The Pulse Effex Series: Box Set

by L. R. Burkard

  “Ha!” said my mother. “Tell that to the Christians who have been beheaded over there this year!” She paused, and said more quietly, “He’s obviously never read the Koran. That doesn’t say much for his grasp of world history, either. More Christians were killed for their faith by Muslims in the past one hundred years than the number of Jews killed in the Holocaust.”

  I stared at her. The Holocaust was another thing my teacher had been fuzzy about. I wasn’t actually sure how many had died in the Holocaust but I didn’t want to say so.

  “How would war stop our cars from starting?” I asked.

  My mom sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Later while we ate hotdogs sitting around the fireplace, my father mentioned that some of the people he’d seen on the road yesterday were still trying to get home. They were stranded when the grid went down, he said.

  “What do you mean, ‘the grid went down?’” I asked.

  “The electric grid,” he said. “It’s down, ruined, kaput.”

  “How could that happen?” asked my mother, putting down her hot dog. I felt my own stomach flip. Surely what he was saying was not possible.

  “I was talking to Walt, you know, the guy down the road who owns the convenience store in town?” She nodded. “He said a solar pulse could do this. It affects all electronic circuitry, everything that has electronic parts.”

  “At least it’s not war,” Mom said. “And I guess that explains the cars.”

  He nodded. “And our phones, and computers....you name it.”

  “But we didn’t feel anything,” I said. “How could that happen without our knowing it?”

  Dad spread out his hands. “Okay, a giant sun flare sends out this huge pulse, a magnetic wave, but people don’t feel it. It doesn’t affect us. But anything electronic gets fried.”

  “So how long does it last?” I said.

  “How long does what last?” he asked.

  “The solar pulse. How long until it’s over?”

  “Oh, it’s over,” he explained. “It’s over and done with.”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to understand the implications, “so now we can fix everything?”

  Dad looked as though my question had annoyed him. “Well, that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?” He sounded angry. “How to fix everything. How do you get a new car motor? Or how do you know what got fried and needs to be replaced? And even if we have the parts (parts that did NOT get fried) how do you get them where they need to be if nothing’s working?”

  Mom had a disturbed look on her face, mirroring what I was feeling. I said, “You’re making it sound like we’re going to be like this for a long time.”

  He nodded, and a dark look came over his face. “That’s exactly right.”

  Mom stared off sadly into the fireplace. Dad stood up. “I’m going to look for more wood to burn.” We knew he meant he was going to scrounge around the basement and attic for old furniture.

  Mom said, “Please don’t use anything valuable.”

  He put his hands on his hips. “What’s valuable if we freeze to death protecting it?” I felt bad for my mother, because she cares about furniture and antiques and things like that, but I also hoped my dad would find something to burn. I was frightened by what he’d told us. And angry, but I didn’t know who to be angry at.

  If it was really the sun that had caused this mess, there was no one to blame. No one but God, I guess. Was God punishing us? We certainly could have gone to church more. Now it was too late. We couldn’t go anywhere.

  Thoughts kept coming at me as I took in the enormity of what he’d said. If I’d been at school when it happened, I would have had to walk miles—in this weather—to get home. The idea scared me. I thought of the people Dad mentioned who were still trying to reach home. That could have been any one of us! I wondered if that was the reason we hadn’t seen our two closest neighbors. I thought of Chase Jones, this guy at school. He lives the furthest of any of us—thirty-five minutes by bus. His house was right on the border of school districts so he was allowed to choose which one to go to and his mother chose ours. Imagine if he’d been at school when everything shut down! The thought made me shudder.

  I felt as though gloom was deepening all around me, like I was being engulfed. Suddenly I couldn’t stand it. I was suffocating. I shot to my feet.

  “Where are you going?” my mother asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I was appalled to find that I was crying. She had a look of pain on her face; I knew she felt badly for me but she just nodded, so I started walking aimlessly around the house, moving, I had to keep moving. I was tired of sitting in one stupid room all day to stay warm; tired of wearing heavy garments or my coat in the house; tired of not being able to take a shower, listen to music, or call a friend. I ended up in my bedroom, fell onto my bed and buried my face in my pillow and sobbed. I didn’t want to believe what my dad had said. If I believed that this situation wasn’t going to change for months and months, it would be unbearable. How was I supposed to survive alone with my family for months? How could I live without any friends or music or the internet? I felt as though I’d just received a death sentence. Goodbye, life. Hello, wretchedness.

  After crying my eyes out, I suddenly had a new thought. My father didn’t know for SURE that we’d had a solar pulse. Even Walt, that store owner, didn’t know for sure. They were guessing. Guessing! That meant they could be wrong. I sat up, grabbed a tissue from my night stand and blew my nose. Maybe I was upset for nothing. Maybe I’d wake up tomorrow and everything would be back to normal.

  I got up and went back downstairs, my stomach grumbling with hunger. I raided the pantry for cheese crackers and opened a can of ravioli. I felt better after I’d eaten. But I don’t think it was the food that helped me as much as my decision not to believe what my dad had said about a solar pulse.

  Right now I feel sure things will turn around soon. They have to.

  JANUARY 16

  DAY SIX

  It snowed last night on top of the snow that’s already there. I stood looking out my window at the street, all white, because no plow has come through. The snow didn’t look pretty anymore. It looked threatening.

  Latest calamity? When Dad went outside to get bacon from the cooler, we found out we’re not the only hungry creatures around. Something managed to open the cooler—probably raccoons. Mom was mad as all get-out that my dad put the food outside to begin with. He thought it would stay colder that way, but boy is he sorry now. I refuse to cry about it but it’s very aggravating. Our pantry supplies suddenly look paltry to me because there’s no way to go shopping to replenish anything. I think I can safely say my father is clueless about what to do. And he always acts like I’m the clueless one.

  So Dad and I and the boys pushed and dragged our refrigerator into the garage and put what was left inside it. We lined it with snow and ice first. It’s plain to see that we are going to need more food—and water, for that matter. I’m still the one bringing in snow every day for mom to boil the heck out of in the kettle. I’ve been making the tea or coffee and washing Lily’s bottles and bringing in wood, besides snow for water. But what happens when the snow melts? Not to mention I hate going out in the cold every morning—but at least we have something to boil and drink. Which reminds me that we’ve run out of milk. The cream ran out two days ago, so even though milk is a lousy substitute, coffee was still drinkable. Now with no milk I have to resort to using that horrible powdered stuff. I can’t drink black coffee. I hate the thought that I’ll never have another good cup. We’ve also used up our eggs. And pancakes taste lousy without milk or eggs. Today mom made us oatmeal—I hate oatmeal. She says it’s all we’ve got for breakfast food. Ugh! I never in my life dreamed I’d go hungry! My dad has a big bank account! Who would have thought we’d ever go hungry?

  Dad looks grim. He took Aiden and Quentin to gather sticks again. I’m glad he didn’t make me go along. I have enough to do in here, h
eating water over the fire and other terrifically stupid things that only pioneer people should have to do. I’m sweating hot when I work near the fire and then I get numb with cold when I’m away from it.

  Today I was waiting for some water to heat up in the kettle because I wanted hot chocolate; I could feel Mom looking at me. Suddenly she said, “You’re going to have to change who you are, Andrea. At least until things get back to normal.”

  “What?” That’s all I could say, because I had no idea what she meant.

  “Life is going to be full of work until we get some power back...” She looked away and I could see she was holding back tears.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?” I hate to see her cry. No matter how mad she makes me, I still hate that. “It’ll come back soon,” I said. “We’ll be okay.”

  She looked at me, her eyes teary and hopeless. “No, no,” she said. “It won’t.”

  My heart skipped a beat, but I decided instantly not to believe her. “How do you know it won’t?”

  “That’s what your father said. He said if it’s really a solar pulse that did this, it could take months or a year or more to see power restored.” She sniffled and reached into her coat pocket for a tissue. (We’re all wearing our coats—it’s the only way to stay warm enough in this stupidly big house. The living-room ceiling is like nine and a half feet high—I’ve heard my dad brag about it. Right now I’d like to be in a little room that one fireplace could heat up entirely.) Anyway, I didn’t like what I was hearing, so I said, “Well, how does he know? He could be wrong.”

  She shook her head again. She didn’t look at me but stared at the fireplace. “He’s right. If the cars were working, I’d think he was wrong, but nothing is working. He’s right.”

  Baby Lily was starting to fuss on her lap so she got up. “We have to change her,” she said. I automatically went for the baby supplies, all piled on a plush corner chair. There was no longer any use for the baby’s room because it was too cold, so we’d moved all her changing stuff into the living room. I grabbed a diaper and saw that we only had about a dozen left. I didn’t mention it to Mom.

  As I did my best with a blanket to keep the baby warm while Mom changed her diaper, I asked—while trying to fortify myself to a possibly stinging reply—“What did you mean about me having to change, Mom?”

  She shrugged and was silent a moment. “You’ll have to get used to doing a lot more work than you’re used to. So will I.”

  “Like I haven’t been?” I was annoyed. “I’ve been doing my own laundry since Lily was born. But you said I’d have to change WHO I am. What does that mean?”

  She had finished, and after we got Lily’s clothes in order and buttoned up her little one-piece winter suit, Mom took her and returned to the couch.

  In a raised voice, she said, “I mean, you’ll have to stop thinking about wanting hot chocolate and using our little bit of boiled water for yourself only! We have to think about the baby first!”

  I just stared at her. I’d gone out and gathered the snow for that tea kettle myself. And I’d been doing it for the baby’s bottles, or for tea for her and dad and the boys, too. I felt tears forming in my eyes so I just left the room. I’m used to my father being insulting, but now my mother is too? I hate this. I walked around the house a little bit, looking at all the appliances that are dead and useless. I went into my bathroom, glad that it still smelled clean—thanks to all the snow we’d hauled in to fill the tub. With a sinking heart I realized I’d need to get more snow already—the tub was less than half full. As I stood staring at the snow level, knowing that the only way to get water for now on was by hand, I felt a terrible foreboding. What will we do if Dad’s right? If there really was a solar pulse? How will we live?

  JANUARY 17

  DAY SEVEN

  Today dad noticed how low our food supplies are. Like I said, he’s always in a fog so it figures he wasn’t taking stock until now. He’d gone looking through the pantry and then came at my mom, really angry.

  “Why can’t I find anything good to eat?” he demanded.

  “How can I possibly buy food when I can’t get to a store?” Mom said.

  “You know what I mean, Tiffany,” he sneered. “There’s hardly anything on the shelves like in a normal home. What happened to stuff like bagels and chips? Where’s the mac and cheese?”

  “You know I’ve been trying to lose my baby weight,” she said, her voice getting tight. “I stopped buying junk food weeks ago—if you were home more, you’d have noticed. I didn’t want them in the house while I’m trying to lose weight. You knew that.”

  “Great,” he said, with deep sarcasm. “Nice time to let the food run out.” His tone of voice made me want to crawl under a rock. I hate it when they fight.

  “How was I supposed to know this would happen?” Mom cried.

  “How about the rest of us?” he asked. “The rest of us aren’t on a diet. All you ever think about is yourself.”

  My mother just stared at him but I saw her eyes tearing up. I hated my dad right then. She went back by the fireplace and snuggled up with the baby. She was crying. Even the boys felt badly and went over to her for a hug. They’d been playing with toy cars on the floor but had stopped and stared during the argument. Sometimes they come to me when they’re scared by my parents, but this time they just froze where they were until it was over. Mom kissed them and stroked their hair.

  “It’s okay. We’ll get by.”

  I wonder if she meant it. I think she was just trying to make them feel better. I certainly don’t feel better. I don’t see how we can survive for long. My hair feels itchy and cruddy, and I didn’t even THINK of putting on makeup or earrings or anything, today. It’s like life has stopped. Maybe mom’s wish is coming true: I am changing. I have no choice.

  When dad stepped outside for something, I did some scrounging around in the pantry. I found a bag of chocolate chip cookies beneath a box of powdered milk. I’m not telling anyone. I’m hiding it. I grabbed the powdered milk for our coffee. I knew it would taste lousy but it was something.

  When Dad got back, I heard him telling my mother he’d spoken to a neighbor who’d been out on the road towards town and passed a stranded car. He could see someone was in it. When he got closer it looked like a little old lady so he knocked on the window. She didn’t move. He opened the door and there she was, just sitting in her car—dead! There was no purse or anything to identify her so he figures someone stole it. He asked my father if he’d help bury her as soon as the weather allows. I felt like I was in a movie. Things like that just don’t happen in real life.

  I guess they do now.

  I was deeply disturbed after hearing that. I kept picturing this sweet little old lady dead in her car, right near our plat.

  “Why did she die?” I asked.

  Dad looked at me as though he’d forgotten I was in the room. He shrugged. “I don’t know; could be from the cold, exposure. Or maybe she had a heart attack.”

  I am haunted by the image of that lady. Why didn’t she leave the car and look for help somewhere?

  My stomach is starting to bother me. I think I might be sick. I know I’d like to cry. I don’t know if it was the story of that lady or because I’m starting to believe we really did have a solar pulse and we won’t get power back for months, maybe not for a year. I didn’t want to believe it. But the image of that dead woman tells me it must be true.

  This whole situation seems unreal. I WISH I could talk to Lexie or Sarah! I want to forget about all this and go back in time to how things used to be. I thought my life sucked because I have a rotten father. Now it looks like I had it great.

  I just didn’t know it.

  Our little neighborhood started gathering outside today to exchange ideas. Normally we rarely see each other. Everybody minds their own business—we only know the neighbors on either side of us. But today probably everybody who lives here (and wasn’t stranded elsewhere when the grid failed) was outside. Except for on
e guy at the end of our street who hasn’t come out and doesn’t answer his door. His name is Mr. Herman, which I know because I sold him chocolate bars for a school fundraiser once. I didn’t like him then, and now I really don’t like him. Why won’t he come out? We know he’s home because there’s smoke coming from his chimney. It’s like he’s trying to hide or something.

  Anyway, all we found out is that everyone else is pretty much as miserable as we are except for a few people who had a generator and some extra fuel. They’ve rationed their usage of it, but even they are going to run out of fuel soon. And having that generator didn’t put any extra food in their pantries.

  Mitchell Hughes was out there—he goes to my high school. I saw him just before we went back to our house. We nodded hello but that’s it. We’ve never been what I consider friends. He’s quiet or shy or something. He acts like a dork. Even though he rides the same bus as I do, we’ve never gotten to know each other. I like a guy to be friendly first—before I am. He failed to do that. But I was glad to see him today. It reminded me that I’m not the only teenager having to survive at home in a world that’s stopped. I wonder if we’ll become friends now that there’s no way to see anyone else our age, at least not until this snow clears and we can get around.

  No one knows any more about the cause of the power failure than we do. We’d love to know whether or not all of Ohio is like us, or the whole country, or the whole planet! One person has been trying to get a radio station all week with no luck—they have a battery-operated radio, imagine that. If they find a working station we may be able to find out if help is on the way. Dad says if the whole country isn’t affected, either the government or charities will send help soon.

  I hope so. I mean, we’re not the only ones in trouble. There’s got to be loads of people like us, people who will need help and food and who might not have a good heat source.

  I’m also re-thinking that emergency shelter—if there is one. I think now that we should go to it.

  More people were out on the main road today despite this awful cold. Dad said they probably don’t have a fireplace like we do and have no choice but to seek shelter elsewhere.