The Pulse Effex Series: Box Set

by L. R. Burkard

  That brought up the old argument about why hadn’t we finished building a fence yet. Marcus said, “Fences won’t keep out foreign guerrillas—not even marauders. People can climb, you know.”

  “We can put barbed wire on top, and motor oil over it all,” said Mr. Simmons.

  “Motor oil?” asked Mr. Prendergast.

  “Sure. We’ll siphon it. Makes the fence a stronger deterrent.” He looked at Mr. Prendergast. “Ever try to climb a fence doused in oil? It ain’t easy. Plenty of time to pick off the ones trying.”

  “Look, we’re already building a stone wall,” said Mr. Martin. “We don’t have fencing. Let’s focus our efforts elsewhere.”

  “What about civilians?” asked Cecily. “When I came here, if there had been mines in front, I’d have been blown up, I guess.”

  The Philpots nodded. “We would have, too. If we’re going to plant explosives in the road, we have to post warnings. And have you thought about this? Since we have no word that the United States is officially at war, then putting out landmines—or bombs that work like mines—is probably a felony.”

  Simmons took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, people, are you gonna worry about the law when there is no rule of law? Let me tell you what to worry about right now—staying alive. Staying alive long enough to see a return of law and order. But until that happens, we can’t just play nice. Our enemy will not play nice.”

  “If one innocent person gets blown up by a mine, it will be blood on our hands,” said Cecily.

  Mr. Simmons didn’t blink. “Innocent people die in war. We can’t fail to raise deterrents because it might put someone at risk. If we don’t do this, WE are at risk!”

  Mr. Martin looked at Cecily. He said, almost apologetically, “When armies move trucks around, they’re moving supplies and building arsenals. I hate to say it, but we have no choice but to do what will keep us safe.”

  Mr. Simmons added, “You can’t worry about a few civilian casualties. Heck, some countries count on killing civilians as part of their war plan. Iraq and Iran sent hundreds of scud missiles into each other’s capital cities during the Gulf War just to terrorize the populace. In 1986, witnesses said the Iranians tied children together and SENT them across Iraqi minefields—a human wave—to clear the way for their military machine. They did the same thing with foot soldiers, with old men and boys. Those kids, and those men, were sacrifices for what Iran called, ‘the greater good.’”

  “WE are not Islamists!” Cecily cried.

  “No, and I’m not saying I approve of that method,” Mr. Simmons continued. “It was brutal; I’m just saying we have to accept that sometimes there is collateral damage; and it can’t be helped.”

  Mr. Martin said, “We can pray for protection for civilians. But I agree that the best defense is a good offense. A good offense is defiance to tyranny.”

  When silence fell, Mr. Simmons said, “For all we know, these are Iraqi or Iranian soldiers we’re up against; and their track record shows they will use anything, even chemical warfare, to subdue an enemy.”

  “Chemical warfare was banned during the Geneva Convention,” said Blake.

  “Not fully,” piped in Marcus. “It was just a first step. And Iraq is known to have used chemical weapons in this century against Iran.” He looked around, “A ban wouldn’t stop them, anyway.”

  “Any more objections?” Mr. Simmons asked, looking around the room.

  “What kind of chemical weapons?” asked Mr. Prendergast.

  “Mustard gas and nerve agents,” Marcus said.

  “What about biological weapons?” Mr. Prendergast added. “Do we need to worry about those?”

  I had no idea what that meant but the very sound of it—biological weapons—filled me with dread. Looking around the room, it seemed that everyone felt that way, for a deep silence fell and faces were grim.

  Mr. Simmons said, “Jared wasn’t worried about biological weapons. They’re the least dependable and therefore the least useful in a military sense. They’re hard to control—they strike friends and foe; so I don’t think we have to worry about that. Or chemical agents, unless we see the enemy wearing gas masks.” He looked at Mr. Martin. “I’m thinking we don’t have a lot of gas masks, do we?”

  “That would be correct.”

  “Do we have any?” Mrs. Wasserman asked, in a frightened tone.

  Mr. Martin seemed reluctant to answer but he said, after hesitating a few seconds, “I have enough for only my family and two extra. And they would go to Andrea and Blake—they’re part of our family. They’re all taken.”

  I sat there with mixed feelings. I was honored that Mr. Martin considered me family but what about Roper? He would soon be family, too.

  Mr. Buchanan said, “We have enough for our family including Blake, so that leaves one extra.”

  “That should go to baby Hope,” Roper said loudly.

  “She’d have to grow up really fast for it to work for her,” Mr. Buchanan said. People began talking around the room. I thought I heard tones of indignation because there weren’t enough gas masks to go around. “The extra one should go to you,” I told Roper.

  He gave me a funny look. “I would never accept a mask if every woman and child didn’t already have one.” My heart swelled with pride. Roper is such a noble soul!

  “We don’t have any good options if we want to survive, do we?” I asked, sadly. “Either kill or be killed.”

  Roper said, softly. “That is war.” He took my hand. “Next to a battle lost, the greatest misery is a battle gained. The Duke of Wellington said that.”

  “Look, folks, we still have the safe room,” Mr. Martin called, loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “And it’s well sealed; we also have no indication that biological or chemical warfare has been or will be used against us. So calm down—and let’s get back to order here.”

  Mr. Simmons said, “I’ll go along with that. So, let’s focus on what we DO know and continue building our strength until we can rest secure that our stockpile is going to equal theirs.”

  Marcus shook his head. “That is not gonna happen. We can’t ever hope to equal what they may have.”

  Mrs. Wasserman said, sadly, “If they are trying to take over our country, I don’t think anything will really stop them.”

  Mr. Martin said, “The forces we’ve seen aren’t the kind to take over a country. For a full take-over, you need armored forces; they require huge amounts of airlift and sea-lift and ground transport—all we’ve seen is standard army trucks. And maybe a few tanks.”

  He went to the center of the room and held up his hands for order. “Listen up. I’ve read that in past wars what decided the outcome of many campaigns wasn’t size or might—it was superior strategy, and tactics. Even audacity. You see, the fight is about leadership and discipline, not just artillery and manpower.”

  “Well, there you have it,” said Mr. Simmons. “We’re sunk. We don’t have superior strategy. Our side isn’t outfitted like the foreign army and with Jared down, we even lack leadership.”

  “That is not true,” said Mr. Martin, strongly. His face was stern as he looked from Mr. Simmons to the rest of us in the room. In a firm clear voice, he said, “We have demonstrated a strong resistance to the enemies that have come against us in the past; we have resisted their attempts to destroy us. We have resisted marauders and gangs. And now, if we follow through with our plans—.” He looked at Roper. “And get these additional explosives built, we can do more than just resist. We can do more than just fight back. We can make pre-emptive strikes and stop them in their tracks before they get anywhere near this compound. We CAN use superior strategy. We’ve already begun to do this by taking out that bridge. When we tear up the road, we will show that we’ve got more than resistance. We will show that we’ve got defiance! We’ve got audacity! And,” (to Mr. Simmons) “I beg to differ with you, but, if I may say so”—he bowed his head slightly—“We’ve even got leadership.” As an
afterthought he added, “And I don’t mean just my leadership. We’ve got God.”

  Approving murmurs went around the room, and for the first time since the discussion began, I saw looks of relief on people’s faces. Mrs. Martin beamed with pride. Then Mr. Buchanan stood and started clapping. One by one we came to our feet and clapped. Roper had baby Hope on his chest and remained seated but he let her balance there while he clapped, too.

  As the applause died down Mrs. Martin spoke up. “I want to thank Roper for saving Hope,” she said, in her soft southern accent.

  I was happy to hear her say that. Roper is the sweetest guy in the world but Mr. Simmons certainly didn’t appreciate him. She looked pointedly at Mr. Simmons. “Even if we do need more initiators. That little baby’s life,” and she stopped, searching for words. “Gives me hope.” To Roper, she said, “You gave her the perfect name! She is a reminder that we do have hope. Life will go on.”

  Roper nodded.

  “And to that end,” said Lexie’s dad, “I want to stress again, we can’t just think in terms of defenses only. Not anymore. We have to think offensively.”

  “I’ve always been offensive,” whispered Roper to me, with a wink.

  Mr. Martin’s eyes glimmered at Roper. “We need to get more offensive. No more resistance only, folks. Resistance will get us dead or captured. Defiance will keep us free.”

  Chapter 49

  LEXIE

  Blake and I sat near Andrea and Roper at last night’s meeting. I got to watch how cute they were with baby Hope! She was the only child in the room this time besides Emma Wasserman. I wish that watching the baby might have kept me from hearing all the bad news Mr. Simmons kept throwing at us but it didn’t. (Like, we don’t have enough mines, and taking out the bridge wasn’t enough, and we need to blow up the road, etc. etc.) But when my dad talked, I actually felt hopeful. He thinks we can be defiant, not just resistant—I like that idea. Because injustice and tyranny has always needed to be defied!

  We are the new American patriots, modern pioneers—and it is upon us to defy the foreign soldiers and keep our nation intact!

  Blake told me not to worry before we went our separate ways last night but I kept thinking about things Mr. Simmons mentioned, like “biological warfare,” or “mustard gas and nerve agents.” They echoed in my mind as I went up to bed. I was sure I’d have bad dreams.

  But when I got to our room, Andrea had baby Hope with her. She was just sitting on the bed staring at her. Smiling, I sat down next to Andrea and stared at Hope, too.

  “Isn’t it funny how everyone loves to stare at a baby?” I asked.

  Andrea didn’t even look at me but kept staring as she smiled gently and said, “Yeah.” After a pause she added, “She’s so tiny, but everything about her is perfect. Perfect little fingers and toes, her little mouth and nose and eyes—a perfect tiny human! I just want to memorize every contour of her face, every little yawn.” She looked up at me. “If I’m not careful, I won’t only be in love with Roper! But maybe that’s perfect, too.”

  “You’ve got an instant family,” I said.

  I don’t know how long we would have sat there staring at Hope but Cecily and Mrs. Philpot came in carrying a big wicker basket lined with cloths.

  “Are you taking her?” Andrea asked.

  Cecily smiled. “No. We’re giving you and Lexie a baby pep talk.”

  Andrea laughed. “We don’t need a pep talk. We already love her!”

  Mrs. Philpot smiled. “We’re going to teach the two of you how to care for a newborn.”

  Cecily added. “You’re both getting married, right? Even if you didn’t have Hope here, this lesson will come in handy.”

  “I’ve been helping take care of Lily since she was born,” said Andrea. “I don’t need a lesson.”

  “We’ll see,” said Cecily, with her warm smile. It was after eleven o’clock, but the ladies sat and talked to us for nearly 40 minutes. We learned not to sleep beside Hope so we wouldn’t suffocate her (which is why they brought the basket). Andrea could keep the basket beside her on the bed for now but when Hope got bigger, she’d have to have her own bed. We were told exactly how to make baby formula using storage food (the recipe was taped to a kitchen cabinet) and that we should always use a freshly cleaned glass bottle.

  “Where did we get baby bottles?” Andrea asked.

  “From Mrs. Wasserman. She still had them from when Emma was little. Thankfully, she included them when they brought supplies from home.” They gave us two pacifiers which were used but sterilized. They moved aside things in Andrea’s top dresser drawer and put baby clothes in—hand-me-downs, of course. Ruefully, I realized that Hope would only know hand-me-downs for her whole life unless things turned around or if Mrs. Schuman decided to sew her a bunch of clothes.

  They gave Andrea a handful of alcohol wipes and showed her how to clean the umbilical cord. They gave us piles of rags, calling them “diapers,” and safety pins, and showed me how to pin up a diaper so it would stay in place—Andrea already knew how to do this. They said to try and give the baby plenty of time to be without a diaper while the weather’s warm. “It’s good for her skin,” Cecily said.

  “And will help avoid diaper rash,” Mrs. Philpot added. They warned us strongly, in fact, that we had to do everything in our power to keep Hope’s little bottom clean and dry or diaper rash would result. They said they’ll demonstrate how to bathe her in a few days.

  Cecily put a hand on baby Hope and one on Andrea before they left, and prayed over them. She prayed for “mighty blessings,” and said “God didn’t bring us this child by accident; but with HOPE for a future, and in HOPE of her salvation.” She prayed, “God, keep this baby—and this whole compound—safe. Protect our little Hope, Lord, because You are our mighty hope. You alone are true hope. And we trust You. Amen!”

  Cecily’s prayers always feel so fitting, so right. It’s like that scripture about good words being like apples of gold in settings of silver. (That’s from Proverbs, I think.)

  I asked God to help me pray like Cecily—so people listening will be blessed by my words—and because God answers prayers of faith!

  Anyway, right after they left the baby woke up! All of the handling the ladies did, unwrapping her blanket and showing us the cord, changing her diaper—did not wake that child. But now she was up and fussing. I volunteered to get a bottle.

  Down in the kitchen I found the stash of clean glass bottles and nipples. I used the recipe to give the right amount of water with a little bit of sweetened, condensed milk. Mrs. Philpot says the baby will need more nutrition eventually but since she’s so little, this would do for now.

  She also said it was a blessing we still have a cow and that raw milk is full of nutrition. Andrea asked, “Isn’t it dangerous if the milk isn’t pasteurized?”

  I smiled, because Andrea now drank raw milk herself but she’d been resistant to it when she first came to the compound. Mrs. Philpot said, “Pasteurization actually destroys all the beneficial bacteria and microbes that God put in milk. Raw milk is truly healthier than pasteurized.”

  “I told you!” I said.

  “But even for an infant?” she asked, ignoring me.

  “Especially for an infant,” Mrs. Philpot said. “Like mother’s milk, it will help stimulate her little immune system and make it stronger. One study,” she said, looking thoughtful, “found that infants who were fed raw milk had 30% less chance of developing respiratory infections.”

  As I was making the bottle and thinking about this, I heard low murmurs coming from the living room. I recognized my dad’s voice and went to listen. I figured my mom would be there, too. I wanted to tell her about our baby education and how Andrea and I had officially been given the care of Hope.

  But when I got to the doorway I heard Mr. Simmons’s voice. Then my dad said, “Okay, I understand. You don’t think we have a good chance of deflecting the next enemy attack.”

  “We may be up against way more tha
n we can handle. We need machine guns and mortars, or antitank missiles, and some real artillery.” My heart sank at his words. I thought Mr. Simmons agreed we could come through a confrontation if we followed his suggestions. I thought there was real hope!

  My dad held up a hand. “You need a little faith, Simmons. If we take out the road and make our peripheral defenses to include offensives like the mines, it’s a whole lot better than what we had before, and we beat the last attacks. The Lord will protect and help us again.”

  Those words made me feel better. I continued listening as my dad asked, “What do you think they’ve really got in those trucks?”

  “Like I said before,” Mr. Simmons replied. “Guns, gear and men….”

  I slunk away after that, not wanting to hear any more. It shook my confidence that Mr. Simmons still felt we were so vulnerable—but my dad was right. We needed to put our faith in God not guns, or mines, or anything of our own.

  I let Andrea feed the baby, ignoring her when she asked, “What took you so long? She’s been crying for ages!” I grabbed my Bible and climbed up to my bunk. I turned to Psalm 91, my favorite psalm. Slowly, the Word sank into my soul. I determined that like the Psalmist, I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and fortress; my God; in Him I will trust.” Worries about chemical or biological weapons fell away. Concern about Mr. Simmons’s pessimism fell away. I gave my worries to the Lord.

  And I didn’t have a bad dream.

  But sometime in the middle of the night a loud wailing, which turned to screaming, woke us. I heard a lot of commotion from the first floor and jumped down from my bunk. “Stay with the baby,” I told Andrea. “I’ll find out what it is.”

  Mrs. Philpot flew past our door holding a lantern. In another moment while I hurried to throw on a robe, she came past again in the opposite direction, this time with Cecily. “What’s going on?” I called, after rushing into the hall after them. My heart pounded with the thought that we were under attack before we’d had a chance to destroy the road out front!