The Pulse Effex Series: Box Set

by L. R. Burkard

  The atmosphere should have been joyful after a rescue, but was instead grave. Mrs. Patterson stopped crying. But she looked like she was in a trance. Going through motions with no feelings evident. Mom and Mrs. Buchanan helped her wash off her husband’s bloody head and prepare him for burial. I don’t know what they did exactly, as we were shooed from the room. Mrs. Preston was silent, her sympathy showing in her eyes which followed Mrs. Patterson sadly. I think she identified with her, being a widow herself.

  Andrea and I went upstairs, sitting far from the little ones (despite heavy protests and efforts to join us). We hugged and cried. This time there was no embarrassment. I was sorry, I said, for coming for them. If we hadn’t come, her father would still be alive. But Andrea shook her head.

  “It’s not your fault. If anything, it’s mine.”

  “Yours? How?”

  “My dad was getting ready to ….” Here, she pursed her lips in an effort not to cry. “To..to sell me to a man at the end of our street!” She kept her voice low on account of the children. “I would rather die than go there, so you see I needed you to come.”

  “Your dad wanted to…to SELL you?” I whispered fiercely, hardly able to believe what I’d heard.

  She looked away, her face wet with tears. She proceeded to tell me about the creepy guy at the end of the street and how he had food—for a price. She told me that just last night her father had told her privately they were out of time, the family was starving. She needed to understand there was no choice in the matter; she would have to do whatever it took for the preservation of her family.

  “He didn’t say, I’m going to sell you, but that’s what he meant.” She looked up at me to see if I understood. “Thank you, Lexie, for coming. You saved me from that! What happened to my dad wasn’t your fault. I think I wished him dead!” She burst into sobs. Aiden came over sleepily and climbed into her lap. She cuddled him.

  I put my hand on her arm. “Andrea, your wishing him dead didn’t make it happen.”

  She looked at me, blinking back tears. “How do you know? How do you know it wasn’t bad karma or something?”

  I thought frantically for what to say. See, there’s no karma in the world—or anything, for that matter—that is more powerful than the sovereignty of Almighty God. But how could I explain that to her in a way she’d understand?

  “Since your dad died, then you need to understand it was his time to die.”

  She looked at me hopefully.

  “How do you know that? How can you be sure?”

  I swallowed. I’d been feeling guilty myself because of her father’s death. I realized at that moment it was not for me to feel guilty. GOD had allowed it to happen. We’ll never know why, but he had. Unless I was the one who pulled the trigger of the gun that shot him, there was no responsibility for me to bear.

  “Because the Bible says even a sparrow doesn’t fall to the ground without the Father’s will. We may never understand why, but it was his time.”

  Andrea mulled that over for a minute. “How do you know the Bible is true?”

  I hesitated. This was a legitimate question and worthy of discussion. “There are lots of reasons why I personally believe it’s true,” I said, “but if you want to know why many of the greatest minds in history have accepted it as truth, then you should study books on it. It’s wise to question anything you believe. But Scripture has an amazing history—it really is a miraculous book.”

  Andrea just looked at me questioningly, so I added, “The Bible is the only book in the world that has given predictions of future events—hundreds of years before they happened—which were fulfilled exactly. I mean, prophesies with explicit details. It’s a human impossibility to make such predictions that come true!” She nodded thoughtfully, so I went on. “Most of the predictions about Jesus were made 700 years before he was born, like his name, birthplace, triumphal entry, the way he would die, even his burial—they were all foretold with precise detail. And Jesus fulfilled over 300 prophecies! The odds of that happening are so astronomical they’re not even considered odds. “

  “I didn’t know that,” she said. My mind was still spinning, thinking of stuff I’d learned long ago, reasons for believing that were now just a part of me, no longer something I had to weigh or consider: I said, “Archaeology supports the Bible, and there’s no other book from any religion that can offer you reasons for our existence, reasons for what is wrong with the world, and what will happen to us after we die. There’s no other book like it,” I repeated, “because it’s the Word of God. If you did believe that God wrote a book, wouldn’t you want to read it?”

  She nodded.

  I had a thought. Why not give Andrea a copy of the Bible? We always kept extras on hand just for the purpose of giving them away. “I’ll be right back,” I said. But I picked up my Bible, bound in dusty pink leather and full of notes I’d scribbled during Bible study time or devotions. I handed it to her. “We have extra Bibles so I’ll get you one you can keep, but you can take a look at mine until I get back.” I handed it to her so that it was open at the book of Matthew, a good place for a newbie to start, I thought.

  I went to my dad’s study and found a brand new copy of the Bible. It wasn’t as pretty as mine, didn’t have the dusty pink leather, but it would do. Then I went and sat in front of the bookshelves in my room. I had a few I thought might help Andrea. Mere Christianity, by C.S.Lewis, The Case for Christ: A Journalist’s Personal Investigation of the Evidence for Jesus, by Lee Strobel, and The Sovereignty of God, by Arthur W. Pink. Of all three, I liked Mere Christianity best, so I’d suggest she start with that one.

  When I gave them to Andrea, I said, “Take your time reading these. And feel free to ask questions. Between my dad and our Bible study group, I’m sure we’ll have someone who can answer them, or a book that can.”

  “Are you still having Bible study with other people?” she asked, surprised.

  I nodded. “Yeah, Just those of us who have transportation. Horses.”

  “Wow, it’s like life is normal here,” she said, darkly.

  I chuckled. “You might not think so once you start helping with chores. We have a ton of work to do every day.”

  Andrea nodded, undaunted. She took each book in her free hand and looked it over briefly. Aiden slept soundly. She still looked crestfallen, which was certainly understandable. I tried to think of something helpful to say but came up blank.

  “I guess my dad’s in a better place,” she said, finally. Her tone was closer to a question than a statement, but I couldn’t confirm that hope. I didn’t reply. I didn’t want to say how his spirit could be facing an eternity apart from God and heaven—that would be like pouring vinegar in a wound. I wasn’t sure of Mr. Patterson’s beliefs and whether he’d ever opened his heart to the Lord, so I said nothing.

  “C’mon,” I said, “Let’s find Blake and get something to eat and then get some sleep.”

  “Wow, we can get something to eat!” I stood up smiling, and helped her carry Aiden back to the sleeping bag he was using for now.

  This was what I’d had in mind when I asked my dad to get her and her family. Feeding them. Keeping them warm.

  It was past midnight and we were all exhausted, but no one questioned me when I got our biggest and heaviest cast iron skillet and made popcorn over the woodstove. I used a whole cup of popcorn. One cup of kernels makes a huge bucket of popcorn, and if I’d put any thought into it I would have chosen a stock pot to hold it all. But Blake and Andrea held bowls to the sides of the skillet and chuckled as they caught the kernels as they popped out once the pan had filled to its limit. Some spilled out on the floor but my mother didn’t even scold me. We seasoned it with garlic salt and butter. Even Mrs. Patterson, looking sadly distraught, ate a bowlful. Andrea couldn’t get enough butter on hers.

  “I thought butter didn’t exist anymore,” she said. We laughed, including Blake.

  “As long as cows or goats exist, we’ll have butter,” Dad
said.

  She shrugged, and then chuckled. “I guess.”

  The Buchanans were staying the night after all that riding. Our safe room became their guest room. Upstairs, the little ones slept while Andrea and I continued talking. We talked a long time, making up for the twelve weeks we’d been out of contact, and sharing stories of how we’d lived since the grid went down. It’s wonderful having Andrea here. (If only her dad hadn’t had to die for it to happen. Sigh.)

  Before we fell asleep she said, “Remember what you said about Sarah?”

  Earlier, we’d discussed Sarah and wondered how she and her family were doing. I had rashly stated maybe we could help them too.

  “Well,” said Andrea. “I think you’d better see what your dad thinks before you go planning any more rescues.”

  “I know,” I said. “I will.”

  I started praying for Sarah but fell asleep before I’d gotten too far. I didn’t even update my journal with all this until today. Anyway, when I mentioned Sarah to my dad this morning, he shook his head firmly. I know that look. I wasn’t surprised, especially considering Mr. Patterson’s fate.

  “No way, honey. We put all our lives in danger yesterday. You realize it could have been you or me or one of the Buchanans? It could have been a few of us or all of us. We can’t take that risk again.”

  “Dad, what are we supposed to do, just hole up at home for the rest of our lives?” I hated the thought.

  He paused. He’d been stacking wood in the holder next to the stove. “Sooner or later there will be restoration. The government even now is working to get back up and running, believe me. We have military bases around the globe that weren’t affected. That means that even while we speak, there are forces that have power. They can bring the needed equipment to start the rebuilding. It may take years, I don’t know, but it won’t take your whole lifetime.” He pulled off his heavy-duty work gloves and tousled my hair. He used to do that a lot when I was little, and I still liked it.

  “Okay, Dad.”

  I’m still worried about Sarah, though. So is Andrea.

  The Buchanans planned on leaving after breakfast but they sat around sipping coffee and talking with my folks a little longer. Andrea, Blake and I listened in. Mr. Buchanan said sobering things, such as while the country is “down,” he wouldn’t be surprised if an enemy took the opportunity to come in and try to take over. Most people, such as in big cities (if they survived this far) would be at the mercy of an invader he said, because they aren’t armed. A large number of Americans are outlawed against that privilege. Liberal politicians, my dad said, always attack the citizens’ right to keep arms—and helplessness was the result.

  “Liberals say it’s safer if you outlaw guns, which is absurd, because when you do that then ONLY criminals have them. Criminals don’t care if it’s against the law to own a gun—they get them underground. Only law-abiding, good citizens lack a gun when they might need it due to these stupid laws. A free people is an armed people.” The others nodded in agreement.

  I enjoyed how Dad got passionate when he got on this topic. He’d always told me guns are the great equalizers—especially for women. A woman with a gun can defend herself from even the strongest attacker. That’s why he had me learning gun safety since I was about seven years old.

  The talk moved on to things at hand, such as burying Mr. Patterson. The Buchanans needed to get back to their own home but agreed to let Blake stay on to help with the digging. Before they’d gone, my dad had disappeared for awhile. He came in now carrying two bags, which he gave Mr. Buchanan.

  “This’ll keep until you get home and cook it or dry it or whatever you’re gonna do.”

  “What is it?” Blake asked.

  Mrs. Buchanan answered smiling, “It’s meat.”

  “Pet food,” quipped Mr. Buchanan.

  Meat? Pet food? It was rabbit!

  His wife elbowed him in the ribs affectionately. “Don’t say that! They’re not pets.”

  When Mr. Buchanan was in a good mood, he was a big joker.

  Dad had butchered a kit of rabbits. I found out later it was part of the bargain he’d made, sort of a payment for helping us get the Pattersons. He did that for my sake. You can see why I love my dad.

  The men got started outside digging the grave. Andrea and I took the baby upstairs to the bedroom. My little sisters were already there, and then Andrea’s brothers came up and all of us had fun talking to the baby. We were delighted each time she made the smallest sound in reply. Justin is a cute toddler, but Lily is an infant—they’re like two different animals!

  I was glad Aiden and Quentin could be distracted from their grief, even if just for a few minutes.

  Watching the kids, I got thoughtful. I always assumed I’d get married after college and have a family. I’d have a baby just like Lily. I thought of Blake—would I someday have a baby with Blake? There was no going to college for now, but Blake was still Blake. Available. My eyes wandered to Andrea and I felt a sudden stab of worry. Andrea flirted with any guy around. So far, I hadn’t seen her flirting with Blake. I hoped it stayed that way. I hoped she would continue to feel shy around him. What if he decided to like Andrea more than me? She’s prettier, for sure.

  Suddenly it occurred to me that Mr. Patterson had lost his life only yesterday and here I was, worrying over who was prettier, me or Andrea.

  I’m a stupid, selfish jerk sometimes.

  Mrs. Patterson picked out the spot on our property to bury her husband. In summer, it’s a hilltop shady oasis, with a majestic oak standing tall and erect like a sentinel. I like to ride Rhema up there, then dismount and relax with my back against the tree, daydreaming while I look out at the countryside. When the fields are covered in soy it looks like an endless, undulating sea of green—only the occasional car crossing your line of vision far away reminds you there are roads crisscrossing the countryside. When the corn is tall, you can’t see them at all. Those are summer visions.

  Last summer feels like a world away.

  Right now the ground up there, just like everywhere, is cold and hard. It took Blake and my dad two hours to dig about four feet down, which Dad says is deep enough to keep animals from digging up the body.

  Will I still sit up by that tree in nice weather? I doubt it.

  With the grave dug, Blake and my dad carried Mr. Patterson out to the cart and the rest of us walked together behind the lumbering cart up the hill. Mr. Patterson was wrapped in sheets and then a blanket. The men lowered him gently into the ground. All the Pattersons were crying.

  I cried, too. I felt miserable and couldn’t wait for it to be over. Dad read Scripture; I remember one in particular: “The dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it.” That’s from Ecclesiastes 12:7.

  We each took a turn shoveling dirt over the grave. I had just finished my turn when my dad said, “Everyone, quiet, please.”

  We stood listening. I heard nothing. Looking around at the countryside, it looked bare and sad. Winter’s mark was still everywhere, from the hard soil to the empty, brown fields surrounding our property.

  “Look!” Dad was pointing down towards the road frontage of the farm. Since the trees were still bare there was little cover despite the thick stand of trees and brush that in summer and fall acts like a privacy fence between us and the road. We saw a group of people turning into our property. Most were entering right through the brushy area, with a few on the actual driveway. At the same time, a few emerged from the brush, already coming out to the grassy pasture between it and the house.

  “What on earth…?” said my mother.

  “C’mon,” said Dad. He waved us to follow him. “Lex, load everyone onto the cart. I don’t want anyone outside until I know who these people are and what they want.”

  “What about my husband?” said Mrs. Patterson, through a tear-streaked face. She pointed at the grave, still open.

  “I don’t like it any more than you do, but we have to
see to our safety before anything else,” said Dad. “I promise you, as soon as I know it’s safe, Blake and I will come back and secure the grave. Most animals don’t go roaming until nightfall, if that helps any.”

  She sniffed. “I’ll stay and finish,” she said, in a low voice.

  My mom and dad exchanged glances. “I’m sorry, I can’t let you do that,” Dad said.

  “What?” She seemed shocked. My mother took her arm, motioning at me to come and get Lily, whom she held in the crook of her other arm. I got the baby but Andrea took her from me. I think she feels proud of how well she handles her baby sister. Anyways, we hurried to climb into the cart. Mom somehow got Mrs. Patterson to come along. Dad barely waited for us to get settled on the straw before snapping the reins. We took off with a jolt. As we went downhill we lost sight of the approaching group.

  I felt no sense of danger. My father was being his usual overly cautious self, I was sure.

  “Who do you think they are?” I asked Blake, who had settled between me and Andrea. He took a breath, thinking.

  “Marauders.”

  “Really?”

  He shook his head. “Remember how we lost chickens to thieves? Our root cellar was raided, too. These might be the people responsible. They go around looking for anything they can use—or eat, actually, and they’re not looking to buy the stuff.”

  I felt my first sense of alarm. “But it’s broad daylight,” I said. “Wouldn’t they wait for nightfall?”

  “Why wait, when they’ve got that many people on their side?” he asked.

  When we reached the house, Dad was issuing orders before we got inside. To my mother: “Hon, unlock the gun cabinets and bring up our stuff. Blake, go with my wife. Wait—take a radio and try to reach your folks. If they’re not past five miles out we may be able to reach them. We’re gonna need all the help we can get.” Our walkie-talkies had a five mile range, and I prayed his parents were within it.