The Pulse (33 page)

“And I’ll dream about you.” She blew him a kiss, and she was gone.

Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, Manhattan

TODAY.

Jenna was alone
in the cathedral, alone for the first time since she had walked in the doors of Grand Central and had been assigned to a subway car on the Tracks. She’d spent last night sleeping on one of the old pews, the wood no longer gleaming—now all covered in a thick layer of dust.

The water in the marble basin had algae growing in it… but she was so thirsty. Plus, even if she wasn’t Catholic, she was pretty sure it was holy water. Surely if she drank holy water, especially cloudy green holy water, she’d die and go to Hell.

And she’d just escaped from there.

She sighed, staring at the sludge, her parched mouth reminding her that she needed to move on and find a way to stay alive. All by herself.

Jenna wasn’t used to doing anything by herself—not since the Pulse, anyway. There had been a time, before the shit hit the fan, when she managed an office in one of the now-abandoned shiny high-rises in midtown. But the only thing she managed at the camp was her body and what she could get in exchange for it.

Getting to Fifth Avenue between Fiftieth and Fifty-First streets had been harder than she’d expected, and she was still so close to Grand Central, to the soldiers. The city was nothing like it used to be. The streets silent. No traffic, no people.

And when night started to settle in, the atmosphere of a ghost town really took hold. Ghosts surrounded her, in her mind at least. She could feel them brush against her in the chill of the dark.

Bodies had been buried everywhere, and burned everywhere. Some graves were marked, most weren’t. There simply wasn’t enough space in New York City to bury all of its citizens.

The huge bronze doors leading into the cathedral had called out to her, and she couldn’t keep walking. Not in the dark, not with the ghosts. At one time, she imagined, people gathered here to pray—but not anymore.

She hadn’t prayed in a long time, either.

God bless Taryn’s soul.

Okay, that was a good start. But what now?

She needed water, and food. But first water, or she’d die. When the Pulse had knocked out the grid, she hadn’t been prepared. Her own kitchen was empty within two days since she hadn’t hit the grocery store before it happened. The faucets stopped working shortly after the power went out. She’d drunk all the water from the clean part of her toilet tank.

Then her thirst, above all else, drove her to stand in line to get into the FEMA shelter set up in Brooklyn. When everyone there died save for a few, she was picked up by the soldiers and sent to Grand Central, the last remaining camp of survivors.

Hell, she’d made it this far, she could make it a few more days. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to die of dehydration.

Time to leave the cavernous cathedral and set back out on the open road. But before she did, she had to take what she could to survive. All of the candles had long ago burnt down to the bottom of their glass holder. Jenna picked one up and scooped the holy water into it, like a cup. She wouldn’t be able to drink it just yet, but she’d like to take it with her, just in case she found a way to boil it.

Matches! A half-empty box was hidden behind the rows of empty candles. She tucked it into her shirt, making sure it was secure.

Make a fire now, boil it now.

Damn her thirst. Fine. Daytime, and inside, was probably the safest way for her to make a fire anyway. No bright flames against the night sky for the soldiers to find her by.

But what to burn? Not the prayer books. She hadn’t fallen that far. Someone would need those books in the future, when things got right again.

Jenna whirled around looking for something less blasphemous to burn. She walked up and down the pews.

Come on, God, I really don’t want to burn a Bible, here. Help me out.

She shook her head and sank down into the pew, her body aching, holding her undrinkable glass of water.
Yeah. Like God’s listening now.

And then she saw it. An old newspaper, laid out next to her—probably someone’s blanket after the cathedral had been closed for security.

Everything was about security now. But did all those soldiers, all those guns, really make them secure? Maybe. Or not. The most secure place is a prison, after all. That’s where she’d been living. In a prison called Grand Central Terminal.

Jenna, forget the Tracks and use the stupid newspaper already.

She laughed, the sound echoing throughout the sanctuary. The paper was dry, and wrinkled, as if it had gotten wet at some point in its beleaguered past. Paper would burn fast, great for kindling, not so great for a fire that would burn long enough to purify water.

Think. Think.

There were several thin wooden tables around, covered in tablecloths and candles. She carefully set a bunch of empty candles on the floor and took the tablecloth, setting it aside for later. Her escape from Grand Central had happened so quickly, she hadn’t had any time to prepare. The cloth would work well as a shawl or blanket when it got chilly.

The table looked naked without its dressing. With a grunt, Jenna kicked it over onto the hard marble floor, hoping that it would splinter into pieces she could use as firewood. The clatter seemed to ricochet off the walls, but the table didn’t even dent.

“Fuck me, are you kidding?” she shouted.

Her curse echoed back to her in the empty room.

She stilled, straining to hear something, anything that would indicate her shouts had brought on the soldiers. But no. Maybe they weren’t even after her. They probably figured she’d die out there, on her own.

Unless Emily was right about there being a radio. That she’d heard that America was rebuilding, communities of survivors popping up all over the place and starting fresh. If that was true, then she
could
survive.

And they would come after her.

There would be plenty of time to worry about that soon enough, though. Now, she needed to boil the water and drink it while she could.

The table leg that lay on the ground, still attached to the table, would have to do for firewood. Bunching some of the newspaper around it, she lit a single match, lighting the edges of the paper, softly blowing on it until the flames licked the wood.

The wood caught fire quicker than she’d expected, maybe because of whatever varnish had been on it. The smokiness of it filled the air and made her cough.

What now? She couldn’t hold the glass over the fire like she’d planned; it was too hot. Finally she just set the glass into the flames and watched. The glass turned black with soot immediately, but after a while the water began to simmer.

Yes!

Without another moment of guilt, Jenna filled as many of the candles as she could with holy water and set them all down into the flames. They soon bubbled, fiercely, but she kept them there, letting them boil for as long as her thirst could stand it.

Finally, she took her white tablecloth, wrapped it around her hand like a mitten, and pulled one of the glasses of water away from the flames. It had barely stopped bubbling before she brought it to her mouth, desperate for a sip.

Then another sip. And another. Running from the army was thirsty work. But she’d wait for the rest to cool.

What she needed was a way to transport the water, like a canteen. But she had nothing, not even a way to seal the water into one of the glasses. It was getting time to get out, for real now.

Jenna drank every glass down, saving only one, still filled to the waxy brim with water. In her haste, one of the candles shattered on the floor, leaving glinting pieces of broken glass strewn about.

One shiny piece seemed to call out to her. It could be a weapon, that long, thick curved piece. Like a knife.

Jenna picked it up carefully, holding it with an edge of her tablecloth. Strange how the cathedral’s tablecloth had become her own, just by her deciding it was so. But wasn’t that the way it was now? People took what they needed, however they could.

Everyone was a thief now. If they weren’t, they were already dead.

With quick cutting motions, Jenna made a tear in the opposite end of the cloth, and tore free a long strip. She wrapped that strip around the bottom half of her glass-shard knife, making a handle.

One more torn strip, and she used it to shove into the top of the water glass. It wasn’t a proper lid, but it would have to do for now. The glass she slid into her waistband, easy to do now that she’d lost so much weight, and she kept the “knife”—yes, it was her knife now—in her hand. She took a few tentative steps, testing the security of the glass in her pants. Not so bad.

I don’t want to leave.

It was scary out there.

But she had to.

She wrapped the torn tablecloth around her shoulders and set back out, past the looted gift shop in the annex to the bronze front doors.

Before she walked out, she turned around, looking behind her at the once-majestic cathedral.

“. . . God?”

The word came out sounding strange, as if she expected him to call back to her.

But the cathedral was silent, and so she left.

Grand Central

People at Grand
Central
were still buzzing from the execution yesterday—still whispering amongst themselves about what the dark-haired girl, Taryn, had said.

About the radio.

Barker was on guard duty. Colonel Lanche had given a disturbing speech after dinner rations last night—saying that the girl was delusional, psychotic, and a murderer. A danger to everyone there. That everyone was safer now that she was gone.

But that wasn’t the disturbing part. There was usually some sort of statement after an execution.

The part that bothered Barker was when the colonel said, “Anyone heard speaking about this will be considered in collusion with her, and their fate will be the same. We have no room for dissidence here. Consider yourself warned.”

So that was it. The official story was that there was no radio, that America was not, in fact, rebuilding, and that Grand Central was the only place to be safe. Only place possible to live. Under Lanche’s martial law.

But… Barker had heard about a radio before, so… it did exist. Some of the higher-level soldiers, the ones who ran the colonel’s private missions and black ops, talked about it, albeit quietly.

Last Barker had heard, from two men talking who thought he was asleep in his bunk, was that the colonel had a working hand-crank radio. He’d kept it safe from the threat of an EMP or solar flare by keeping it wrapped in flannel and inside a cardboard box, and that was inside a sealed metal container, but not touching the metal. He’d kept it grounded so that if a nuclear strike ever hit, it wouldn’t be fried by the Pulse.

Apparently the colonel had been waiting for a catastrophe so he could find his moment of glory. Fortunately for them all, the nuclear device didn’t hit the city. Everyone assumed that it went off high in the air, causing the Pulse and not much else. Still, not having electricity, running water, or any means of communication killed most of them off anyway. They were back in the Dark Ages.

The men who left on scouting missions never came back. Rumor had it that the entire country had been hit by the Pulse, and people were dead or dying everywhere.

There were other secret things the colonel had kept in Faraday cages like the radio, but word among the soldiers was that all those secret things required power. Only the hand-crank radio worked.

And someone else, somewhere in the country, was broadcasting.

Come on, Barker, get with it.
He had never heard the broadcast himself, and officially it didn’t exist. There was no point thinking about it, especially if talking about it carried a death penalty.

A lone radio signal was hardly proof that America was rebuilding. He’d also heard rumors that it was just some other prepper nut-job in his mama’s basement spreading false hope.

Who knew what was real anymore?

Colonel Lanche passed by him, and Barker saluted.

Lanche shook his head. “At ease, Barker.”

“Sir.” Barker dropped his hand.

“Have you heard anything?” The colonel had a fruity smell to his breath, as if he’d been drinking. Probably one of the disgusting bathtub brews some of the men made illegally.

Why should it surprise him that Lanche considered himself above the law? The only law around the camp was what he said it was.

“Heard what, sir?”

“About the fucking radio, Barker. Are people talking about it?”

“There’s nothing for anyone to talk about, Colonel. No radio has survived the Pulse, everyone knows that.” Barker paused, hoping Lanche wouldn’t hear the insincerity in his voice.

“Good.” Lanche started to walk by, but then stopped. “Private Barker.”

“Sir.”
Fuck.

“I don’t need you standing here on guard duty right now. We have four other soldiers doing the same fucking thing on this wall. Go find that crazy bitch’s friend, Jenna. She didn’t sleep on the Tracks last night, and didn’t sign for her morning ration. I want to… interview her.”

Jenna was missing? Barker scanned the room, hoping her gleaming blonde hair would stand out in the main terminal. No.

Barker’s stomach tightened. An interview with Lanche was not a good thing. Maybe he could coach her on what to say, what not to say, before she spoke to him. “Is she… Did she do something, sir?”

Lanche lowered his voice. “Between us, soldier, she’s dangerous. She wasn’t found naked under Private Andrews’s corpse for no reason. She was involved in his murder, and she’s as delusional as her dead bitch friend.”

Barker couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. “Sir, I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do. She would have shot the guy herself if Taryn hadn’t grabbed the gun and done it first. I didn’t realize she was in on it until the soldier gave his testimony—”