. Phrases flashed through his mind. February the 25th, 1942. Unidentified Flying Object. Anti-aircraft battery. German aircraft. Japanese bombers.

  And then he was gone. At peace. Wandering again. Crossing the barriers of time and space. Encapsulated in Life-Light.

  The same blue-green planet. In the sky below him some sort of animal. Bird? Massive. No, not bird. Mechanical. He melded. June 18th, 1963. Look…an unidentified flying object of some sort. A ball of light, maybe a flying saucer. Air traffic control. Can you see this? Can you frigging see this?

  Peace. Traveling again. The forth day of meditation and voyaging.

  Buildings. Some sort of homestead. A farm. Seth drifted down. Closer. A door opens and two beings walk out. One dark skinned, one light. They see him. He melds. They are called Betty and Barney Hill. He can feel their fear. He wipes their memories. But they are a species that he has never worked with before and the memory wipe doesn’t take properly. Instead they are left with a mélange of fact and fiction. For the rest of their lives they claim to have been abducted by gray-skinned aliens from the Zeta Reticuli star system.

  He leaves. The Life-Light is close. He realizes that he is now traveling only through time and no longer space.

  Power surges through him. Heady and exhilarating. All around him the Life-Light coalesces and separates. Swirling and diving. Its beauty is indescribable. But he cannot use its full power, as he is not actually there. He is still in his body, in a campaign tent in another time and place. But, even in his diminished state, he can garner enough power to do what he needs to.

  He sinks closer to the surface of the planet. A city. Massive beyond belief. Buildings as tall as mountains. Many of them are burning. Sentient beings, the same ones that he has seen before, walking down the roads in their thousands. It looks to be some manner of evacuation. Are they fleeing a war? Disease? He melds. But all that he gets is fear. Panic. The end of days. Such is the collective horror that it scalds his mind and he withdraws.

  For a while longer he revels in the Life-Light. He absorbs it, for the Life-Light is strong in this time and place. And he marks well both the time and place, for the Life-Light is all important. Nothing else matters.

  Moments later he is awake in his tent. Elated. He now has a way to save his people. The Fair Folk will persevere. He has found a place for them to go.

  Chapter 17

  Nathaniel had been busy. Over the last week or so, he and the boys had cleared the trees back from the walls. They had then cut off all branches between two and three inches thick, sharpened both ends and dug in a forest of spikes around the walls and the gate.

  The marine had then taken the fishing line that Conradie had supplied and set up a rudimentary alarm system. Trip lines attached to tin cans filled with stones. Kick the line and the can would rattle. Simple but effective. He had also instituted a twenty four hour watch so that at least four armed people were on the walls at all times.

  The Professor had found a stash of cigarettes in the matron’s room and, as she had gone on leave before the pulse, he gave them to Nathaniel. They were Silk Cut, so mild as to be akin to smoking soap bubbles. Hogan pulled the filters off and they became marginally more acceptable.

  He was smoking one at the moment, sitting on a wooden bench in the middle of the quadrangle and watching the smoke spiral lazily up into the still, late, afternoon air. The English sun was low and feeble, the rays washing the foliage of the surrounding forest with subtle yellows and oranges. The multicolored aurora of the now almost constant solar flares rippled silently across the skies. Its soundless beauty taking with it thousands of years of mankind’s most scientific achievements.

  The marine sensed someone approaching.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ Asked the Prof.

  Nathaniel said nothing. Merely gestured at the empty side of the bench.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts.’

  Hogan smiled and pointed at the sky. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the Prof. ‘But evil is oft the author of beauty.’

  Nathaniel shook his head. ‘It’s not evil. It’s merely light. Gamma rays. A thing. All that it has done is to expose us, humanity, for what we are. That light up there has shone into our dark places and shown us that evil is merely a point of view. It is unspectacular, it is human and it sits at our tables and shares our beds. It is us.’

  ‘Very philosophical, master sergeant.’

  Nathaniel shrugged. ‘I am a soldier. People think that soldiers spend their time fighting. That’s not true. Soldiers spend their time waiting to fight and, on the whole, hoping that they never have to. Soldiers spend most of their time wondering what the hell it’s all about. Philosopher? No, not that. Thinker? Perhaps. Are you a religious man, Prof?’

  The older man shook his head. ‘I am a man of science. Empirical proof. Evidence thrice checked and checked again.’

  Hogan grinned. ‘That’s irrational, Prof. If you cannot prove that something exists, well, then you also can’t prove that it doesn’t exist.’

  ‘I’m not one to let rationality stand in the way of a good theory,’ laughed the Professor. ‘So, good soldier,’ he continued. ‘The defenses are all up to scratch. What do we do next?’

  Nathaniel took a drag. Exhaled. Stared at the glowing tip. ‘It won’t be long now and a few things are going to happen. Firstly, survivors, singles and groups, will begin to appear at the gates. You will have to decide on whether you let any of them in or if you simply tell them to piss off and die.’

  The Prof looked uncomfortable. ‘Can’t you make those sort of decisions?’

  ‘No. I won’t be here forever. I need to keep heading north. Please don’t ask me why cause I have no idea. I just feel that I need to. It’s a compulsion, like birds flying to the sun. But it’s pretty simple; you need to let in anyone with skills or resources that you need. Doctors, nurses, anyone with livestock, supplies.’

  ‘And all others we sentence to death?’ Asked the Prof.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ rejoined Nathaniel. ‘You merely send them on their way. Too many people and this place will become unsustainable. However, you are also going to get larger groups that will insist. Armed groups. Maybe even ex-soldiers. Policemen. You will have to deal with them most harshly. Show no quarter. Give no warning.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I understand,’ said the Professor.

  ‘I mean that you must kill them. Open fire on them as soon as it looks as though they may try to force their way in. Cut them down to the last man.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Prof. ‘We shall cross that bridge when we come to it.’

  ‘No,’ disagreed the marine. ‘You shall cross that bridge now. Everyone. The teachers, the scholars. Everyone must be told that when, not if, when you are attacked, the attackers must be repelled at all costs. No one can afford to hold back. People must shoot to kill and they must continue to shoot until the enemy is no more. I cannot stress this enough, Professor.’

  ‘They’re a good bunch of chaps,’ said the Professor. ‘When push comes to shove they will do their duty.’

  Nathaniel took out another cigarette. Ripped the filter off. Placed the cancer stick into his mouth and lit. ‘There was a guy, US army general. Did some studies. Did you know that, in the Second World War, only fifteen to twenty percent of soldiers actually fired at the enemy. One in every five. Those who would not fire did not run or hide - in many cases they were willing to risk greater danger to rescue comrades, get ammunition, or run messages. Th
ey simply would not fire their weapons at the enemy, even when faced with repeated waves of banzai charges.

  Why did these men fail to fire? I’ll tell you why, Professor, the simple and demonstrable fact is that there is, within most men and women, an intense resistance to killing other people. A resistance so strong that, in many circumstances, soldiers on the battlefield will die before they can overcome it.’

  Nathaniel took a drag. ‘Do yourself and your community a favor, Prof. Talk to the boys. And the girls. Kill or die. Tell them that, over and over again. Kill or die. Kill or die. Kill…or…die.’

  The Prof rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Then he sighed. A sound of absolute exhaustion. For the first time Nathaniel saw how close the older man was to collapse. An academic suited more to classrooms and civic dinners as opposed to telling a bunch of teenagers that they had to kill their fellow man in order to survive.

  Nathaniel put his hand on the Prof’s shoulder. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I know that things are tough. Why don’t you get some vittles and take an early night. Tomorrow…well, I won’t bullshine you, tomorrow things will be just as bad, but you’ll be more rested.’

  The Professor took a deep breath. ‘O sleep! O gentle sleep! Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down

  And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,

  Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush’d with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfum’d chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull’d with sound of sweetest melody?’

  ‘Shakespeare?’ Asked Nathaniel.

  ‘Yes. Henry the fifth. It’s an affectation that one gets, being a scholar in England. We tend to nurture pretension and there is little more pretentious than sprouting the bard.’