The Pulse: An EMP Prepper Survival Tale Read online

  Chapter Three

  The Couple

  Sunday September 20, 8:05 a.m. Savannah, GA.

  If there was one thing Mark Moss paid attention to, it was finances. He and his wife, Janice, lived in a small, two-story, two-bedroom house in the suburbs of Savannah. They seemed the picture-perfect young American couple. They hadn't any children yet and had only been married four years. So far, they had been happy. Mark didn't see any point in rushing things. Circumstances, such as work and money, played a role in their ambiguity about starting a family. Janice, however, felt that it was time. At twenty-eight, she had begun to grow concerned, but hadn't yet figured out how to express her feelings about it to Mark. She wasn't sure if he'd understand. Marriage so far had been wonderful.

  Mark was thirty-one, and had a full head of dirty blond hair. To him, there was no rush. Janice had always wanted children, but it never seemed like the right time to talk about it. That morning, they sat across from each other in the kitchen, sipping coffee and reading the morning paper. Mark had a lot on his mind. He had just started a new job working at a Nissan dealership, and after two weeks of long hours and tireless efforts at making a good first impression, he had made six sales.

  He was giddy with a kind of excitement not shown in months. After walking away from a low-paying job in retail management at a clothing factory outlet store, Mark had his first full-time job. Mrs. Andrews, his boss at the dealership had asked if he would meet her for coffee the next morning for a casual discussion. That was how she had put it. Mark had no idea what that meant, or why she had requested face-to-face so soon. His mind raced as he began to over-think the entire scenario.

  "Just quit thinking about it," Janice said, interrupting his train of thought. She could tell, just by looking at him, that he was worried. "She asked you to coffee for a casual discussion. Probably just to assess your thoughts about the job. Think about it; if they were going to fire you, she wouldn't waste the time. Not on someone who's only been there for two weeks."

  Mark thought to himself. “I hope you're right.”

  The television was on in the living room. Inane banter of the Sunday talk shows could be heard at low volume. Windbags pundits talked in circles about the economy, and how to fix it. For most Americans, money was tight, no matter who you were, where you lived, or what you did for a living. The super-rich were mainly unaffected; they always would be. So were the politicians. But for most people, any attempt to make an honest living was a struggle.

  Mark and Janice felt that they were financially hanging on by a thread, and it was for this very reason they strayed from the subject of pregnancy. Mark may have been using it as an excuse not to have children, for all Janice knew. She was suspicious. Mark laid his touchscreen tablet on the table and spread some cream cheese on nearby blueberry bagel. He flashed Janice a quick smile and took a bite. It tasted perfect.

  Sunday was their day. It was a time when they could spend the entire day together. Mark looked forward to it, as did Janice. They worked so much during the week that they rarely saw or spoke to one another until the weekend. Janice worked for a hiring agency in town, often deluged with the job-seeking unemployed. She saw first-hand the results of a faltering economy.

  “We're coming back from it; I can just feel it," one of the pundits declared from the television set. The talking heads had an answer for everything but weren't telling people what was really going on, as far as Mark was concerned. He tuned them out most of the time. He had to if he didn't want to lose his mind.

  Mark and Janice were similar in many regards. They both came from working-class families, both had only associate’s degrees, and a slight amount of student debt as a result. Neither one of them could afford to go back to school for a bachelor’s degree.

  "We'd never be able to pay them back. It's one giant trap," Mark had said. Janice tended to agree. If they saved up enough money, one of them could finish college, but they hadn't got there yet. They invested in gold and silver for financially stability in case of an economic collapse. Having silver served the same purpose. It was a solid commodity, and would come in handy if the dollar lost value during hyperinflation. Their investments were small, and it was money they didn't have, but it was necessary, they felt, to have something outside of cash, credit cards, and a bank account.

  They lived a frugal lifestyle and strived to be debt-free, though they weren't perfect. They did the best they could do. Sunday was not the day to worry about it. They were fortunate enough to have one day out of the week not to think about work, money, and wave after wave of distressing economic news reports. They sat in their bathrobes—Mark wore plaid, Janice wore blue—in the natural light of their kitchen, and enjoyed each other’s company. Sunday was their day to relax.

  "So what do you want to do today?" Janice asked after taking a sip of cappuccino. She knew what he was going to say. Mark said the same thing every week. He looked at her through the lens of his horn-rimmed glasses. "I don't know. What do you wanna do?"

  "We could go for a walk," Janice suggested.

  Mark smiled. "You need a dog for a walk. Otherwise people just think you're weird."

  Janice gave him a disapproving look in return. She even crossed her arms to emphasize her displeasure.

  "I'm kidding, only kidding," he said, extending his arm toward her.

  "Very funny," Janice said back. "We can't afford a dog."

  Mark looked up, surprised. "Look who's telling jokes now," he said.

  She knew she could get to him. Even with their jabs, there was still plenty of love between them. They had a rare combination of love and understanding, two fulfilling assurances in a marriage. Mark took another bite of his bagel, and the subject soon moved on to other matters.

  When was the last time we checked our food stock?" he asked.

  Janice thought to herself for a moment. "Um. I'm not sure. It's been a few months."

  "Try a year. We're slipping, Janice. A lot of it is probably expired by now. We should clean out the basement today, and re-stock."

  It was the last thing Janice wanted to do with her Sunday. She answered Mark with little enthusiasm. "I don't want to spend our entire day rummaging through the basement. I need a break, Mark, we both need a break."

  Mark didn't want an argument. He scratched his chin, took the last bite of his blueberry bagel, and pushed the plate away. "Tell you what we'll do. Let's go to the park today. Then we'll hit up the farmer's market."

  "I'd like that," Janice said. "I need to swing by the book store too."

  "Anything you desire," Mark said in a mock thespian voice. He got up from his chair and walked over to Janice, placing a kiss on her cheek. "Would you like to join me in the shower?" he asked, rubbing her shoulders.

  "No way," Janice replied, pushing him away. "You're a water hog."

  Mark walked off laughing toward the bedroom. Janice took another sip from her mug, and got up to turn the television off. The talking heads continued to theorize about economic conditions. She had heard enough and shut it off with the push on the remote. Mark and Janice were preppers every bit as concerned about the future as James, their counterpart in Milledgeville. Except they had gotten comfortable, and prepping was not as important them as of late. Their investment in the bug-out house was the greatest commitment they had made yet. They also owned a bug-out vehicle, which sat in the garage, and hadn't been started in months. Their interest in prepping waned as other priorities took over, and they were fairly certain that their prepping skills would never really be put to the test.

  Chapter Four

  The Family

  Sunday September 20, 8:05 A.M. Atlanta, GA.

  It was morning at the Robinson house, an African American family who in lived in a bustling neighborhood on Atlanta's west side. Christina toiled over her stove, pouring pancake batter on a griddle as bacon sizzled on the burner. She wore her favorite pink robe and slippers, and her short hair was tied in a small bun. Christina's husband, Terrance, was still sleep
ing soundly, and their children—Richie, Tobias, and Paula—were dragging themselves out of their rooms, lured by the aroma of Sunday morning breakfast. It was the best way to get her kids out of bed and then ready for church, a constant weekly battle. Richie, their eldest at seventeen, was the hardest to manage, as he often took advantage of his father's frequent absences. Terrance was a truck driver who spent a good deal of time on the road. What he had seen along his routes over the years had greatly disturbed him. He told Christina that the country was rapidly changing. He could see it. Poverty was everywhere. Many once-great cities populated by millions had become decrepit ghost towns. Fuel, food, and power costs had risen considerably, and he believed that hyper-inflation was just around the corner.

  Such a frightening premonition had thrust Terrance into the prepping movement. It wasn't long before he became knowledgeable in the preparation techniques of all kinds. His children were as resistant to his attempts to teach them survival techniques as they were to their mother's insistence on going to church. For Terrance and Christina it was an uphill effort all around. Most young people didn't see anything wrong with the way things were as long as they had their electronic gadgets and diversions. Few had even heard of a "prepper.” They certainly weren't being taught anything about it at school.

  Terrance had asked each of his children to carry a portable handheld two-way radio on them, good for distances up to thirty-five miles. It took a lot of convincing, but he explained to them that cell phones weren't always going to work all the time. In the event of an emergency they needed to have their radios with them. He expected them to have them charged daily as well as on-hand. Their ambivalence was countered with a demonstration of the range and ability of the handhelds. Tobias and Paula thought they were cool. Richie had the most objections. He thought the whole idea was stupid.

  "I don't ask much from you kids," Terrance said, "but I'm asking this. Always have them on you when you leave the house, period.” There would be no argument. Eventually the kids complied. Terrance won his first battle; however, they still had a long way to go.

  "Richie! Tobias! Paula! Get out here and eat your breakfast before it gets cold!" Christina yelled from the kitchen. The children walked like zombies from their rooms down the hall rubbing their eyes. Tobias was fourteen and just starting high school. He was not as tall as his 5' 10” older brother, but was tall and lanky in his own regard. Richie was in twelfth grade and looking forward to graduation. He and Tobias both had medium fade haircuts and strong brown eyes. They could have been twins if not for some different facial features. Tobias had more of his mother's features—high cheek bones and vibrant smile. Richie had more of Terrance's squared jaw and thick face.

  Paula, the youngest, was thirteen and just starting eighth grade. She was a petite girl who with was always particular about how she dressed and looked. She wasn't vain as much as she took her appearance seriously at such a young age. If everything played out right, all three of their children would graduate from high school in the end. Nothing would please Terrance and Christina more.

  "Quit your lollygagging and move," Christina commanded her lethargic children. They slowly entered the kitchen groaning. She placed a large platter of pancakes in the center of the circular table. Paula was a little more awake than her brothers, so she was first to her seat.

  "Morning, Mom," she said with a smile.

  Christina turned around from the stove and smiled back. "Good morning, sweetheart." She noticed her two sons’ painfully slow movements towards the table, as if they were heading to the gallows. "Y'all hurry up and eat so you can get ready. We got church in an hour."

  "What about Dad?" Richie said. "Why does he get to sleep in?"

  "Because your father works for a living. Once you move out and provide for your own family you can miss church all you want."

  Richie was familiar with the routine. Once he got his mom started she was bound to never stop.

  "Got it, Mom. Damn," he said, pouring syrup on his pancakes.

  "Watch your mouth," Christina snapped back.

  Richie took a slow bite of food while looking down. He couldn't stand church. He didn't want any part of it. Not a single one of his friends still had to go to church. It was embarrassing. Every week he would try to get out of it, and every week it would just start an argument. This particular morning he would try again.

  "I can't go to church today; I got too much school work to do."

  "Your school work can wait. If it weren't for church you'd be sleeping, so don't give me that," Christina said as she placed a bottle of syrup on the table.

  "But─"

  "All I ask is for one hour out of the week so you can set a good example for your brother and sister. That isn't asking too much," Christina interrupted.

  "It ain't right, I shouldn't have to go to church if I don't wanna," Richie shot back.

  "Just eat your food. It's not open for debate," she said sternly. Richie said no more, but it was clear he was upset.

  "I agree with Richie," Tobias chimed in, with a mouth full of food. "Church is boring."

  Christina pivoted around from the counter, holding her coffee mug, waiting for the fresh pot to brew. "Then I suggest you find something entertaining about it. Maybe try paying attention for once—and don't talk with your mouth full."

  Tobias said no more. Christina looked to Richie. "See what kind of example you're setting? You kids need church. It's good for you. When you're adults─"

  "─We'll thank you, I know. You say that all the time," Richie said, looking down at his plate. He barely had touched his food. His mind was elsewhere: school, his friends, his girlfriend, the football team.

  "I say it 'cause it's true," Christina answered. "Now enough griping and eat your food."

  Her children stopped talking; only emitting chewing sounds. Pop music from a portable radio sitting on the window played lightly, as breeze swayed the thin curtains above the sink. The coffee was ready, and Christina poured a cup. She planned to surprise Terrance with coffee in bed but wouldn't risk bringing him breakfast; he was too messy.

  She was tough by nature, but had grown even more vigilant over the years. Her role as a sometimes-single parent had a lot to do with it. Though there was some give when Terrance came back home, she ran the house unquestioned. Terrance's salary alone wasn't enough to pay all the bills, so Christina took a part-time job working the cash register at the Dollar Store.

  Her life had changed considerably when, after a few weeks on the job, she was held at gunpoint and robbed by a local hood wearing a ski mask. It was near closing time when he strolled into the store casually and unexpectedly. He rushed the counter, stuck the barrel of the pistol directly against her head, and yelled at her to empty the register. Her life was on the line. She could see his eyes—bloodshot, frenzied—and knew that there was a good chance he would pull the trigger, even over what little money she had in the register. Her hands fumbled with the register because she was inexperienced in opening the drawer without first ringing up a sale. What she was doing wasn't working.

  "Open the register, bitch!" he seethed. "Hurry the fuck up!"

  His spittle sprayed her face as he pressed the barrel harder against her skull. She began to shake uncontrollably, unable to speak, while desperately trying to remain calm. Miraculously, the register drawer popped open after a few tries, not a moment too soon. Fear gripped her further when she looked into the drawer and saw that there wasn't much money inside. The other cashier had collected her till just hours before. All Christina could see were a couple of twenties, fives, and ones. The man took notice of the paltry score before him. He wasted no time clutching every last bill before he leaned in closer, his index finger wrapped around the trigger.

  "Now where's the rest?" he asked.

  "That's all we have," Christina said in shaky voice. Tears ran down her face. She knew it wasn’t true but just wanted the man to leave. The rest of the money was in the back office, but she feared that if he brought
her in there, she would never make it out.

  "Don't lie to me, bitch. Gimme the rest or I put a bullet through your head."

  "I don't─"

  "Last chance."

  "I don't know!" she cried.

  She was the only person in the store that evening, and there was only a slim chance anyone was going to come in and stop the man. There was no quick solution. He was either going to shoot her right there or take her into the office. She was frozen with fear, but her instincts told her that the back office wasn't an option.

  "We got nothing left!" she persisted. "Sales were low today."

  "Bullshit, this store makes money. I seen it. Now I want the rest or I'm-a kill you. That's a promise."

  Just when she thought there were no other options, the entrance door chimed as a pair of clueless customers walked in. The holdup man was immediately spooked, realizing that he might be in over his head. A young black couple entered then stopped dead in their tracks when they saw what was happening. Christina nearly collapsed in relief upon seeing the couple, but she also feared for their lives as well as her own. Any steps the man-made now would be irreversible. He took one look at them, and then rushed past and out the door in a fury. Christina fell to the ground on her knees crying.

  "Damn, Miss, are you okay?" the man asked while approaching her counter.

  Christina was too numb to respond. The police were called, and a report was made, but nothing ever came of it. The way Christina saw it; she would always be a sitting duck. She was unable to go back to work for a couple of days but then realized that she had to. She couldn't live her life in fear. There was an inherent risk just walking out the door, so what difference did the Dollar Store make? Next time, however, she would be prepared.