Pulse ; No Power

by Skylar Finn

  “Are you sure?” I asked him as I stirred instant iced tea in a pitcher. “We don’t have to do this.”

  “We can’t live like trapped rats for the rest of our lives,” he said. “Every once in a while, we have to venture above ground for a breath of fresh air. Otherwise, what’s the point of being alive?”

  I saw his point. If we did everything in our power to preserve our lives but our quality of life was terrible, then what was the point in preserving them in the first place?

  That evening felt like the most normal one I’d had in a long while. Even before the EMP, Ethan and I had been stressed from our respective jobs. Grace had been stressed out by school, which she hated. Peterman told us he barely left the hospital. In a strange and backwards way, it was like we were on vacation from our lives: we no longer had to be our public selves, our work selves, our school selves--we could simply sit back and exist.

  Peterman concocted an elaborate stew using only the allotted ingredients from our stores. He had labored over it with the same precision, he said, that he normally reserved for surgery. Ethan was questionable in the kitchen at best but was oddly good at the preparation of potatoes, and could convert them into almost any form. I knew that Grace had a preference for only brown or orange foods, eschewing anything that didn’t resemble a chicken nugget or mac and cheese, so I dug around the pantry until I found an acceptable substitute for Peterman’s stew.

  Dusk was falling as we sat on the porch and the crickets were out. We dragged the coffee table out to the porch and sat around it on sofa cushions. Grace ate from a paper plate balanced on her lap as she sat on the front steps overlooking the yard.

  “What’s with the potatoes, anyway?” I asked Ethan. He’d whipped up a sort of informal potato salad using only non-perishable ingredients.

  “I can make anything with a potato,” he said. “It’s a scientific fact. Scalloped, mashed, shredded--and not just as food, either. I’ve built weapons with potatoes. Communication devices. The purposes of potatoes are endless and many-fold. You have no idea.”

  He never framed his childhood in specific terms, the way I’d talk about the time I was in third grade, or when my parents took me on vacation to the Grand Canyon. It was always these specific anecdotes, told humorously. I knew there were underlying darker implications to them, but he never let on.

  “Weapons?” Peterman looked at him incredulously. “What on earth? What kind of weapons do you make with a potato?”

  “Potato launchers, mostly,” he said modestly.

  “There was Monsieur Potato,” said Grace from the steps. “He was a friend of mine.”

  “Monsieur Potato! I’d forgotten.” Ethan’s eyes lit up.

  “Monsieur Potato?” I said. “Who was Monsieur Potato?”

  “I created this sort of UN delegation of potatoes for Grace one afternoon when we were bored,” he said. “Sort of like a Mr. Potato Head, only less commercial. And out of actual potatoes, not plastic. So we had Senor Potato, Monsieur Potato, Herr Potato--I think we got up to ten.”

  “What happened after the tenth one?” I asked.

  “We got hungry and ate the entire delegation,” he said. “Not raw, of course. I turned them into hash browns.”

  After dinner, I walked Grace to the barn to say good-night to Clover. I brought a handful of sugar cubes in the pocket of my cardigan and handed them to Grace once we were inside the barn. She fed them to Clover one by one as she patted her nose. She whickered softly.

  “How are you doing?” I asked her. She seemed fine, but I knew she wanted Ethan to see her as stalwart and strong as he was. She rarely cried and would never admit to being upset even if she was. I prodded her about her current mood whenever we were alone. “Are you holding up okay?”

  “I’m fine, Charlie, honestly,” she said. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m just glad I don’t have to go to school.”

  “All right.” I hid a smile. We locked the barn and walked back to the house, the crickets singing. It was the first night since the EMP that I found it easy to fall asleep.

  The next day, after the day’s chores, we kept watch from the porch. I said ‘kept watch,’ but that implied a more vigilant state than our actual reality. Peterman was in the kitchen, prepping dinner. Grace was on her rooftop watch “shift,” drawing under an umbrella to protect her from the sun. Ethan and I were seated on the porch, gazing off into the distance. Occasionally we spoke, but more often than not, drifted off into our own respective reveries.

  I didn’t know what Ethan’s thoughts were, but I was thinking that if this was to be the condition of our lives from now on, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. We were reasonably content. We were safe. We had food, water, and medicine. We stayed busy during the day and kept ourselves occupied. At night, we had a place to sleep. We fulfilled most of the needs of Maslow’s hierarchy, and it was an obvious given that we were doing much better than many others out there in the wake of the EMP.

  A loud shrill blast from the roof shattered the still afternoon silence. It was the second air horn. The alarm we’d given Grace, assuming that she’d never have to use it because she only kept watch during the day.

  Ethan turned to me, shock written across his face.

  “It’s broad daylight,” he said, astonished.

  I saw then how clever Dexter was. He might appear to be a slack-jawed criminal thug, but like many intelligent people who, for whatever reason, feel that society has rejected them, he’d channeled all his intelligence into criminal endeavors. He knew we’d endure countless sleepless nights from the time he made his “proposal” to the time that he returned; that we’d stay up all night keeping watch for them. He’d waited till we were exhausted and off-guard to stage his attack. I would have almost admired his cleverness had I not utterly and completely loathed him for what he did to the Davidsons and for terrorizing my family.

  Peterman scrambled to his feet, glancing around wildly. “Are they here? Where are they?” he exclaimed.

  “I’ll get Grace,” I said.

  “Go,” he said.

  I ran around the side of the house and climbed the ladder in a way that was probably neither safe nor advisable, skipping rungs and hoisting myself onto the roof in a matter of seconds. Grace stood in front of the chair, looking grim but determined. She handed me the binoculars.

  Of in the distance, about a mile down the road, I could just make out a cloud of dust. They were on horseback, galloping full-speed toward the ranch. I couldn’t make out how many there were, but it was enough that it seemed like Dexter had returned with his whole gang in tow.

  “Let’s get into the house.” I ushered Grace to the edge of the roof and climbed down the ladder ahead of her to make sure she got down safely. Ethan held the back door open for us and watched as we edged along the pit, avoiding the steep drop to the stakes below. He and Peterman waited on the other side of the door with more boards, a hammer, and nails to reinforce the back door.

  I brought Grace to the closet. We had stored a small nest of blankets and pillows in the corner along with a lantern, water, and snacks.

  “I’m not sure how long you’ll need to be in here,” I said to her over the noise of nails being rapidly hammered into place. “But it’s very important that, no matter what you might here, you stay in here no matter what, okay?”

  “But I can help,” she said in a small voice. “I want to stay with you and Dad.”

  Ethan appeared by my side and knelt in front of Grace at eye level. “I need you to stay in here for right now, Gracie.” He took the smallest handgun and pressed it into her palm. “If anyone tries to get in without knocking the secret knock, you shoot through the door, okay? If anybody opens this door that isn’t us, you shoot them. I need to know that you’re safe. I won’t be able to protect you if you’re anywhere but in here because I’ll be too worried about you. This is more for me than for you. Understand?”

  She nodded. Ethan kissed her on the top of the head. “I love
you,” he said. “And Charlie loves you. And we’re going to protect you, no matter what. No matter what, you’ll be safe. I swear on my life. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “I love you, too,” said Grace.

  He pulled the door closed.

  “Lock it,” he said through the wood. I heard the sound of the deadbolt sliding into

  place. I looked at the back door where Peterman stood, still as a stone. He clutched his rifle and looked back at me.

  “They’re here,” he said.

  15

  The sound of hoofbeats surrounded the house. The thundering echoed through the boarded-up windows. They were running in circles around the house. I realized grimly this was some psychological tactic on Dexter’s part to terrify and paralyze us within the walls. It was an effective tactic. It sounded like there were dozens of them, emitting war-like cries, howling and laughing as they mocked us. Some fired guns in the air, and the noise reverberated above the house, shaking the very air around us.

  From the front, we could hear Dexter’s yells. We rushed to the front door and gathered in a dense knot around the peephole. He rode a black horse and had come dressed for the occasion: dressed head-to-toe in black with his signature bandana and sunglasses, he wore a t-shirt emblazoned with a skull-and-bones, black jeans, and a leather jacket. I thought with disgust what a stupid affectation it was in this heat.

  He carried a sawed-off shotgun. The main members of his gang flanked him on either side—Clarice and Buddy, his first and second-in-command. Both were armed with machetes and assault rifles.

  “Little pigs, little pigs,” he called. “Let me come in!” He laughed wildly and fired his gun in the air. Reflexively, I sank low to the floor and Peterman followed me. To my shock, Ethan immediately popped several nails out of the board over the door.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered. He raised his finger to his lips, his hand poised over the knob.

  “Last chance,” Dexter yelled. “Give up now, and we might just go easy on ya!”

  Ethan threw open the door and fired the Governor at each of them in rapid succession.

  The trio in front of the door immediately scattered, shocked by the unexpected attack. Clarice’s horse spooked and bucked, throwing her to the ground. Buddy grabbed his leg and slid sideways off his horse.

  “I’m hit!” he shouted.

  Ethan slammed the door shut and nailed the boards back in place.

  “Get him back to the compound!” Dexter screamed. “Hurry, before he bleeds out!”

  I crept to the window, where a narrow space between two boards allowed me a purview of the yard. One of their gang helped Buddy onto his horse. Buddy immediately slumped over and Dexter signaled wildly to someone out of my eyeline.

  “Hurry up, Doc!” he shouted. “Get going!”

  The only unarmed man in sight, a slight, bespectacled man--their doctor, I assumed--took off after the rider carrying Buddy. Ethan watched from the slit in the second window on the other side of the door.

  “Three down,” he said, “five to go.”

  “Do you really think it was the eight of them again?” asked Peterman anxiously, going to the window next to Ethan. “Or do you think they brought more?”

  “I think it’s the same people we saw last week,” said Ethan, reloading. “There might be more at this compound of theirs, but I get the feeling Dexter isn’t a man to fight his own battles. He probably takes the same people with him every time he goes out.”

  When he finished loading the Governor, he looked up at each of us in turn. “Remember the plan,” he said. “Each of us covers each entry point to the house. When I give the signal--”

  Ethan was interrupted by a massive thudding at the front window on his and Peterman’s side, accompanied by the crunch of glass. It sounded as if it was being repeatedly punched by a giant. We resumed our spots at the window.

  They had brought a battering ram. It was a crude battering ram rendered from a large and heavy log, but they wielded it efficiently, two on either side. They wore thick work gloves, which they’d obviously used to make short work of the barbed wire entanglements. Dexter raised his arm in the background, then brought it down. They ran full-force toward the boarded-up window, striking it with a force that seemed to rattle the house right down to its very foundations.

  “We have to fortify this window,” said Ethan urgently. “Help me drag the furniture over!”

  We ran into the kitchen. I swept the contents of the table to the floor and we carried it into the living room, propping it against the window. We dragged the couch over the front door and flipped it over on its end. We were in the middle of dragging the coffee table to the second window when the thudding stopped. We froze in unison and looked up, our breathing ragged. My eyes met Ethan’s and then flicked over to Peterman, who looked up at the ceiling, listening intently. The banging resumed at the back of the house.

  “The back window!” shouted Peterman.

  “Grace,” said Ethan, already running for the hallway.

  The booming of the ram reverberated through the back bedroom as they struck the back door repeatedly. We worked together to upend the mattress, box spring, and bed frame, shoving them up against the back door. Ethan shoved the bureau in front of that. Just as I was pushing the nightstand in front of the bureau, the sound stopped again. We watched the door.

  It was a ploy to distract us from their true target. I heard a massive crash as their makeshift battering ram broke through the front of the house. We ran into the hallway, aiming our guns at the hole in the wall. No one came through, nor did any gunfire, and Ethan held up a hand.

  A cylindrical object sailed through the hole, skidding across the hardwood and bouncing off the far wall. I stared at it, uncomprehending.

  “Get down!” shouted Ethan.

  I hit the floor alongside of him and Peterman, expecting to be blown to smithereens at any second. Instead, a thick, cloudy, putrid gray smoke filled the room.

  “It’s a smoke grenade,” Ethan coughed, one arm over his face. “Try to cover your nose and mouth.”

  The smoke pervaded the room and I heard, rather than saw, another smoke grenade hit the floor. My eyes watered. I got as low as I could to the ground. I heard boots hit the floor as the first of Dexter’s men crawled through the hole and into the house. I raised my gun but hesitated to fire, afraid I would hit Ethan or Peterman.

  “Charlie!” Ethan’s voice was muffled through the arm of his jacket. “Get to the bedroom!”

  I crawled down the hallway, pulling the hem of my shirt up to cover my face, choking and coughing. Behind me, I heard shots fired and prayed that Ethan hadn’t been hit. I pulled myself into the bedroom and slammed the door shut behind me, locking it.

  “Charlie?” I could hear Grace’s small, scared voice in the closet. “What’s happening?”

  I crawled over to the closet. “Everyone’s okay,” I said through the door, hoping against hope that it was still true. “We’re okay. I need you to stay in there and be as quiet as you can, okay? Curl up in a little ball and cover your head, and stay as low to the floor as you can.”

  I could hear the sound of gunfire ripping through the living room and flattened myself against the floor as a line of bullets perforated the bedroom wall. There was a loud bang on the bedroom door, as if someone was on the other side, kicking it with all their might. I pulled myself behind the nightstand and aimed at the door, waiting.

  The door splintered, then crashed inward. I saw the profile of Dexter’s number one, Clarice, her hair long and red down her back. Her gun was raised. She scanned the room at eye level. I fired from the floor.

  Clarice dropped to the floor with a shriek and clutched her shoulder. She saw me behind the nightstand and tried to aim at me from her new vantage point on the floor, but I was already on my feet. I stomped on her wrist and hand, crushing it beneath my boot. She let out a yell and released her gun. I kicked it across the floor.

  She grabbed my ankle and pu
lled, throwing me off balance and sending me to the floor. She climbed on top of me and punched me in the face. I saw stars. I reached up as I struggled to regain my bearings, found the gunshot wound on her shoulder, and jabbed my thumb into it. Her agonized screams informed me that I’d found my mark, and she rolled off of me.

  I got up to my hands and knees as she crawled into the hallway to get away from me. I reached out and grabbed her boot, tugging her sharply backwards. She kicked me in the face and I dropped to the floor. She crawled away down the hallway as I regained my bearings. I launched myself after her when I came to my senses. She screamed with frustration and rage as I landed on top of her, getting my arm around her neck and strangling her. She rolled over into the wall, slamming my head against the baseboard. I crumpled off of her in a heap.

  I heard a high-pitched scream from out back. Someone had tried to get through the back door and tumbled into the stake pit. There was a shrill, high-pitched whistle: three notes, two short, one long. I peered up through my right eye, the left already swollen halfway shut, as Clarice scrambled to her feet and stumbled into the living room, vanishing in the swirling swamp of smoke. I heard a gun go off, but no accompanying thud of her body hitting the floor.

  I pulled myself into the living room, trying desperately to see through the smoke. I reached out, grasping for anything I could. My hand curled around a black boot. I looked up. Dexter towered over me. His smirk was gone, replaced by an ugly, twisted look.

  “Well, friend,” he said, looking down at me. “Looks like the pigs win this round.”

  A shot rang out over his head as a bullet whizzed past his ear.

  He leapt over me to flee, but not before getting his parting shot in. A fist rained down on my skull, and everything went black.

  “Charlie? Charlie. Can you hear me?”

  I blinked, the world slowly sliding back into focus. The scene before me was one of absolute chaos. The living room was destroyed. Bullets pockmarked the walls and tendrils of gray smoke hung in the air, curling in the late afternoon sunlight that poured through the torn-open boards. The couch had been ripped apart by a hail of bullets.