The Pulse Effex Series: Box Set

by L. R. Burkard

  I suppose we should have known this was coming. That man took a shot to the chest and had a collapsed lung and had lost a ton of blood. (Richard said he was a smoker, too, so his remaining lung was compromised. I am amazed he lasted as long as he did.) Still. Before the pulse he was just a husband going to work and providing for his family and then suddenly he was in a gun fight and now he’s dead.

  I did see the Powells sitting with him a lot. Mr. Powell read to him from his Bible and I know they prayed over him. Mrs. Powell is sitting with the widow now, with one arm around her. I’m so thankful they are here with us—the Powells, I mean. I was having a hard time hearing that wife without wanting to join in with my own sobs. And oh—even the Powells started eating whatever food became available. I’m glad. It would have been ridiculous for them to starve. Everything I’m reading in my ESV Bible tells me God would understand!

  But even with Mrs. Powell’s arm around her, that lady is still sobbing. I heard a girl say, Man, somebody shut that b_____ up. The girl who spoke was hidden by a stack between us so I couldn’t see her. A different girl’s voice added, Or throw her outside. That’ll knock her cold. They chuckled. I was stupefied that they would be so hard on her. I heard the sound of a match being lit and shortly afterwards smelled cigarette smoke—ugh. Someone must have brought cigarettes from that ACE store, because most people have been out of smokes for weeks. We don’t smoke, but we know this because the smokers have crawled around the library asking everyone for a cigarette.

  When people still had cigarettes, Mr. Aronoff made a rule: No smoking indoors. I shook Richard’s shoulder and pointed at the little plumes rising over the stack, coming our way. He shrugged. Obviously he wasn’t going to say anything to them. I gave him a pleading look—I detest cigarette smoke. Then Mom coughed, and that did it. Richard stood up and disappeared around the aisle to go speak to them. I don’t know what he said, but whatever it was, it worked.

  Meanwhile, the sobs of that wife—that widow—are quieting down. But we’re all miserable, I think. Human pain is hard to hear, hard to share, hard to endure. I felt tears on my face and realized I was crying. Then Jesse—who’d slept through it all until now—came fully awake. He’d been amazingly immune to the noise earlier, but now he started wailing. Mom did her best to settle him. But in the end I had to open a bottle of water and we made him a bottle with that and powdered formula. That shut him up. I can’t help but think that soon we’ll have nothing to appease him with, and then what?

  I offered to take him so my mom could go back to sleep. When she agreed, I felt more worried—she hardly EVER willingly gives up the baby. But I held out my arms to hold him and wouldn’t you know that little brat started wailing and carrying on?

  “You keep holding him and now he only wants you!” I cried. “He’s spoiled.”

  My mom sniffed and settled back with him in her arms, her eyes closed. “I don’t care. I don’t care. I’ve lost my husband; and my son keeps putting his life in danger.” She opened an eye and shot Richard a defiant look. “Jesse’s the only guy I’ve got.”

  I didn’t like to hear my mother say she’d lost my father. Each passing day made it less likely he’d survived, but he could be holed up somewhere just like we are. We don’t know for sure that he’s lost. But I had no energy to argue the point. Also, it didn’t make me feel very important, what she’d said; like daughters don’t count? I guess I understand what she means. But the way she clings to Jesse means she doesn’t get enough rest. Maybe it was on account of the half-light, the shadows splaying around the walls, but her eyes look sunken. I’m worried.

  Richard nudged my arm and I looked at him, wondering what he wanted.

  “It’s been six weeks,” he said. “I wasn’t sure we’d make it this long.”

  “It feels like a year,” I mused. He nodded.

  “Today was good,” I said, referring to the stuff they’d brought from ACE. He said nothing, so I added, “Wasn’t it? It was like a miracle!”

  He just looked at me for a moment. “The miracle will be if we make it for the next six weeks. After that, with spring, we can move out of here. Find a place to grow some food.” He looked around, checking that no one was walking by. Everyone seemed to be getting settled back down. There were less lights bouncing around the walls.

  “Look.” He stood up and began pulling little packets out of his pants pockets. Seeds! I gasped in admiration at his foresight. He’d taken maybe twenty seed packets from ACE, all vegetables, stuff we could grow and eat—I hoped.

  “Wow!” I breathed, giving Richard an admiring smile. “Good thinking!” We were both whispering, keeping our voices low.

  He nodded. “I just hope we can make it long enough to use this stuff.”

  I try not to think about the future these days. Every day is difficult as it is. Every day there’s not enough to fill my stomach (except today—we pigged out on the new provisions. My tummy’s been aching in protest.) I didn’t want to think about how long it would be until the snow would finally be gone. But I did try and envision us planting and growing a garden. We certainly couldn’t do it from our apartment. I thought about how we could possibly do it and remembered that Aunt Susan still had her two acre home in Indiana. The divorce left her an emotional wreck—which is why we got Jesse—but she still had a home with land. If only we could get there! They used to have chickens, too, I remembered. Just thinking of a roast chicken made my mouth water, full as I am from today’s booty.

  If we could get by long enough to make it to Aunt Susan’s, we’d have a real chance of surviving. So this is now my single prayer and goal: For me and my family to live long enough to get to Aunt Susan’s house in Indiana.

  I fantasized about how wonderful it would be until I finally fell asleep.

  SARAH

  FEBRUARY 26

  WEEK SIX, DAY TWO

  In all the six weeks we’ve been here, I’ve had exactly one bath. I can’t begin to express how leathery my skin feels. The library has an old-fashioned bathroom upstairs with an old-style porcelain tub in it, and at first Mr. Aronoff made a schedule so that each family could take turns using it. (He became our leader by default. Everyone knows him since he’s the Super and he just sort of took charge.) Anyway, everyone had to haul in their own snow. And that turned out to be the problem. Snow. It soon became evident that there wasn’t enough snow for baths, because we needed it for drinking water. It’s not like we’re in the country where there’s plenty of the stuff. Even with all the incredible snow fall we’ve had, there’s still only so much in this municipal area.

  I was one of the lucky ones who got a bath. Which is astounding when you think that my last name starts with a W—Weaver. Usually, we Weaver’s are picked last for everything, because most people start alphabetically with A. At school, in gym, I was always the last girl to get a turn at the parallel bars or the trampoline. But Mr. Aronoff, inexplicably, started with Z. We have no families beginning with Z, and no Y families, either. So we were FIRST! I was thrilled.

  It took interminably long to heat enough snow and bring it upstairs, even using a barrel fire that they started in the courtyard. Then we had to use the same bath water. Without soap, except for some baby wipes Mom donated for the purpose. (If you don’t have your own soap, you have to bathe without it.) There were no towels, so we used one of our blankets, sharing that, too. Once we washed up and dried off, I had to hang the blanket near the fire or it would’ve stayed cold and wet for days. That meant one of us had to guard it because things that are unguarded have a way of disappearing around here.

  Mom and the baby bathed first. After that I got to go, and then Richard. Mom and Jesse took a long time. The water was tepid when I got to it, and cold by the time Richard did. I couldn’t bring myself to hurry my mother. She always used a hot shower to relax in the past, so it’s been a hardship for her not to have that. I think they were in there for like twenty minutes. Mom apologized, saying it felt so good she just couldn’t hurry. She looke
d better after that bath and I’m sorry we haven’t been able to keep up having them.

  I didn’t feel quite clean after using tepid water, and I didn’t like sitting in it. But I got to wash my hair. I’d give anything right now to have that opportunity. Did I mention the lice? I always shuddered at the mere thought of having lice. Now we’ve all got them. It’s funny how something like having lice pales in comparison to going hungry.

  I took one of those bottles of water Richard brought from the hardware store and forced myself to stay in the smelly restroom long enough to wash myself.

  I’d wash my hair too, but water is too precious.

  Oh—I’ve finished Sense and Sensibility. It’s so strange to think they had no electricity back then but it was no big deal. Because they never had it. You can’t miss what you never had.

  SARAH

  FEBRUARY 27

  WEEK SIX—DAY THREE

  Richard and I went to the apartment today. I had to cover my mouth and nose with a scarf as we climbed the stairs because of the odor. After six weeks, the place reeks of fire. It will probably never go away.

  I was afraid to go up at first. Afraid of what I’d find. Afraid it was still dangerous. Richard reminded me that other people from the library had already returned and brought back some of their stuff. We needed clothing and other things, so I went.

  Nothing in our apartment burned—Richard saw that last time, but I can still hardly believe it. We might have gotten away with staying there the whole time! It seems like sheer luck that the fire was contained to a couple of floors. When we reached our floor and then the door to our apartment, I felt so excited to be home. I can’t believe how excited. But the door wasn’t locked and we found out we’d been robbed! I was disgusted—people are so ruthless.

  We didn’t have much to begin with, but now the pantry was absolutely empty except for some ketchup packets from a fast-food joint. We took them. My room had been ransacked—I don’t know what people were hoping to find. Money? I’m glad I already removed that $100! Not that it did us any good. There’s nothing to buy anywhere.

  Even though I haven’t been sleeping there I felt violated just knowing some stranger went through my things. All the drawers and shelves were disordered. I saw my box of nail polishes and felt a stab of sadness. The girl who cared about nail polish was from a different life.

  At least most of our clothing was still there. That was what we came for, so we filled up some bags. I changed in the bathroom, moving in record speed because of the cold—I felt better in different clothes, better than after the bath. Most of the water we’d saved in the tub had drained out. There was about an inch left and it didn’t look perfectly clean, and it was frozen. I found an empty travel-size bottle and, using the handle of a toothbrush, I pounded the ice and swept it into the bottle with the bristle. As I worked, I started crying. I don’t know why I cried, exactly.

  I guess because life has come to this. To taking water from a tub even though it’s not clean and feeling like it is a windfall.

  The mirror in the bathroom was so cold that frost had made lacy designs on the glass which was actually pretty….I was studying it when Richard called, “What are you doing in there, Sarah? It’s getting late.”

  I took a last look around for anything worth salvaging and found a razor. I picked it up and stood looking at it. I turned to the lacy mirror. Standing there, seeing this shadow of my former self (I hadn’t realized how skinny I’d become until I saw myself there. Loose clothing hides a lot.) I pulled off my hat and let it drop to the floor. I suddenly put that razor to my hair and I couldn’t stop. I went at it like a madwoman, like the barber of Fleet Street, the one in the Little Shop of Horrors, only I wasn’t taking a life. But I felt like I was. It felt like murder.

  A girl doesn’t lose her hair without a sense of horror.

  When Richard saw me—after I left the bathroom—I saw his eyes widen. I’d left my hat in there on account of the lice and I was heading to my bedroom to look for another one. He opened his mouth to say something, but then shut it again. He understood. He’s becoming a better and better older brother.

  We both walked around a little, silent and full of thoughts, remembering. Most of our cabinets were empty like I said, but there was still some cough syrup and—wonder of wonders—lice treatment shampoo! I think we’ve had it since I was in third grade and there was an outbreak at school. I laughed a ridiculous laugh. There was no water to use shampoo anyway, but finding it somehow set off something inside me. I was holding the bottle in my hands and suddenly I couldn’t stop laughing. I knew, even while I was doing it, that I wasn’t really laughing, not with joy, not the way you’re supposed to laugh. I couldn’t stop. Vaguely, I saw Richard coming towards me with a strange look on his face. I couldn’t interpret the look. I didn’t recognize it. Even if I had, I was unable to make sense of anything at that time. I was still laughing uncontrollably. He came and took me by the shoulders and still I laughed.

  He grabbed the shampoo but I was holding it tightly. He wrested it from me and slammed it down to the floor. When it left my hand, the laughing started to subside. He turned me towards him and then I was crying, crying just as hard and uncontrollably as I’d been laughing. He took me in his arms and I threw my head against him as I cried.

  “Shhhhh, it’s okay,” he said, softly. “It’s okay.”

  The crying came from somewhere deep inside me. I didn’t want to be crying on my brother’s chest. I didn’t want to be crying at all. I couldn’t help it. I felt my knees go weak, and I collapsed against Richard.

  “Sarah,” he said, “Don’t do this. I can’t carry you back. I can’t.”

  That’s when I noticed that Richard had tears on his face. He was crying, too. Richard, crying! I couldn’t remember ever seeing Richard cry. It brought me out of myself, out of the misery I’d felt, as something stirred inside me for him.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wiping my eyes. “C’mon.” I turned to go but hesitated. I bent down and took back the shampoo. Maybe a dry application would help the rest of the family.

  They still had hair.

  As we were leaving I saw that all our windows had ice on the inside like the bathroom mirror, which wasn’t too surprising since even the library’s windows are often frosty. The lack of light, the emptiness, the mess from the ransackers, and the faint whiff of fire, even up on the tenth floor, was demoralizing. Again I felt weak and unstable. I could hardly move, and I envisioned my spirit leaving me like a column of smoke, disappearing into the atmosphere. Maybe I just wanted it to, but then Richard nudged me and we left. My legs moved, though I swear I felt nothing.

  “We need to get back before dark,” he said.

  “Wait.” I ran back down to the bedrooms and grabbed some of the baby’s stuff and clothes for my mother. I’m glad whoever got in wasn’t interested in that stuff. I brought scissors, and all the towels and washcloths I could find to cut up for future diapers. I bet my mom will tell me to do the same thing for my period. That is, if I get it again. I’m two weeks late and the only explanation is that my body is too malnourished to produce it. I’m not going to worry about it.

  It felt like we’d run a marathon by the time we got back to the street. The thought of having to make it all the way to the library seemed too ludicrous to consider. It wasn’t freezing cold anymore, but it was cold. I knew I was moving, but I didn’t know how. I knew my arms were weighted down with the stuff I’d taken from home, but I felt like I was losing feeling in them too. Richard started talking, and I think it was his talking that got me to keep moving. It saved me.

  He talked about when we were young, about the days before we moved to the apartment. Dad had a different job then and he was home more. Those were happier days. I didn’t know if we were happier then because dad was home more, or if it was because we were younger and life always seems happier to the young. Or if it was just an illusion. Maybe it was happier just because we had electricity then. I couldn’t tell an
ymore. I couldn’t remember.

  While he was still talking we reached the library. There was a new guy at the entrance, not the one who was there when we left. When he didn’t want to let us back in, I fell to the ground, suddenly feeling my exhaustion. While Richard argued with him, I saw that he was armed. Of course. All our guards kept arms. But this time, we weren’t the protected ones, inside. We were outsiders to this guy.

  That should have worried me. No, it should have horrified me. Or at least made me faint. But apparently I couldn’t feel worried or horrified. I was too exhausted to feel anything.

  I’d just shaved my hair and seen my skeletal body and somehow the threat of a gun wasn’t having the same effect on me that it normally would have. I don’t have much to lose, anymore.

  Anyway, Richard’s argument wasn’t getting through to him. He said he’d already had to drive off a dozen people that day.

  “Ask Mr. Aronoff, idiot,” Richard spouted. “We’re from the tenth floor, apartment 12.”

  “That’s what they all say,” he answered, but I could see in his eyes that he was no longer certain about us. He called another sentry who, thankfully, did recognize us. The men had to help me get up.

  “This world is full of idiots!” Richard fumed, as we went back in.

  I wondered vaguely about those dozen people who hadn’t been granted entry. I pictured them as lost, wandering souls, slowly starving. I pictured them as though they were a different class of people than we were, not like us, in much worse shape.