The Pulse Effex Series: Box Set

by L. R. Burkard

  Jared gazed at her, unconvinced. “Only ruthless people are still alive.”

  “You don’t know that,” my mother insisted, in her soft, southern twang. “We’re still alive. We have not lost our humanity or compassion. If you can’t live with that, Jared, you’d best pack up and go.” Those were awesome words coming from my mother! Jared said nothing, but I don’t doubt he would shoot on sight.

  The conversation turned to talk about those survivors. How many were there? My dad said roughly three million households in the U.S. were like us, prepared for a disaster, and some even ready to face life comfortably without electricity. I thought three million prepared households sounded like a lot—until Blake added that 3 million prepared meant 350 million weren’t.

  Blake perked up at this point because he’s a numbers guy. He said that of the 350 million who weren’t prepared, 71% were already casualties. (I don’t know how Blake arrives at his figures. I mean, why not 75%, right? But he said 71%, which means he used a calculation to reach that figure. So we believed him.)

  “That means roughly 270 million people have died,” he said. I started blinking hard to get rid of tears that surprised me by wanting to surface just then. 270 million! Could it be true? God forbid! I can hardly wrap my mind around that.

  “That makes the EMP the deadliest thing to hit mankind since Noah’s flood,” Blake continued. “Unless people have received help we don’t know about, in all of history, no plague, pestilence, war, or natural disaster has killed as many people, except the Flood—because it was global.”

  Jared actually snorted. “I’m sure there were less people alive at the time of the Flood.”

  That was precisely the wrong thing to say to Blake. I happen to know he’s studied that very thing, the world population at the time of the Flood. Sure enough, Blake said, “That’s a common myth. Based on numerical values in Genesis, including lifespan, lengths of generations, and childbearing ages, (remember, people lived up to 900 years before the Flood), the numbers are closer to a world population of anywhere from 7-10 billion.” Jared didn’t reply, just stared blankly, so Blake went on, “Anyway, this means about 80 million people who are alive right now are struggling to survive. Some of them are number twos or threes, but some of them are going to be number fours.”

  “80 million people!” My mom cried, softly. “Thank the Lord for survivors! But now you need to tell us how many of them are gonna come by our neck of the woods.”

  Blake answered with a sad smile. “That would be impossible to know. Although I could—”

  “Never mind, son,” my dad said.

  “Some of them will go into government camps,” a newer member of our compound, Mr. Philpot, said. He was grey-haired and probably around my dad’s age.

  “I haven’t heard of any sightings of such camps,” said dad. “Some speculation, but that’s it.”

  “We saw one.” An immediate hush fell over the room. Mr. Philpot and his wife had come to us on bicycles carrying heavy packs, both on the bikes and their backs. Mrs. Philpot is the nurse I mentioned earlier. (As soon as we learned her profession, she and her husband were shoe-ins to the compound.) They proceeded to describe a camp surrounded by barbed wire fencing. They’d witnessed a military open-backed truck bringing in a load of people. Mr. Philpot said it looked like they’d been herded up like cattle.

  “Did you see a sign? Did it say it was a FEMA camp?”

  They looked at each other, thinking. “Not sure,” said Mr. Philpot.

  “If it’s not FEMA, who would it be?” asked young Mrs. Wasserman. “A relief organization?”

  “Relief organizations don’t get military trucks and soldiers,” said Jared.

  “So it could be terrorists, or any enemy of our country,” said my dad.

  “Meaning, it’s either a refugee camp—” said Jared, and then he smirked. “Or a prison camp. Maybe it’s both.” I think we all felt a chill at his words.

  I piped up. “Yeah; otherwise what’s with the barbed wire? Are they worried about people trying to get in—or out?”

  Blake nodded at me. “Yeah.”

  “Hopefully, they’ll round up the loose cannons—the number fours,” Jared interjected. “Every four they round up is one less we’ll have to deal with.”

  “But you don’t know they forced those people to go, right?” Mrs. Buchanan asked the Philpots.

  “We don’t know for sure,” Mrs. Philpot said, while her husband nodded his agreement. “But they didn’t look happy. We stayed out of sight until they closed the gate.”

  “Did you see the people driving the truck?” asked Mr. Buchanan. “Did they look like U.S. soldiers?”

  Mrs. Philpot frowned. “They were military; wore green fatigues. We couldn’t tell what country.”

  Later I thought about those camps. Many people wouldn’t survive another winter without them, so I guess they have their place.

  I told that to my dad and he said, “Sure they have a place, for people who need them. Our fear is that they won’t be as tolerant of us as we are of them. No one knows if our freedom to live on our own has been lost.”

  The idea of losing our freedom makes me angry. I think back to when everything still worked: Why didn’t the government warn people to prepare? They even called people like us (preppers and Conservatives) a threat to society! And yet those who didn’t prepare are now the threat—or an excuse for the government to force us into camps! My dad says bad governments purposely make people helpless and dependent. It gives them justification to run their lives and control everything.

  Chapter 12

  ANDREA

  Horrible day. Every time I saw my mom near that man, Mr. Washington, I tried to work my way over to them so I could hear what they were talking about. I am INSANELY upset about the way she flirts with him. I just know she wants a relationship with this guy and I am determined to be a monkey wrench.

  My dad was not Mr. Wonderful, I’ll be the first to admit that; but she has no right to get serious with another man, no matter how bad my father was! He’s only been gone a few months! I once read that in the old days they used to have set periods for how long a widow should grieve and wear black. I wish we had a set period for grieving. You would hardly know my mother has lost her husband, judging by how she acts. It makes me sick!

  The other day she got really mad at me and told me to lay off. I had sidled over to where they were even though I was supposed to be with the children at the play area. (I could still see them.) Mr. Washington was leveling a place for a small cabin for him and Evangeline. So, I saw my mother talking and laughing with him, and my blood started to boil. I couldn’t stand it. So I went over and just stood there. I was letting my mother know, I AM SEEING THIS. I AM NOT OBLIVIOUS TO WHAT YOU’RE DOING.

  Later I saw her in the kitchen. “Stop spying on me,” she said.

  “I’m not spying.”

  “I’m not blind, Andrea! What are you trying to do, anyway? Mr. Washington jokes that you’re my mother, instead of the other way around.”

  “Oh, he would!” I said, bitterly.

  “What does that mean?”

  I stared at her. “It means I don’t like him, and you’re too friendly with him.”

  “Too friendly? How can someone be too friendly?”

  I heard Lexie calling me then; it was time for our riding lesson. “I think you know what I mean!” I glared at my mom and left. Just being friendly, really! Friendly enough to make him my step-father, I bet!

  So I was in the kitchen this afternoon, and Washington came in for a cup of water. Everyone’s allowed two cups a day from the filter here at the house if they’re helping with the building; after that, they have to boil their own water or use their own filters. I felt like telling him he’d already used up his quota, though I really had no idea. He smiled at me—a big smile. (Now that he knows I’m Tiffany’s daughter, he is extra friendly to me.) Happily, I had just picked up baby Lily so I showed her off to him, emphasizing how young she i
s. The message, in case he’s an idiot, is that my mom has just had ANOTHER MAN’S BABY.

  I want to say, “Wake up! She’s not really available like she pretends to be. Can’t you see you’re wasting your time?” That’s what I want to scream at him, but sadly I don’t think he is wasting his time. I just wish he was. I wish my mom could at least pretend she loved my father. I used to think my dad was pretty awful, but when I see how violent people are now because they’re hungry—well, my dad might have considered selling me to that creepy Mr. Herman, but at least I know he wouldn’t have killed anyone to feed us. He got desperate, but it didn’t make him a murderer. So I wish my mother could act like we had a real family. I’m embarrassed by her behavior. She may as well announce that our family was a sham.

  Tonight every time I looked at her, we exchanged angry looks. If she’s really only friends with Washington, why is she angry? I’m not stupid! It’s easy to see she’s guilty and she knows it.

  Tomorrow I have kitchen duty and I bet I’ll have to bring water out to the workmen. That includes Washington. I’m not going to fill his water bottle all the way. It sounds petty but I really resent that man. He’ll probably give me one of his stupid, big smiles, too. I will not smile in return. Lexie says I have a wicked “evil eye” at times. That is what Washington will get from me.

  Lexie will have childcare tomorrow and Jared, I believe, is going out on a reconnaissance mission with Blake and a few other men. They want to find out what’s burning and, as always, hunt out more fuel. Just once I would like to go with them. I am so tired of this compound! If I close my eyes, I can pretend to be at a mall shopping, having fun. Sometimes I picture myself at school, with friends in the cafeteria—even sitting at a desk during math class—which I used to hate. I’d give anything to have one normal day of school again. My old life. Our house and my own bedroom! Even my dad. I think I’d be kinder to Dad now than I used to be. He was grumpy and preoccupied a lot, but he wasn’t a bad man, not at heart. I wish I could have seen that.

  Got to stop here. If I go on like this, I’ll be an emotional wreck. Mrs. Martin says we should use our imaginations to picture a bright future—I don’t seem able to do that.

  When I went to give out water, my mom was actually working with Washington—she was helping lift logs, of all things, when I came around. She saw I refused to smile back at him and asked me about it later. That’s how it started. That’s all it was. And now it’s turned into one of the worst days of my life.

  “Why can’t you be civil to Mr. Washington?” she asked, finding me in the kitchen doing cleanup after the children’s snack time. I didn’t even look up.

  “Because I don’t like him.”

  “Why not?” She waited for an answer, but there was nothing I wanted to say.

  “Why not, Andrea? Because he’s my friend? Is it so terrible if I have a friend?”

  I looked at her. I have to say, my mom looked good. She was never big on makeup so not wearing any didn’t detract from her fine-featured prettiness. And the extra work seems to have agreed with her. She looked healthy and yes, easily able to attract a man.

  “Is he really just a friend, Mom?” I knew my voice was laced with bitterness.

  She stared at me a moment, the color rising in her face. “First of all, he is just a friend. Secondly, if he wasn’t, it’s none of your business. Thirdly--”

  “None of my business? You’re my mother! Of course it’s my business!”

  “Don’t raise your voice to me, young lady!”

  “Then don’t talk to me about Mr. Washington. It seems to me if you had any respect for Dad you wouldn’t be so friendly with him. Or any man.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “This has nothing to do with your father!”

  I turned on her. “Yeah, Mom—that’s just it! Why doesn’t it have anything to do with him? Why don’t you have the decency to wait longer before getting cozy with some guy?” I felt bad as soon as the words left my mouth but I’d said them and I couldn’t take them back. My mother was glowering at me.

  In a way, I was glad I’d said them. It was the truth. She ought to have been—she ought to have been MOURNING.

  She took a deep breath. “You know your father and I were not on good terms, not for a long time.”

  “You were on good enough terms to wait longer before starting a new relationship! You were married!”

  “Our marriage was struggling for a long time, you know that,” she said, anger causing her voice to shake.

  “Yeah—but you were still married. And you got along good enough to have Lily!” That, I felt, was my trump card. My baby sister. She was evidence the marriage hadn’t gone totally to the dogs, that there had been recent intimacy, enough to have a child. I planned on showing Lily to Mr. Washington whenever possible, making sure I’d emphasize she was only six and a half months old. She was indisputable proof that my parents had loved each other, at least some of the time.

  What my mother said next devastated me. I never saw it coming, never had the least suspicion.

  “I’m glad you brought that up,” my mom said, not sounding glad in the least. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Lily is not your father’s child.” She opened her mouth to say more but shut it, waiting. I stared at her in shock.

  She nodded. “She’s your half-sister.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Andrea! Why would I make that up? Think about it! She’s the only person in the family with blonde hair and blue eyes! Your father and I were not on good terms since the twins were born!”

  I stared at her, feeling such rage it scared me. For a minute I didn’t know what to do or say, but inside I was reeling. I guess it wasn’t that big a deal, I don’t know, but it felt like a big deal. I felt like something inside me died.

  “Who’s the father?” My voice was low, controlled, but inside I wanted to scream and lose my temper. And I hated my mother at that moment.

  “Lars.”

  I gripped the edge of the sink. “Your trainer? That is pathetic!” I wanted to say, YOU are pathetic!

  “No wonder you weren’t on good terms! You were an awful wife!” I stormed off. I was so mad I could hardly see where I was going but I headed upstairs, hoping I might find the bedroom empty. Lexie and I both sometimes brought the kids up there because children need diversity. Going outside is risky, so we try to move around the house with them. Lexie was just leading the kids out of our room and she nearly bumped into me. She carried Lily, and had the other kids in tow. She looked like a day care teacher.

  “Hey,” she said.

  I couldn’t talk yet but I stared at Lily. She wasn’t my father’s child! She was only my half-sister! Suddenly the miracle of her amazingly blond hair wasn’t a miracle—it was a sad travesty. It was blond because of LARS!

  “You okay?” Lexie could always read my face. Neither of us was much good at hiding our emotions.

  “No. I’ll tell you later.” But I wasn’t sure if I would ever talk about it. I was ashamed of my mother.

  “Okay.” She hesitated, studying me. “You sure?”

  I nodded. Lily reached out her little arms for me, whimpering, so Lexie handed her over. As I took her, a couple of tears escaped and ran down my face.

  “What happened?” Lexie’s whispered question sounded so caring, it weakened my resolve not to talk. I wished I could tell her what I’d just learned but with both sets of twins there, I didn’t dare. Both our family and the Martins have twins, which is actually how Lexie and I became friends—at a Twins’ Club meeting that our moms had dragged us to. When we recognized each other from school, even though we never talked at school, we became friends at that meeting. It was a God-thing, as Mr. Martin would say.

  Aiden held up a Lego car he’d built. “Look, Andi! Like my car?” His little face beamed with pride, but seeing my expression, his eyes widened. “Whats’a matter, Andi?”

  I brushed away tears. “Nothing. I’m okay.”

  “Is it your
turn to watch us?” asked Laura, looking up at me wide-eyed.

  Lexie said, “If you want to switch, I’ll take over kitchen and you can sit with the kids.”

  Babysitting seemed more appealing to me than doing anything near my mother, who was also assigned to kitchen, so I nodded.

  Laura exclaimed, “Yay! Lexie wouldn’t play with us today, because she was holding the baby. Will you play with us?”

  “Sure.” This elicited cheers from all the kids. Lainie patted my arm. “It’s okay,” she said, her little eyes filled with compassion. “We’ll play whatever game you want, and you’ll get happier.” She smiled up at me, revealing a missing front tooth. For the girls, getting to choose the game of the moment was the ultimate honor. I smiled and thanked her.

  It actually amazes me how little the children are suffering from the effects of the EMP. So long as they have toys to play with, games, and each other—and of course food and shelter, they seem happy as pie. They haven’t been required to do much work yet, but I’m guessing that’s gonna change. We’ve already talked about having them feed the chickens, gather eggs, and maybe even fill water troughs.

  I led the kids downstairs to the basement. Mr. Martin had put the gun vaults into the safe room so now a large section of the basement is a playroom. As more families have joined us, we needed a place for the kids that was safe and wouldn’t interfere with anyone’s work.

  On the way down I couldn’t stop staring at the baby. At first I thought she looked different, but I couldn’t place how, exactly. Then I realized it wasn’t Lily who has changed—it’s me. Now that I know she’s my half-sister, I can’t see her the same way I used to. I could tell already it won’t change the way I feel about her—I’ll always love her—but it sure has changed what I see when I look at her.

  “Andrea, can we play in the safe room today?”

  An instant chorus went up, of “Please, can we! Pleeeeeasse??”

  We didn’t use the safe room often because it was supposed to be kept ready for an emergency, such as an attack; but there are toys and games in there that the kids can ONLY use when they’re in it. That’s what they really wanted—access to those toys. I started to say no, but I thought of how much easier the kids are to watch when they’re happily occupied. They’d leave me to my thoughts if they were busy. So I agreed. I wanted time to think about things—digest what I’d learned. I was feeling all mixed up.