The Pulse Effex Series: Box Set

by L. R. Burkard

  “How can you be sure?” he asked, incredulously. “You can’t be sure of that! I think you’re lonely and you want a friend around.” He turned away, moving over towards his horse’s stall.

  I hesitated. I did want a friend around. But was that all? I thought of all the times I’d had thoughts of Andrea and her family, unbidden, just floating into my mind. Like when I prayed. And the thoughts were always the same: That she needed help. That her family needed help. I wasn’t TRYING to create a crisis. I just felt sure, somewhere deep in my being that she and her family were in one, a crisis. And that we, considering all we knew and had, could help.

  “I’m sure because I feel it every time I pray!” I declared.

  My father said nothing for a moment, and stood, stroking Promised Land’s handsome head and mane. He took a deep breath and turned towards me. Slowly he came over.

  “You can’t think only of yourself and your friend. What would happen to your mother and sisters and little brother if anything happened to me? Or God forbid, to both of us?”

  “What’s going to happen?” I cried. “You act like the whole country has gone crazy! So the Buchanans lost a few chickens! Big deal! I’m talking about saving a whole family!”

  “I have to think of my family first,” said Dad. “Your friend lives a good distance away. If anyone forced us to give up the horses we’d be opening ourselves up to exposure and hunger and Lord knows what else.” I stared at my dad, feeling like I didn’t know him. Where was the warm-hearted man I’d grown up with? The man who let me keep Millicent, my pig, until she died a natural death because I’d grown fond of her and couldn’t bear to have her butchered?

  “But dad, it feels so important to me when I’m praying. Haven’t you always told me that when you can’t shake off thoughts or themes during prayer it could well be God speaking to your heart?”

  He gave me a cynical look. He sighed. “Lexie, if God wants us to get the Pattersons, he’ll have to tell me about it, too.”

  I was silent for a minute while I finished up my chores. “So you think I can’t hear from God?” I asked, finally. “That I’m just imagining him speaking to my heart?” I was insulted but also, unaccountably, hurt. My father didn’t trust my perceptions.

  “Honey, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that nowhere in Scripture do I see an injunctive to listen to my daughter when it comes to making decisions that affect the whole family.” He waited until I met his eyes. “I’m not saying you’re not listening or hearing correctly. I’m just saying I need to hear it, too.”

  “Have you asked God about it?”

  “I have,” he said, pulling the stall door shut and closing the latch. “But I will again, if that’s what you want.”

  “That’s definitely what I want.”

  “Okay.” His eyes met mine, steadily. “You have my word. I’m not guaranteeing we’ll do anything, Lexie. I’m not guaranteeing it. But I’ll go before the Lord and see what happens.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  His eyes, which I could see in the lantern light, were somber. I had a battery-operated lantern for the barn which was less of a fire hazard than the oil lamps we used in the house. I grabbed it from its hook so it would light our way back. On moonlit nights the snowy landscape shone almost like daylight, but I liked having the lamp just the same.

  As we walked in silence back to the house, I took a moment to give a word of thanks to someone else.

  God, I love you!

  Dad said, “I do have one condition.”

  “What?”

  “If I pray and I DON’T hear God telling me to get the Pattersons, then you have to drop the subject for now on. Don’t bring it up again.” His eyes were dead serious. “Deal?”

  I took a breath. I’d just been thanking God because I trusted my father to keep his word and pray. And I trusted that God would speak to his heart, just as He’d spoken to mine.

  “Deal,” I said.

  Before bed I asked God to speak to my father’s heart loud and clear. I need him to have peace about going for Andrea and her family. There’s a segment of preppers who are alarmists, always thinking the worst, always shouting how the end will be anarchy and chaos and each man for himself. I think my dad must have heard too many of their dire predictions and it went to his head.

  I hope he comes to his senses.

  LEXIE

  THREE MONTHS

  DAY TWO

  I’m so excited! Dad told me this morning at breakfast that he’ll speak to the Buchanans about getting the Pattersons! It seems too good to be true! I think I just stared at him with my mouth open for a minute. Then I got up and went around to him at the end of the table and gave him a hug. I had tears in my eyes, I was so relieved.

  As I was returning to my seat Mrs. Preston said, “I’ll take one of those!” So I stopped and gave her a hug, too. She’s always been way big on hugs. I don’t mind when we’re at home or her house but I never liked to see her open arms at church, in public. I don’t know why, it embarrasses me. Anyways, I wasn’t embarrassed now so I gave her a good one.

  I noticed she wasn’t looking her best. I think it’s because she’s out of oxygen. My parents are both denying there’s a problem. I don’t understand them.

  But I’m too happy to worry over that right now. I can’t believe it. We’re going to get the Pattersons!

  “So when can we leave?” I asked, taking a bite of my cinnamon-oatmeal pancakes.

  “Now, slow down,” Dad said. “I have to see if the Buchanans will help. I’m not going out there just the two of us. There’s safety in numbers. Besides, how could we help that whole family if they need it, if there’s just the two of us? If the Buchanans will come, that’ll give us enough riders to take back every one of the Pattersons. If they won’t go, neither will we.”

  That stemmed my excitement. As if I needed more to depress me, he added, “And if we do go for your friends, they won’t be able to take any belongings with them to speak of. They’re lucky each of us can fit an extra body on our horses, so don’t even think we’re gonna get their gear—or go back for it. Not a chance.”

  “Okay.” There was nothing else to say. I just hoped the Pattersons would be okay with that.

  “You know,” my dad said, looking at my mother as though they’d discussed what he was about to say. “They may not even need or want our help. Not every man will get up and go into another man’s house just like that.”

  “A starving man will,” I said, with assurance. Dad just gave me a look. I could see he wasn’t convinced, still, that Andrea’s family might be starving. As long as he’s willing to go, I don’t care. But inside, every thought of Andrea fills me with a sad, empty feeling. So now I’ve got to pray that Mr. Buchanan will lend us the help of his family. Going on horseback makes it a little tricky—you can only expect a horse to cover so many miles a day. But if we leave early and bring plenty of hay for them, we might be able to coax them back the same day. They’ll be carrying more bodies on the return trip—it’ll be hard on them. But horses are powerful animals. And they’ll just have to do it!

  My only other worry was Blake. He probably hadn’t ridden for hours and hours, ever. And this wasn’t going to be a joyride.

  EVENING

  I can’t sleep. I’m too excited about the prospect of finally seeing Andrea and being able to help her family. Also, now that Dad has agreed to go, I’m getting worried. What if the Buchanans won’t help? What if Dad’s right and there’s danger out there? What if one of us gets hurt or loses a horse? What if the Pattersons aren’t even home? Or what if they’ve starved to death already? Or frozen to death? What if? What if? What if!

  I can’t stand it!

  LEXIE

  THREE MONTHS

  DAY THREE

  My heart is leaping for joy.

  Dad and I saw the Buchanans this morning to discuss getting the Pattersons, and they’ve agreed to help! My conviction about Andrea’s family being in dire straits seemed to m
atter more to Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan than to my own parents—but I guess it doesn’t matter as long as we’ll be going.

  At first Mr. Buchanan wanted Blake to stay with the little ones from both our families, but Blake spoke up and said he wanted to go; let my mother watch the kids. So that’s what will happen.

  I can’t wait for tomorrow! I’m helping Mom prepare supplies for our saddlebags and I’m getting so excited I can’t stand it! She’s laughing at me for being giddy.

  I think my parents still don’t get how important this is.

  SARAH

  THREE MONTHS

  I’ve accepted that my dad is not coming back. Honestly, that seems like a small thing next to the fact that we’re slowly starving. I’m not even really mourning for him. I feel guilty about that. How could I not mourn for my own father? But maybe he’s doing better than we are. Maybe he found a place to hunker down for the winter and is now on his way back. But even the idea that he’s doing better than we are doesn’t give me any comfort.

  I guess I’m angry. I didn’t know I could feel this angry. I’m angry that he didn’t find a way to get back to us; angry that we weren’t more prepared for something like this; angry that we’re hungry and thirsty!

  I’m crying as I write. Maybe I am mourning for my dad. I guess deep down inside I know he probably isn’t doing better than us. In fact, I don’t think he’s still alive at all. He’d have come back if he was alive.

  Richard has moved us out of the library. We’ve taken the few meager bits of sustenance we had, a bottle of water (I’ll explain about that in a minute), some books to rip up for tinder, and the rest of our stuff, and returned to the apartment. There was no longer a reason to stay—no food, no water, and a few of our own men were getting to be bullies. They started doing shifts, taking turns supposedly to keep watch, but they were more like Nazis, not letting us move around freely or even talk after “curfew.”

  We’re out of baby food and canned milk. Jesse doesn’t even cry anymore. For awhile I thought his cries would drive me crazy. Our empty, colorless lives were difficult—but a baby crying because it’s hungry is unbearable. Children don’t understand why you can’t feed them. Their crying is a form of human torture.

  My mother looks like walking death. She is wasting away, and there isn’t a single thing I can do about it. She still clings to baby Jesse like he’s all she’s got.

  I’m writing this with the feeling that it may be my last entry. Richard took out a deep stock pot and made a fire in it for warmth, but the smoke is noxious and it won’t last very long. Our apartment doesn’t even feel like home to me. Besides the robbery, there is smog and dirt on all the windows, and I have no clue where it came from. The fire? I don’t see how. Anyway, the effect of the gloom is that it seems like a tomb in here.

  EVENING

  We’ve moved again. Richard had been exploring the garage level of the building and found a door leading to a set of steps going even further underground than the garage. So now we’re in a boiler room, though of course the boiler is long dead and cold. But being underground, the room is actually warmer than our apartment. Even the library wasn’t this warm unless you were nearer the fireplace than our little spot.

  When he came and told us he’d found this place, my mother registered what he’d said but there wasn’t the faintest spark of hope in her eyes. Still, I mustered what little energy I could and helped her get to her feet. Once she got moving, she seemed better. I’d been in my room and found a few pieces of candy in the closet—they were in the pocket of an old pair of jeans. We each took and sucked on one slowly, almost with reverence. When my mother’s piece was too small for Jesse to choke on, she gave it to him, putting it on his outstretched tongue gingerly.

  “Want more,” he said, as soon as he’d finished it.

  My mom shook her head. I still had a sliver in my mouth, so I gave it to him. “Want more,” he said in a moment, holding out his once chubby fist. Poor baby! We spent the whole walk down the ten flights and the extra two, trying to quiet his cries. The candy had given him enough energy to complain, and that was probably all. I wished I hadn’t found it. Every day I keep thinking that unless someone comes to our rescue we can’t survive much longer.

  SARAH

  THREE MONTHS, DAY TWO

  I had an unusual encounter back at the library. I haven’t written about it before now because I needed to think it out. There was this man—wait, let me explain what was going on.

  There were less of us by now. Lots of families had gone with all their stuff because we’d run out of everything. Even before that, people were starting to get sick and some families left to escape the illness. I don’t even know what it was. Flu? Pneumonia? All I know is I heard a whole lot of coughing and moaning.

  Anyway, all we had left was that big old fireplace, still being fed with books. The ashes were spilling out all over the floor, but whoever had been cleaning them either got sick or had left because no one was doing it anymore. The fire was getting weaker by the day. Then, the temperature climbed from the single digits to just below freezing, and then, gloriously, it was in the forties! We still needed the fire, but the warmer weather felt heavenly.

  Until we realized there was no more water. No more snow meant that even our ridiculously small rations of drinking water disappeared. A few blackened puddles here and there were all we could find, and even boiling didn’t seem to make that clean. We knew there were streams outside of town and small branches of the Miami river, but they were FAR. Starvation had been looming on the horizon for weeks, but now we were facing the fact that we were going to die from dehydration instead. I think dehydration is worse.

  The only reason we’d stayed as long as we had at the library was because there wasn’t any food or water back at the apartment either. But one day Mom said we might as well die at home rather than the library. We were planning on leaving the next morning. That’s when I had this “encounter,” as I call it now.

  Richard had risen early and gone out scavenging as he often did. Many days he came back empty handed but not always. (Once he came back with a big bar of chocolate. I found out you can’t eat chocolate with a dry throat. I actually thought it was choking me. I finally let a small piece melt on my tongue—which took a really long time—because I was desperate for the calories. But I don’t think I’ll ever look at chocolate the same.)

  Anyway, every time Richard went out, Mom hated it. She was sure she’d never see him alive again. I don’t know if she was afraid that he’d get killed on the street or if she thought she would die before he got back.

  So there we were, me and Mom and Jesse. They were still asleep and I had woken up but I had no energy to do anything. We were listless and without hope. All along, I had managed to hang onto a small thread of hope. Maybe it was from my Bible reading. I’m not sure. But now I felt hopeless. I didn’t even have the desire to read anymore. In a library!

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. When I looked there was this man, tall, thin but not haggard like the rest of us. He had a peaceful look on his face. It startled me so much, and afterwards I realized it was because I hadn’t seen such a look on anyone in a long time. There was no anguish, no pain in his expression. Still, I was suspicious because I didn’t recognize him.

  “Would you like to give your mother and brother a drink?” he asked.

  I blinked, figuring I was dreaming. When he didn’t disappear, I think I just stared at him. I couldn’t believe what he was asking. I glanced at my mother. She was sleeping with Jesse on her chest. Jesse’s eyes were open but he just watched us, quietly. He’d been getting more and more listless and lethargic by the day, even by the hour. Mom and I refused to say it aloud but we knew he was dying.

  “I can’t,” I finally said, with indignation in my voice. Who was this idiot who thought I was withholding life-giving water from my family? How on earth was I supposed to give anyone a drink when I had nothing?

  “There’s no water,” I said, ann
oyed.

  “Follow me,” he said, quietly. “There’s water.”

  I wondered vaguely if he was just trying to lure me from safety, but something in his expression of assurance made me follow him. He gave me no feeling of personal threat but it bothered me that I didn’t recognize him. If he was from our building, or if he’d been in the library all along, I certainly didn’t remember him.

  Anyway, he led me to the door which led to the basement and that’s where I stopped. There was no way I wanted to follow this stranger to a lower level, alone. He looked at me, and I swear he could read my thoughts.

  “It’s okay,” he said. He turned and looked back into the other rooms. As if he’d called her to come, I saw Elizabeth slowly making her way towards us. She was suffering from hunger and thirst as much as the rest of us, and looked almost drunken as she walked. I was glad to see her. Without a word, she came and joined us and we proceeded down the stairs. I took her hand and she managed a little smile.

  “What are we doing?” she asked.

  “Getting water, I think,” I said. Her eyes widened and she looked at the man as if for the first time, taking notice of this person who was apparently going to save our lives.

  “Is that your dad?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “No.” I shrugged, letting her know I had no clue who he was.

  When we got downstairs he led us right past the kitchen and into a little room that held what I guessed was a water heater. There was condensation on the outside of it and I stared at those drops as though they were pennies from heaven. I had a temptation to put my mouth right on the outside of the thing and lick them up. The only thing that stopped me from doing that was his presence.

  “In here,” he said. I noticed then that he was holding a bowl and a wrench. He used the wrench to turn a screw, then another, and then he placed the bowl beneath a pipe. In a few seconds, water began running into the bowl. When it was more than half full, he turned the screws again and stopped the flow. He gave me the bowl. My eyes were twice their normal size, I’m sure. There was a question in his eyes, and I wondered for a second what it meant. Elizabeth, despite the wonder of what was happening, was leaning against the wall, her eyes closed. She was on the point of exhaustion. And it hit me: The question was whether I would drink first or offer it to my friend. I nudged her and said, softly, “Elizabeth.”