The Pulse Effex Series: Box Set

by L. R. Burkard

  But really, they are no different than us. They are no different than I am. In fact, I am one of them.

  When we got back, there was an unmistakable air of tension. Mom said there’d been a fight. Everyone’s getting tense about the food situation.

  Ever since that first Wal-Mart raid, the refrigerator that was in the library’s kitchen has been out in the courtyard, buried in heaps of snow. The men brought it out there and have used it to keep food that is found—or caught. For instance, some people go out every day to catch squirrels. They’re kept in there until there’s enough to offer a morsel to everyone.

  One night there was a rumor that the squirrel we were eating was actually dog meat. I didn’t want to believe it but I’m suspicious. (As though it isn’t bad enough to be eating squirrel!) At night we hear dogs howling outside. It’s hard to describe what a mournful sound that is. Living high in our building, the only animal sound we used to hear was maybe somebody’s pet in a neighboring apartment. But howls? These are different. I actually thought it was wolves, but Richard says it’s pets who were abandoned because no one can feed them. Either they were abandoned or lost their owners in a tragedy due to “the event.” Normally, I’d want to rescue each and every stray animal I could. But we can’t rescue them. We can’t even feed ourselves. But here’s the thing: Ever since that night of the rumor, I’ve been listening for the howls and haven’t heard any. So I think I’ve actually eaten dog meat. How disgusting is that?

  But our supplies are dwindling. Aside from Richard’s stash from the hardware store, we’ve only been eating once a day. There’s got to be about seventy people still here. We had more in the beginning, but some left long ago, and all along our numbers have dwindled because people get fed up with the conditions. They remember long lost relatives or friends and take their chances trying to reach them. If we had someone closer than Aunt Susan, I’d try to go too.

  Anyway, apparently the man on duty guarding the refrigerator did not want to let some guy see what was left in it. They had a confrontation and people started to panic and finally someone forced open the door of that fridge. It was empty. He was guarding it just to keep up the pretense that we’ve actually got some food left. So now it’s common knowledge that from this day forward it will be every man for himself. Richard says we’ll return to the apartment tomorrow. I thought of all that stuff we’d carried here and the work it took. Now we’d be carting it all back tomorrow? I guess we’d rather die at home than here.

  Mom doesn’t know about my hair, yet. We live with our hats on.

  SARAH

  FEBRUARY 27

  WEEK SIX—DAY FOUR

  I woke up early today so I’m writing while things are still fairly quiet. The library is a stinking mess, and I should be happy at the thought of leaving. But I’m not.

  I’m anxious about Mom. She was just starting to seem better. She’s as thin as the rest of us, but she borrowed a portable stroller from someone—the light, little kind—and had been walking Jesse around the library. Even that little bit of exercise was good for her, because usually she just sits and broods or sleeps and broods. She’d also started chatting with other mothers and I know that’s good for her. Mom always had lots of friends and was active on her social media sites and blogs. So I’m worried that if we return to the apartment, she’ll return to her zombie-ness. She’ll be alone except for us and we don’t seem to be enough to keep her hopes up.

  Richard has been quiet lately, often deep in thought. If I ask him what he’s thinking about, he just shakes his head. When he wakes up I’m going to try and convince him to let us stay here a little longer. There’s no more food at the apartment than here, but at least we’ve got a fireplace at the library, and people for mom to talk to. I’d rather die of starvation with everyone else than of starvation plus cold all by ourselves.

  LATER

  So we agreed to stay another few nights while Richard makes more attempts to find food. Everyone had talked about leaving and it seems like everyone has decided to stay, just like us. It’s simply too cold out there. It’s almost March. I hope the cold breaks soon.

  When Richard and the other men were gone scavenging, there was some excitement out front. I heard raised voices but they were too muffled for me to understand what was going on. I looked at Mom and she shrugged.

  Then suddenly people in the first room were getting all upset and I heard new voices trying to get order. Someone was calling for quiet. I got up and walked silently to the doorway where I peeked around the edge of the wall. I was hoping it was government people with news of how they were going to help us. I was wrong. It was two men and two women with some unkempt kids. The men looked macho and had tattoos peeking out on their necks and bushy hair sticking out of thick knit hats, and bushy, straggly beards. Not that the rest of us would win a beauty contest—we were all a scraggly bunch by now. But these guys looked like a motorcycle gang, if you know what I mean.

  The women looked somewhat less threatening, but their eyes were veiled—I didn’t like the look of any of them, especially because each of the men was holding a rifle and one of the women had a handgun.

  “Listen up!” shouted one of the men. “We don’t want to hurt anyone—but we will if we have to.”

  “What do you want?” Mr. Aronoff asked. He had his arms crossed and looked like he was hopping mad. Which was interesting, because earlier we’d thought he was at death’s door. Some kind of flu had been going around, leaving lots of people weak and sickly. He was one of them.

  “Bring your food out,” the man said. “Be cooperative and no one will get hurt.”

  “Food?” said Mr. Aronoff. “We don’t have food! I wish we had food!”

  “You’re lying,” the man said. “If you don’t bring it out, we’ll find it. Anyone who is found with food will be shot.” He looked around the room ominously. “Did you hear that, people?” His voice got louder. “Bring us your food or we WILL shoot you!”

  No one moved. He took a deep breath.

  You’re all crazy,” he muttered. Then he nodded at one of the women. She was the only one not holding a weapon. Two children were huddled around her legs. She whispered something to them, and then disengaged her legs from their little grasps.

  She was short, with dirty-blonde hair, and looked haggard. Her face was very white—she’d probably lost too much weight, just like the rest of us.

  Anyway, she started going through the bags of the nearest family. It was the Jensens from the first floor. Everyone knew the Jensens because they gave the best candy at Halloween. I felt badly for them, and watched with a growing sick feeling in my stomach. Mrs. Jensen was holding her children against her as if they were going to try to take them, too. The woman ignored her and kept going through everything they had.

  “Hurry up!” the man with the rifle barked.

  She stopped, gave him a look (which I couldn’t see, being to her back), and then turned and dumped the contents of Mrs. Jensen’s bags, one by one, onto the floor. A pack of chewing gum fell into view, which she grabbed with ferocious energy.

  “Is that all?” the man complained, when she held up her prize.

  “What have you people been eating?” he asked, looking around the room at everyone. Silence.

  “WHAT have you been eating?” he shouted, pointing his gun at Mr. Aronoff. Mrs. Jensen said, “Does it look like we’ve been eating? We’re starving just like you are.”

  “Then why are you in here?” he asked, his tone full of suspicion.

  “Because of the fire,” one of the little Jensens said, pointing her little finger towards the fireplace. We were still burning ripped up books and old furniture, and there was a good, though not roaring fire, going at the moment.

  The dirty-blonde had stopped to listen and he shoved his head at her. “Keep going! What are you waiting for?”

  She went to the next family. I didn’t know their name, even though I’d seen their faces many times before we came to the library. Again t
he contents of their belongings were dumped out. Mostly clothing, makeup, socks, a deck of cards—she took the cards and the makeup.

  “Hey, stupid!” the man shouted. “We need FOOD not junk!”

  She stood up, her eyes and lips narrowed. “Then why don’t you look, Bruce?”

  “Don’t say my name, you stupid b-----!”

  She slumped and walked over to the other woman. “I’m not doing any more.”

  The second woman apparently accepted that the job now belonged to her. She looked around with distaste. “They don’t got nothin’ here, Bru--. She stopped short of saying his name.

  “Keep looking!” he barked. “They’re living on something.”

  I turned, hoping to slink unnoticed back to our alcove, but almost collided with my mother. She’d come to see what was happening too. The two of us managed to stay quiet and returned to our spot. I was wondering if there was a way to hide the last of the baby’s food. I told myself they likely weren’t interested in baby food, but it did, after all, have nutrition. Were they so desperate they’d take food from a toddler? Yes, I was sure they would.

  I whispered my concern to my mother, whose eyes slowly digested what I’d said. She nodded. Looking towards the other room, she reached beneath her chair and grabbed the last few jars. Slowly she rose and went to the nearest stack. Books had been torn up for fuel, but there were still many left. She opened a big book and hid the jar inside, standing it up on its spine. That seemed too precarious, so we faced a bunch of books out that way, putting a jar here and there, behind the books. I went along the shelf and opened more, facing them out, so the ones hiding the little jars wouldn’t be conspicuous.

  I saw other people watching us and I prayed they wouldn’t turn us in. To my surprise, a few others stood up and bringing out their own hidden—but meager—stashes, did the same as we had, putting random books outfacing along the stacks.

  I thought of the granola bars from ACE that we still had. We’d been rationing them. I put them beneath the stack, and prayed they wouldn’t search there.

  Then we waited.

  SARAH

  FEBRUARY 28

  WEEK SIX—DAY FIVE

  By the time the men returned from scavenging, the armed bullies had left. They didn’t shoot anyone, even though Elizabeth’s mother did have six beef sticks in her purse. She started crying hysterically when the lady dumped her purse out. Bruce was so disgusted that he said, “Just take ‘em and leave her.”

  Those of us who’d hidden our food managed to keep it. I was praying the whole time because what idiot wouldn’t think of searching the stacks? There was a tense moment when Bruce, in a fit of disappointment, kicked over a portable shelf unit of DVDs. My heart went into my throat because I thought that was just the start. I thought surely now he and his friends would go around the library dumping over all the shelves and thrashing the place. They’d find our little bit of food. Our lifeline. Our last means of survival.

  But they didn’t.

  “We have armed men who will return any time now,” said Mr. Aronoff.

  “Oh yeah?” asked Bruce. “Where’d they go?”

  Mr. Aronoff still had his arms crossed. “To Look. For. Food.” The irony was not lost on Bruce apparently, because shortly after that he rounded up his people and left.

  Richard was furious. “That does it,” he said. “We’re getting out of here.”

  I had no idea where we would go, but those people had frightened me so much I didn’t argue. Thinking back on it, I’m surprised I didn’t have a panic attack while they were here. Lesser things had given me panic attacks. Just being alone on the stairs of the building could send me into a panic. And now here we were, with our lives in actual danger—potentially—and I hadn’t even panicked. It was especially extraordinary because I’d run out of my antidepressant three weeks ago.

  It’s funny what a catastrophe will do to you. I’m losing weight and getting thinner by the day, but inside I’ve somehow gotten stronger. When I was laughing uncontrollably yesterday at the apartment, I thought I was losing my mind. Apparently, I still have it.

  PART FIVE

  ANDREA

  THREE MONTHS

  Dad went out to canvass the neighborhood to see if he can trade stuff for food—bartering, he called it. Not that we have much to trade. I saw mom rifling through her jewelry boxes so I know they’re hoping her expensive jewelry will put some food on the table. He says he can also offer labor like chopping wood (if they have any) or working for them however they need it once the weather warms up. Though it is now April, the temperature is still cold.

  Dad made me accompany him in case there was anything to carry back. We covered almost the whole plat and had come up empty-handed. The only house left was that creepy Mr. Herman’s. He must have seen us out there because he came to his door. I stayed at the sidewalk while Dad went to speak to him. I didn’t even want to be close to that weirdo. I heard him say, “Let’s see what you’ve got.” He seemed to know we were trying to barter. After about ten minutes dad reappeared with a big box in his arms! It was a case of macaroni and cheese, bought with an heirloom gold watch that was my grandmother’s. For a pair of ruby earrings, he gave two fat summer sausages, still in their store wrap.

  “Highway robbery,” my father muttered, as he approached me.

  “Just think,” Mr. Herman called out, behind him. “It can all be back in the family if you give me your daughter! And no one will be hungry.”

  He was looking at me, and gave a huge grin. He laughed. I looked away. As we left, I wondered, Had I heard him correctly? Was he really offering my father food in exchange for—me? That man was horrible!

  As my father and I started back towards home, I asked, “What did Mr. Herman mean?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Later he told my mother about the incident, but somehow I didn’t like the way my father looked at me when he told it. As though he expected me to volunteer to go to Mr. Herman to get the jewelry back, or for more food.

  Mom, however, took the loss of her jewelry in stride. “You can’t eat it,” she said.

  So now we have fifteen boxes of mac and cheese and two nice sized summer sausages. I never thought I’d see such things as a feast, but that’s what it tasted like. It was heavenly to feel full.

  We’ll be through this stuff in no time, though. I told my dad we ought to set out for Lexie’s house. “Right now, with this food, we’ll be able to make the trip. We can boil water and fix this stuff on the way.”

  He looked at me but said nothing. So I added, “Pretty soon we’ll be too weak and malnourished to make the trek.”

  “I can’t take Lily out in this weather, Andrea,” Mom said.

  “Mom, it’s April” I cried.

  “And there’s still snow out there! And nights are still cold!” she returned. “I don’t even think your brothers would be able to walk that far. And how would we survive at night out there?”

  “We still have camping gear,” I said.

  “The camper is useless, and I’m not risking getting us stranded out on the road. That’s final,” Dad said.

  So we’re stuck here. Who would have thought there’d still be snow on the ground in April? But honestly, I don’t think they want to go. My father would rather we starve than show up at the Martins’ doorstep needing help. Maybe it’s a macho thing. But he’ll sell jewelry to a lowlife. He’ll go to that man’s door. He’d just better not try to sell me! I AM DETERMINED NOT TO EVER GIVE MYSELF TO THAT MAN. I’D RATHER STARVE.

  Oh, yeah. When we were out, we found out the Laycocks have died. The Laycocks were a friendly older couple. Mrs. Laycock always tried to get me talking if I walked by. I think she was lonely. Anyway, they had sold their house and were preparing to move. They’d packed up and of course they didn’t have much food around.

  But they didn’t die of starvation. That’s the weird thing about their dying. Their nearest neighbor, the man who found the
m, told us they had canned pasta and spaghetti and sauce in the pantry. They were found fully clothed and lying in bed together just as if they’d gone to sleep peacefully. So they probably died from hypothermia. In other words, they froze to death, right in their home!

  I found this very depressing. Why didn’t they at least hold out until their food was all gone? I guess they wanted to die with dignity, in each other’s arms—before they had to. I wondered if it gave them a feeling of control. Instead of waiting for the inevitable, they took matters into their own hands. I wondered if one day we would do the same thing. We were certainly getting desperate. The mac and cheese will hold us for now, but yesterday something happened that showed me how desperate we really are.

  Aiden had been playing downstairs. When he came up Mom noticed something in his hands.

  “Come here,” she said. Aiden walked over to my mother.

  “Let me see your hands.” He held them out to her, obviously wondering what was up.

  My mother leaned over and carefully looked at his palms, then took something off that had been sticking to one of them.

  “This is a grain of rice!” she exclaimed, to me. “It’s rice!”

  I rushed over to examine the tiny white speck she’d gotten off his hand and sure enough, it looked like a grain of rice. We found more, all sticking to his palms.

  “Where did you get that?” Mom asked Aiden. I saw his eyes widen with fear. My mother hadn’t sounded angry exactly, but a child can detect the slightest hint of anger in an adult and react to it. Which is what Aiden did.

  He shook his head, his eyes wide. “I don’t know.”

  “Where were you playing?” she asked. Aiden didn’t answer, just shook his head like he had no idea.

  “Mom, he’s scared,” I said. “He thinks you’re angry.” My mother should have realized this. It struck me that she wasn’t operating at full tilt. I began to wonder how often she’d been skipping meals in order to feed the rest of us.