The Pulse Effex Series: Box Set

by L. R. Burkard

  “Maybe we should try our cars,” Mr. Buchanan said, scratching his head in thought.

  Blake spoke up. “No. This had to be an older model car. Without the electronic components of modern cars, it wouldn’t have been fried by the EMP. You’d need an old car for it to work, now.”

  “How about that,” my dad mused. “Seems I should have hung on to that ‘57 Chevy after all.”

  “Everybody should have hung on to a ‘57 Chevy,” said Mr. Buchanan, wryly.

  “Okay, let’s get moving,” my dad said.

  We rode, mostly in silence, for the next half hour. I stayed close to Blake, falling behind him purposefully so I could keep an eye on his seat and how he was doing. We hit a badly potted stretch of road and the others fell into line. We were on the wrong side of the road, and Blake fell into some furious maneuvering to get his horse across without hitting a hole; His position on the saddle looked precarious to me and I spurred Rhema with a shout to get beside him. Falling into line on the other side, Blake looked a little pale, but otherwise fine.

  “Go ahead of me,” he said, nodding. “I can’t watch you if you’re behind me.”

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise but did as he said, suppressing the urge to laugh. How could I tell Blake I was the one who needed to keep an eye on him? I didn’t. I enjoyed his concern and didn’t want to ruin it.

  There was lots of time to think while we rode. Despite the signs of spring coming on, the fresh-tipped grasses peeking out and even a few early irises here and there, the world seemed quiet and lonely.

  As we got closer to Andrea’s neighborhood, more and more cars sat dead in the road. We saw signs of looting. Broken windows, shards of glass glimmering in sunlight as we approached. Other times glass wasn’t so obvious, but Dad or Mr. Buchanan, being in front, would shout a warning and the rest would carefully lead their horse away from the area.

  We wound around roadblocks, falling into a line whenever we needed to. I had the sense, suddenly, of living in a post-apocalyptic world. I had to remind myself that dead cars did not equal dead people. Just because vehicles didn’t work didn’t mean society was wiped out. But it felt that way. Dad stopped suddenly at a PT Cruiser on the side of the road. There were people inside!

  “I think they’re asleep,” he said, loud enough for us all to hear. A window was broken on the passenger side, and he circled around. Then, suddenly he spurred his horse away, shaking his head. He motioned with one arm for us to follow and we fell back into place.

  I looked at Blake, wondering.

  “There must be a foul odor.”

  For a few seconds those words rang a blank inside my head and then suddenly they fell into context. Those people weren’t sleeping! I had a big lump in my throat after that.

  Maybe that was why I wasn’t paying attention a little while later when suddenly Rhema skidded off the side of the road, taking me down the slope of a gulley. Lots of Ohio roads have deep gullies on the sides to hold water, because our soil is heavy clay and doesn’t absorb it quickly. The gullies catch the runoff. Now, one of them almost caught me.

  Blake had hollered at the last minute for me to watch out, but it was too late. I was sure my horse was going to fall completely, perhaps on top of me. I tensed for the impact, but she never went down. Rhema is such a good horse! She gave a protesting whinny and stumbled a little but kept me seated.

  “What happened?” My father had swung around and come over.

  “I don’t know. I guess I let her wander too far over.”

  “Pay attention to what you’re doing, Lex,” he said. “I’m glad you aren’t hurt. You’re lucky. Is she okay?” he added.

  I nodded, patting her mane. “She’s fine.”

  After that scare I paid more attention. And I felt humbled. Maybe Blake did need to watch out for me! But it took my mind off the ghost cars. And then Dad had a close call with Spirit when we hit a patch of mud that was hiding a big pot-hole. We had to wait for Spirit to regain his confidence. He’d come to a stop, snorting and whinnying. Dad coaxed him to move along. In the end, I had to dangle a carrot a few feet ahead of him to get him out of that ditch. Spirit can be cantankerous. It was a good thing my mother had thought to pack snacks for the horses!

  “I’m glad you aren’t hurt, old boy,” my dad said to him afterwards, stroking his head. To us, he added, “About three more miles to the plat.”

  We were keeping to a steady, slow, trot, passing newer developments now. One man was out on his lawn as we passed, holding a big sign. It read, CASH FOR FOOD. I considered riding over and giving him the lunch Mom had packed which was tucked in a saddle bag. But Dad just kept going and I knew he’d get angry if I detoured. I think we all felt badly for that man.

  I noticed smoke rising from the chimneys of older homes, which heartened me. They had a means of heat, a way to cook food. Strangely, the affluent huge houses looked empty and desolate. Like Andrea’s house, they were impressive and sturdy but probably lacked alternate heating methods like a simple woodstove. I shook my head at the irony--the wealthier people could be worse off now than their humbler neighbors who had long heated with propane or wood. The first shall be last….

  I don’t know if it was because the sky had been growing overcast, or due to the large silent houses we passed, but a growing sense of desolation began overtaking me. Were these huge homes really empty and desolate? Or was I just imagining it? I couldn’t tell. I saw images in my head—people who died in those big houses, unable to stay warm or because they’d run out of food. It was morbid and I knew it but I couldn’t stop. It made me more and more anxious to reach Andrea’s—I was worried about what we were going to find.

  When we turned into the plat, I gave Rhema a little spur with my heels. She’d been so well behaved and I could tell she wasn’t too winded. It was far past noon, but we’d all made it safely and in one piece.

  We dismounted in the backyard. Blake and his mom took the job of seeing to the animals. We’d let them drink from ponds on the way, so water wasn’t an immediate concern. I hurried to the door and knocked as loudly as I could. My dad came up behind me. I knocked again, searching for a doorbell, but found none.

  “I’ll go around to the front,” Dad said.

  I kept knocking, and then cupped my hands to peer inside. It was dark and empty-looking. I felt a sense of despair. Had we come all this way for nothing? And what had happened to Andrea and her family? I’d probably never know. I ran off the steps and started rounding the house, but stopped to rap on a basement window. I knelt down to peer inside, but like the upstairs, it was dark and empty.

  I met my dad on the front stone steps. “There’s no answer,” he said, his hands in his pockets. I rang the doorbell. Dad put his hand gently upon mine.

  “Honey, doorbells likely don’t work.”

  “Oh, yeah.” One dumbbell (me) hitting a dead doorbell. I rapped on the door instead, taking off my gloves to hit it hard with my knuckles. Again, my dad’s hand covered mine, softly.

  “They’re not here, honey.”

  I looked up at him. “We need to get inside. See if they’re in there.”

  He sighed. “If they’re inside and can’t answer the door, there’s no point in going in. It would be too late for us to do anything to help.”

  I forced back tears. To say I was disappointed would be a huge understatement. Blake joined us and saw my expression.

  “How about we check with the neighbors? Maybe someone knows something.” I thought that was a good idea. My dad slowly nodded.

  “May as well ask.”

  Mr. Buchanan and Blake went to the nearest house on the right, which was a few hundred feet down the street. Dad and I took the house on the left.

  I saw some smoke coming from a chimney and pointed it out to my father. “Look! There’s definitely someone home, here!”

  He nodded. When we reached the front door, I rang the bell, already forgetting what my dad said, that they didn’t work any longer. He gave me a gentle
look and knocked loudly. We waited. I was beginning to think no one would answer when the door flew open and Andrea stood there, her arms opened wide to embrace me. She looked thin and strangely different, but wore a huge grin.

  “You came!” she cried, tears popping into her eyes. “I prayed you would come!”

  “You prayed?” I asked. Andrea was not one known for praying. I looked at her with appreciation. “Good for you! Every time I prayed, I felt we had to come.”

  “Really?” She stared at me, her mouth falling open.

  “Really. My dad didn’t want to, but we had to.”

  Dad hollered for the Buchanans and soon we were all inside. I noticed a rifle against the wall right near the front door and wondered if Mr. Patterson had thought we were intruders.

  He was already talking to my dad and Mr. Buchanan, his face grim, but he was nodding. Andrea and I had stopped to examine one another, suddenly feeling shy. The difference in her was that she wore no makeup and had lost weight. But she shrieked with excitement and grabbed me into a bear hug. We hugged and laughed and were embarrassed that we hugged, and then she took my hand to lead me further inside.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I said. Andrea gave a humorless laugh.

  “We’re not okay. I’m so glad you came! Like I said, I prayed you would!”

  “Andrea, that is so cool!” I exclaimed to her back, as I followed her through the house. She turned and smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  As we moved on, I looked around at the home. It was rich looking and stately but strangely bare. “So, are you living with your neighbors?”

  She explained the situation to me, the absence of the neighbors, the woodstove. I felt sad about her neighbors, but it made sense for them to use the house.

  “How’s the baby?” I asked.

  “Fine. Here she is,” she said, motioning me into the open living room area. As I said hello to her mom and brothers, stopping to give Lily my attention, Andrea greeted my dad and Mr. Buchanan who had come in after us with her father.

  “Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Patterson said, over and over, to each of us. All the family was bundled up, the boys looking up at me from the floor fully dressed in coats.

  “We’re trying to conserve wood,” Mr. Patterson said, sounding apologetic. I think he was attempting to explain why the room was cold. We could understand that. If Dad hadn’t been piling up wood for years, we’d have been outside every day chopping to have had enough for this winter.

  “Well, that’s why we’re here,” my dad said. He explained we’d come to offer shelter and food. Sanctuary. He told how I insisted on coming, insisted God wanted us to. My cheeks flushed with heat. Blake touched my arm.

  “Wanna help me carry in the stuff from the saddlebags?” Mrs. Buchanan had already started bringing in the sacks, but there was more to get. We had lunch in there, sandwiches, thermoses of soup and snacks. We were all hungry after the ride.

  Gratefully, I nodded. I saw Andrea looking interestedly at us. She and Blake knew each other by sight but that was all. Usually if there was a guy around, it was Andrea talking to him, not me. I felt proud. Silly, perhaps, but I couldn’t help it. Blake is cute.

  We went out to get our gear. Andrea hurried to join us, so I introduced her to Blake as though they didn’t already know each other’s name—to give them a proper introduction. For the first time in my life, it seemed like Andrea got shy. Later she told me she didn’t know how to act with a church-going guy. She knew Blake and I went to the same church, and found that knowledge slightly intimidating. I laughed at that. But I was glad. I’d much rather Andrea feel shy around Blake than bold, which she is around most guys at school.

  Mrs. Buchanan handed us things to carry in and we unpacked lunch in the dining room. The look on the faces of the boys about broke my heart. They looked like they hadn’t seen food in a long, long time. Andrea and her parents tried to be nonchalant about it, but I could see they were excited about the food too. Besides the trail snacks, we had simple sandwiches on homemade bread and thermoses of soup and coffee—except for my thermos which had hot cocoa. I gave most of my food away, feeling like Santa Claus. Actually, we all gave most of our food to them.

  Afterwards my dad hurried us to get moving. He figured we wouldn’t be back before nightfall but he wanted to get us there as quickly as possible. The Pattersons could take very little. Mrs. Patterson had a hard time letting go of baby gear. Finally, with everyone on horseback, our saddlebags bulging with the loads, we set off. I was ecstatic. Everything had gone perfectly—we were saving the Pattersons! Maybe I was a little too proud of myself, proud of the fact that I’d heard from the Lord and followed His leading. Maybe I shouldn’t have been preparing a little victory speech to vindicate myself to my dad after all his needless worries. Or maybe it was just inevitable, what happened.

  We were halfway back to the farm. Blake had one of Andrea’s brothers on his horse, and my dad had the other. Mr. Buchanan had her father and Mrs. Buchanan, her mother. Baby Lily was wrapped up inside Mrs. Patterson’s coat with an extra blanket around them. I, of course, had Andrea. (Dad had suggested Blake take Andrea, which about set my blood boiling. I had no idea I would feel jealous so easily! Anyways, I cleared my throat, saying I wanted to take my best friend. I tried not to meet Blake’s eyes. I didn’t want him to know I was jealous. Thankfully, my dad agreed with my suggestion.)

  With all the extra weight, we were moving slowly. You can only push a horse so much. Dad had considered letting the horses rest overnight but there was no shelter for them, and we hadn’t brought enough food anyway.

  We were passing a street of stately homes, large edifices that shouted wealth, trotting lightly, when we all heard it: A single, sudden crack! It was so loud it felt like an explosion had gone off. I couldn’t tell which direction it came from, or where it had gone.

  The horses startled, rocking us precariously for a few seconds though I don’t think any of them actually bucked. I heard Blake saying, “Whoaaaaaa!”

  Promised Land came to a complete stop. Blake and I drew up beside his mother, while I sent a questioning look at my dad. Was this an attack?

  A voice rang out: “Give us a horse and we won’t shoot again!” I didn’t see the speaker but I could now tell the voice had come from a huge home to our right. It WAS an attack!

  My dad had instructed us to gallop away from danger if it was at all possible. He said the likelihood of someone hitting a moving target was low.

  “RUN!” He cried, now. We shouted and spurred our horses to get moving. More shots rang out. Somebody was actually shooting at us! I broke into a cold sweat and started praying beneath my breath. I heard a shriek, and my heart went into my throat. It felt like I’d swallowed it. Had Mrs. Buchanan been shot? Or Mrs. Patterson?

  We kept moving, the horses struggling to gallop beneath their loads. The shots grew fainter. We covered about half a mile. Andrea was huddled in front of me as if trying to make herself smaller. My heart pounded loudly in my ears. I hoped everything was okay but I heard shouts from another rider. It was Blake. A stab of fear cut through me.

  When I slowed Rhema and turned her around, Blake had gone up to his dad’s horse, which had stopped. Blake moved aside. We saw instantly that Mr. Patterson, still seated in front of Mr. Buchanan, was unconscious. His head, bleeding heavily, hung down, and he wasn’t holding on anymore. Only Mr. Buchanan’s arms were keeping him up there, and I could see it must have been difficult to guide the reins while supporting the man.

  Mrs. Patterson cried, “No! Is he all right? Is my husband all right?”

  My dad went over and dismounted, giving his reins to Blake while he examined Mr. Patterson. Mr. Buchanan was already shaking his head in the negative. After checking for a pulse, the look on his face told me—It told all of us—that something awful had happened.

  I didn’t think he could have died. People can’t just die instantly like that. Or so I thought. But Blake dismounted, handed me th
e reins to both the horses, and helped my dad lift the limp body and put him face down across the horse’s back. My dad unbuttoned his coat and removed his scarf. He wrapped it around the dead man’s head, I guess to stop the runoff of blood. The twins looked frightened and confused.

  “Is my daddy hurt?” one of them asked. I think it was Aiden.

  Mrs. Patterson had stared in shock while they moved her husband. She started sobbing. “Oh, no, no, no, Oh, God, no! Help me down,” she said, and started writhing from her seat.

  Mrs. Buchanan said, “I’m sorry, there’s no time. We need to get home, first.” Her voice left no room for objections. I knew she was soft-hearted; being firm at this moment must have cost her some difficulty, but she knew we needed to be safe. She spurred her horse to start off and we followed. Andrea was crying. I couldn’t hear it but I could feel her body shaking between my arms, stretched around her to hold the reins.

  “I’m so sorry,” I muttered, miserably. “I’m so sorry.” Inside, I knew it was my fault. I was the one who insisted on making this ride. I thought the Pattersons would be safer at our house.

  So much for being safer.

  LATER

  I had a hollow, dull ache in the pit of my stomach for the rest of the ride home. It made my sore rear end seem like nothing, my aching leg muscles a trifle. Everything felt unreal—or is it surreal? A part of me was unable to grasp that Andrea’s father lay across Mr. Buchanan’s horse, dead. Another part of me was sickeningly aware. I was scared the rest of the way, constantly looking around for other people who might be a threat. We stopped occasionally—briefly—so my dad could consult the topographical map. He kept us away from houses as much as possible. It made the ride even longer.

  It grew colder after sunset. We moved slowly in the dark, a silent, somber train, and I was numb in my hands and feet by the time we got back. To our joy, my mother had a waiting pot of stew, and cornbread, and most of us ate as though we were famished. The Pattersons were unable to consume much—either from grief, or because they’d eaten a huge lunch. Their stomachs weren’t used to large amounts.