I never appreciated, back then, how much of a privilege it was to live in the United States. We had it so easy! We just didn’t know it. If this country ever recovers, I will never forget.
The other thing I worry about is whether Blake and I will ever get married. I don’t mean I’m worried about whether he’ll ask me to marry him. I know Blake—in good time, he will, I’m sure of it. But even if he does, how can we think about marriage and children when we’re either fighting or training for war every day? When new members come and tell us horrific stories of things they’ve seen and witnessed before joining us? Stories of arson, rape, murder—you name it. It chills me to the heart.
Like David in the Psalms, I cry, How long, O Lord? How long will you forget your people?”
And then I remember we haven’t been forgotten. We are in a time of judgment. Life is hard.
But we’re still here. We are the remnant.
Chapter 31
ANDREA
Mrs. Martin came to me while I was lugging in water to the kitchen from the pump. “Have you seen your mother today?”
“She’s usually outside by the builders helping WASHINGTON.” I was unable to keep the derision from my voice.
Mrs. Martin gave me a careful look. “Well, he’s missing, too. Remember they went somewhere together yesterday? I didn’t see when they got back; we got so caught up with what happened to your brother—” she stopped suddenly as if having a very bad thought.
“What is it?” A flash of worry went through me. “You do think they came back, right?”
She took a breath, measuring her words, it seemed to me. “I’m sure they did. I’ll keep looking.” She turned to go but stopped and looked back at me. “Did she say anything about wanting to go somewhere? If you remember anything, let us know.”
As soon as she asked—did I remember anything—I did. “Actually, I have an idea. Mom has complained about not having more clothing. She wanted other stuff she had to leave at home when we came here, too. You don’t think—they wouldn’t have gone back to the house, right?”
Mrs. Martin’s face dropped. “Oh, I hope not. I hope they would know better than to risk a long trek just for clothing. But they did take horses—including Rhema.”
My heart sank. “They took Rhema?” Now I was really angry at my mother! Yesterday Lexie had accused me of stealing storage buckets, and just now I’d seen her leaving the house with Blake and tried to talk to her, but she wanted nothing to do with me. She must have known we Pattersons were responsible for taking her horse. No wonder she was still angry! My mom knew Lexie and I weren’t speaking, so taking her horse was a supremely thoughtless thing to do!
“Lexie knows, doesn’t she?”
“She visits that horse every day; she knows. She’s doing lookout duty today—”
“I thought so. I saw her with Blake in camo and face paint. I’m so glad Mr. Martin let her! That’s great! She’s always wanted to do that!”
She gave me a sideways look, nodding. “It’s just as well. It’ll keep her mind off her horse.” Then she frowned. “Clothing. Really? Why would your mother think it worth risking her safety—and that of our horses—to fetch clothing?”
“My mom was spoiled with stuff. She had a gigantic wardrobe. It was, like, her consolation prize for living with my dad. This has been hard for her,” I said, surprised to find myself defending her.
“I know it. It’s been hard for all of us.”
“I’m not excusing her,” I added quickly. “And maybe I’m wrong. I hope so. But we’re both sick of wearing the same few things over and over.”
Mrs. Martin frowned. “We could have rifled up some clothes from the other women who have joined our compound,” she said, in her soft southern accent. “I could even have given her a few more things. I sure hope that is NOT what they are doing. But maybe we’re getting all riled up for nothing; maybe they’re back already.”
In my mind I saw a picture of my mother’s closet, stuffed with designer clothes; and her jewelry box, which was in a safe, still holding a healthy amount of expensive baubles (since we’d only begun to trade her jewels for food with Mr. Herman). She’d want that jewelry for future possible bartering, I was sure. And suddenly I was just as sure that she’d found a sympathetic ear in Mr. Washington, and that he’d taken her back to the house. She’d complained more than I had about all her stuff back there and how we could really use it.
Mrs. Martin turned to go.
“Mrs. Martin?” She looked back at me.
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded but said, “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I do. I complained about all my great clothes back at the house and how I hated wearing the same few things over and over. She felt the same way. But I think my complaining egged her on. I’m really sorry.”
Mrs. Martin was thoughtful a moment. “We should have Mrs. Schuman working on keeping us all in good clothes. There’s plenty of fabric around—used fabric—but she’s a whiz with that old-fashioned sewing machine she brought, and could probably be re-fashioning things we’ve salvaged into good, usable clothing for our people.” She seemed struck by the thought. “We should have thought of this before now—using clothing from abandoned houses—before they’re all burned down! I sure wish your mama would have told us her plans.”
“I do, too.”
All day I was restless, unable to relax. I lived with the constant worry that my mom was not coming back. And I dreaded the moment when Lexie would confront me about Rhema being gone. I felt so depressed. My best friend wasn’t talking to me and now my mom was gone, probably in harm’s way. My chores felt doubly difficult as grim possibilities assailed me.
What if they never made it back? What if those rumors were true and they’d run into extremist Muslims? Or what if they’d been forced into a FEMA camp—if there really were FEMA camps? What if they’d run into a ruthless gang? What if! What if!
Aiden had played contentedly after his fiasco with the looter, but at bedtime he’d wanted my mother. I’d assured him I would get her, but I could tell he was already on the verge of sleep, exhausted. So I never even tried. I didn’t go looking for her because I was annoyed she’d gone off with Washington. Aiden fell asleep in a minute and I didn’t give it another thought. As I searched the house now and didn’t find her, I realized she’d never made it back.
Suddenly all the anger and resentment I’d been feeling towards my mother seemed like the most trivial, childish thing. What was wrong with me! So she’d had an affair—plenty of women did. I still didn’t approve of it, but surely I’d overreacted. And what did I care if she needed a friend like Mr. Washington? Only, maybe it was his fault they’d left the compound and possibly run into foul play! I was almost in tears. I tried to get hold of myself. You don’t know anything, yet. You’re just imagining the worst! But a part of me felt dismally sure that after losing my dad, I had now lost my mother.
I’d gone through the whole house and then Washington’s unfinished cabin when I saw Evangeline. She was heading towards the barn with the kids, who were being trained in rabbitry. I ran towards her. She was Washington’s daughter. Maybe she’d know where her father went with my mom. I’d just about reached her when suddenly Mrs. Martin stepped into my path, stopping me.
“Don’t go saying anything to frighten that girl. We don’t know where they are. Don’t jump to conclusions, and get her all worked up for nothing. Remember, she lost her mother after the pulse.” I nodded. I felt worse than ever, sure something awful must have happened to them, but Mrs. Martin was right. Evangeline was only eleven. I didn’t want to make her as messed up as I was about this.
“Mrs. Martin, can you ask the lookouts if they saw them leaving or coming back?”
She gave me an unreadable look. “I already have, sweetheart. They saw them leave, early yesterday, just after breakfast. No one saw them return.”
I swallowed. She touched my arm. “It doesn’t mean they didn’t. Things
do get by our lookouts, especially if they came back after dark.” She paused, and stroked the side of my face. Mrs. Martin was very motherly to me and I’d always appreciated it, never more than at that moment. “They could also be perfectly fine, on their way back right this minute.” She tried to give me a chin-up smile. “C’mon. Let’s pray over it.”
“If they are on their way back,” I said, thinking it over, “maybe she brought some of my clothes, too!”
Mrs. Martin smiled. “There you go. Think positive!”
But I felt horrible. What kind of daughter was I, thinking about clothes when my mother’s life could be in danger? Yet I couldn’t help it; the thought crept back in. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if they made it back with some of my stuff, like underwear and jeans? Lexie gave me two pairs of new underwear when I first arrived, but I have to wash them by hand every night. I’m really sick of having no new things. In a way, I can understand why my mom went, despite the danger. We left a houseful of stuff when we came here. It would be like Christmas to get some of it back!
As we headed to the house to pray, I felt better. Maybe it wasn’t so dangerous out there anymore. When we’d asked about getting some of our stuff in the past, Mr. Martin told us it was too risky to travel. But Blake used to come and go from the Buchanan’s house to here and he never got hurt. Blake says after the EMP people left cities in droves, but they fan out, looking for resources to survive. As they go, they deplete the resources in their path, but then keep going. It’s been almost five months now since the pulse, so shouldn’t looters have moved on to new areas, for new resources?
We saw Jared in the house, and asked if he’d seen my mom or Mr. Washington. He hadn’t. I asked him if he thought it was getting safer out there as I hoped.
Jared shook his head. “Not likely.”
“But haven’t all the looters in the area passed through by now?”
“From this area, maybe. But who knows where else they’re coming from?” He frowned. “Even though some go through and keep going, others come, not knowing everything’s already been depleted. And then we have those troops on the ground; and possible FEMA camps that aren’t voluntary. No, I wouldn’t say it’s any safer out there.” He must have seen my face drop, because he added, “The longer we survive, the smaller the marauding gangs will be. But the ones left will be the toughest—those strong enough and mean enough to get by at any cost.”
“So even though there may be fewer marauders out there, the ones left are the most worrisome?”
“That’s about the size of it,” he said, nodding.
I’d never had the chance to take him up on meeting at his cabin, and the way his eyes lingered upon me now brought his invitation to mind. I remembered it clearly. Why don’t you come by my cabin later?
I wasn’t sure I wanted to, but life wasn’t giving us much of a chance to get better acquainted anyway. We were always rushing from one disaster to the next, one attack to the next. Jared was not my ideal future husband, but I’d had to give up my ideals for just about everything. I had found out from his mother that Jared was twenty-seven, divorced, and lived in Hawaii. He’d come to the states just to visit her—but then the pulse hit. She said he was bitter because he thinks Hawaii was probably unaffected by it.
“Isn’t he glad to be here for your sake?” I’d asked.
She thought for a moment. “Oh, yes, I’m sure he is.”
Somehow her answer didn’t make me sure. I wanted to question Jared about it sometime. Lexie told me Jolene was a hoarder. Ironically, because of her hoarding they escaped having to defend themselves against marauders. When looters got to their front door, the mess, the mountains of junk inside made them figure the place was already looted. Then, twice, people had tried to set fire to their house, but Jared had been able to put out the flames with fire extinguishers. (His mother had a bunch of them, one of the few useful things she hoarded. The Martins were glad of that. She brought about a dozen with her.)
She brought other things, too, even food. Because strange as it is, they had a lot to loot. Part of his mother’s obsession was to save cereal boxes—full, never opened—because she hoped to sell them one day on E-bay as collector items. Some cereal boxes had apparently gotten valuable over time, so she saved them with a vengeance, wrapped tightly in layers and layers of plastic wrap. So she and Jared had been living on cereal and vegetable oil until they got here. Not the healthiest diet, but it kept them alive.
Anyway, Mrs. Martin had been listening to us, holding my arm protectively. She said, “Andrea and I are on our way to pray for her mother and Mr. Washington. Would you care to join us?”
He met her eyes for a moment. I actually thought he might agree, but then shook his head. “I got work to do.” He headed towards the door but turned and looked back at me. “See you later.”
I felt as though he’d just given a repeat invitation for me to visit his cabin some time. But as we fell to our knees in the living-room, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said about the dangers in our world. How things could be worse out there, not better! My mom’s a goner! It’s that idiot Washington’s fault!
Mrs. Martin prayed. Her words were earnest and real, filled with concern. Then she praised the Lord; thanking him for many, many instances of help and protection and care. I started to feel better. I wished I could have the same kind of strong faith Mrs. Martin had. When she fell silent, it was my turn to pray. “God, I need your help!” Those were the only words that came to mind, and, it turned out, the only words I had time to utter.
The alarm sounded. My muscles tensed as we waited. I hoped to hear the short blasts of a warning. Mrs. Martin grabbed one of my hands and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s probably nothin’,” she said.
But the loud siren wailed nonstop. We jumped to our feet.
“The little ones! Let’s get them downstairs!” she cried, hurrying ahead of me. I soon passed her, my feet flying. No way was I gonna let my brothers or any of the kids face another hostage situation! I ran to the yard and looked frantically around.
The children were nowhere in sight.
Chapter 32
SARAH
We needed a place to hide our buckets but behind us in a crackling, snapping fury, everything burned. I hadn’t realized before how fire is loud. It was a beast at our heels, hurrying us away. My bucket probably weighed less than 15 pounds but I soon found it more than I could carry. There was no handle, for one thing. I had it in my arms—big, heavy, and klutzy. Richard had two—one stacked atop the other—and had to find his way looking around them. We’d only gone a short distance, leaving the street and crossing an adjacent, lumpy field, when I felt too weary to continue.
“I need to stop.”
Richard looked ready to protest but I plunked down my bucket and then sat on it. He grimaced, but ended up doing the same.
“You realize we’re out in the open,” he said, wiping his sleeve across his forehead and looking around. Since our house had been at the edge of town, we were now in the midst of what would have been farmland, soybeans, by the look of it. Ohio farmers planted two crops: soybeans or corn, and they took turns by seasons. If corn was planted one year, soy would go in the next and vice versa. This field was spiked with last year’s corn stalk debris so they would have planted soybeans this year—if they’d been able to plant. But they hadn’t, thanks to the pulse. It was now unplanted and weedy. It was astonishing how quickly the landscape went from small main streets to open fields. There was no in-between, no endless suburb like we’d known outside of L.A. Here in Ohio, we were either in a hilly wooded area, farmland, or the occasional small town, with small being the operative word.
“We need to keep going until we can hide somewhere.”
Richard was right—but I was so discouraged! I felt weary of everything. Weary of life. I wanted my mom back! I wanted my dad and Jesse back! I wished I could go back to the way things were. I wanted to be watching a movie while lying on the sofa doing my nail
s. I tried not to think things like that anymore. It was just an invitation to a pity party, but right now my mind was open season for discouragement.
“This is never gonna stop,” I said. “Why are we even trying? If we find anything good, it doesn’t last. It never lasts.”
“It won’t go on like this forever,” Richard said. “Look what you’re sitting on! Food! We’ve got weeks of food here!”
“But no place to eat it! Nowhere to go! No home! This is a losing battle, Richard, admit it!” My voice broke. I didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to be the old Sarah, so easily broken down, but there were tears in my eyes. “If only the Steadmans could have kept us.”
“Forget about them!” The sharpness in his tone surprised me. But he’d looked down the barrel of Mark Steadman’s gun. He’d never talked about it afterward, but I guess it got to him. Well, things were getting to me too. In fact, I’d had enough.
“I want to go to the Refugee Camp.”
Richard shook his head. “Aunt Susan is gonna need our help. If she’s okay—”
“She isn’t okay! You know that! You said as much!”
“Look, it’s all we’ve got!” he cried. “I wish we’d gone from the beginning, to find dad. He might’ve been somewhere between Columbus and Xenia. We shouldn’t have started for Indiana, but we did. We need to finish what we’ve started. Maybe dad headed there, too.”
I felt the first inkling of hope at his words. “So you do think he might be alive? You said—”
“I know what I said.” He paused. “I’ve thought a lot about it. Dad’s no idiot. Unless he ran into foul play I think he’d still be alive. And I think our best chance of seeing him again is in Indiana. He’d think of Aunt Susan, too. He’d figure we’d head there.”
Slowly I felt hope rising like a little wisp of sun entering a dark, dark night. Dad—alive? I attached myself to the thought like a second skin. I needed it to be true. I took a deep breath.
The Pulse Effex Series: Box Set Page 44