The Pulse (32 page)

THE PULSE TRILOGY CONTINUES IN

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YESTERDAY.

ONE YEAR AFTER THE PULSE

Jenna
watched in horror as the soldiers dragged Taryn in front of Colonel Lanche. The soldiers had kept Jenna and Taryn separated for the past two nights, at the military camp in Grand Central Terminal in what was left of New York City.

Taryn had been kept somewhere, locked up, awaiting sentencing.

The survivors looked on, so weak from hunger and loss and the constant barrage of martial law enforced in the camp that they could barely express their concern for the girl. Any disobedience would be quelled immediately, with deadly force. They knew that now.

No one spoke up to save her, even though every woman who’d prostituted herself on the Tracks of Grand Central just to stay alive had to know that when Taryn killed that soldier in the subway, the truth about what really happened wouldn’t come from the soldiers who found Jenna, Taryn… and a dead man.

Jenna tried to catch her friend’s gaze, to let her feel her support and maybe gain some comfort from it. But the moment Taryn had saved Jenna’s life by shooting Private Andrews with his own gun, Taryn had changed. Changed from a broken, scared girl to the woman standing before them all—not frightened, but angry.

Angry at the injustice of it all.

“So you’re the girl who killed my soldier,” Colonel Lanche spat, glowering at Taryn.

Taryn glared back, staring defiantly. She’d had two long nights of waiting. Jenna imagined it would have been kinder of the army to kill her straight off and get it over with.

She choked back a sob, wishing she didn’t have to watch. Wishing that her missing roommate from the Tracks, Emily, had never killed Private Andrews’s brother, making Jenna the prime target for vengeance.

But sometimes soldiers deserved to die. If Emily were still there—and thank God for her she wasn’t—her side of the story would no doubt reveal the real reason behind the other soldier’s murder.

Lanche turned to the man holding Taryn. “Tell us what happened.”

“We heard a shot, and came into a subway car to see Private Eric Andrews shot to death on top of a whore.” The soldier found Jenna in the crowd and pointed to her. “
That
whore. And this whore here,” he said, pushing Taryn forward, “held the smoking gun.”

Lanche shook his head. He looked into the crowd that had gathered.

“This is my camp,” he screamed. “Do you really think you can get away with murder?” A vein bulged in his forehead.

The man was losing it, Jenna realized. Losing the respect of the people who had once deemed him a savior and losing his control over the camp.

“Were there any witnesses?” he asked.

The soldier gestured to Jenna. “She saw her friend shoot him.”

Jenna shook her head, unable to speak. She wouldn’t incriminate Taryn, not if she could help it.

Taryn looked at Jenna, her red-rimmed eyes calm. The anger was gone, washed away by her tears. She seemed serene now, like she had made peace with what happened.

“Tell them Jenna,” she said, softly at first, and then louder. “They need to know.” Loud enough for every man, woman and child in the camp to hear her in the silent hall. “Tell them what Emily said about the radio.”

She heard Lanche make a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

Jenna looked at her friend and nodded, perspiration beading on her upper lip. She had to speak quickly before she was shut up—permanently.

But as Jenna opened her mouth to spread the truth, Colonel Lanche lifted his rifle and pointed it at her.

“Go, Jenna, go!” Taryn cried. “Get out of here—don’t let them catch you too.”

Jenna didn’t even think; she turned and ran, zigzagging through the crowd.

She heard Taryn screaming at the top of her lungs, saying, “There’s a better life. There’s a radio, and America is rebuilding.”

The crowd murmured loudly amongst themselves, repeating what she said. Jenna could hear the wonderment in their voices, echoing behind her as she ran, ran through them all.

“Get out of Grand Central,” Taryn cried, “and find a better life.”

A shot rang out, deafening in Jenna’s ears.

Jenna stopped in her tracks, the front exit from Grand Central just steps away in front of her, a ragged cry torn from her throat.

Taryn’s tirade had been silenced. No more screams.

Oh God
, Jenna thought
. No no no, it couldn’t—

. . . but she knew it had. Lanche had executed Taryn, right then and there in Grand Central Terminal, under the clock by the information booth where so many other public hearings were done.

Jenna wanted to turn back—wanted to run back up to Lanche, to shoot him with his own gun. Wanted to see Taryn’s body one last time before it went into a mass grave, an unfitting burial for such a beautiful young woman.

A woman who tried, in her final moments, to save everyone at the Grand Central military camp. To free them from the tyranny they had been living under for the past year, living like animals. To free the women who prostituted themselves on the Tracks for a meal.

“Oh Taryn,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Jenna looked back over her shoulder toward the main terminal in Grand Central. Taryn’s last words rung in Jenna’s ears, swirling through her mind.

Get out of Grand Central… and find a better life.

The front door lay unguarded, the heavy brass handles shimmering with invitation. No soldiers blocked her path. It was now or never.

Jenna opened the door, and stepped out into the bright sunlight.

Into a brand new world.

THREE MONTHS AGO.

Ken Barker stood
in line for his morning ration, a piece of bread that had been baked with sawdust to extend the wheat supply. He’d lost twenty pounds in the past year, after the EMP, an electromagnetic pulse from a nuke, hit Manhattan—and the whole United States, from what they could tell—and the lights never came back on.

The other soldiers in line ahead of him looked the same as he did, all too thin, wearing ill-fitted military fatigues that had been, in most cases, recovered from the bodies of the soldiers who hadn’t made it.

They’d lost a lot of people within the first few months. Without grocery stores having any way to be restocked, no food coming in on trucks that didn’t run, across bridges that were jammed with broken-down cars and bodies—the shelves were emptied completely within two days.

And that was
with
the National Guard shooting looters on the spot.

The hospitals were overrun. The injured, the sick, they had to help themselves. Everyone on lifesaving medicine was now dead, the medical supplies long since cleaned out. Those healthy men and women who weren’t trampled or shot in the riots that followed the Pulse went to over-crowded FEMA camps without running water or working toilets, where they soon died of cholera.

The military encampment at Grand Central was the only place left. The only place in all of Manhattan or the outer boroughs that had some semblance of order, of discipline. The only place with food.

Central Park had been seized and was converted into a farming area, locked away from the citizens by armed guards. The food was rationed carefully so that every person in the camp could be fed—barely. The meager rations kept everyone in a weak state of near-starvation.

Unmarried women lived on the Tracks, bunking in the subway cars. Of course, the original idea was for the women to have their own quarters to keep them safe from sexual violence.

Instead, the Tracks turned into the soldiers’ private harem. The women prostituted themselves nightly for a chance to eat, to survive. Barker refused to go down there, into the bowels of Grand Central.

He’d been there once, and once was enough.

The gaunt faces of those women, some with their heads shaved just like the soldiers due to an epidemic of lice, haunted him. How had America fallen so far, so fast?

Barker wasn’t even a real soldier, never had been. But he was twenty-nine when the Pulse hit, and strong and healthy. The colonel handed him a gun—a rare treasure in a city where all guns had been banned for ages. After the power went down, the citizens were left defenseless, first against the rioters and the looters and the rapists, then against the new tyranny. Without a gun, few were able to even hunt the pigeons and rats that infested the city.

But Colonel Lanche had handed him a gun and a uniform with a bloodstain on it and pronounced him a soldier.

In return for security, in return for his rations, Private Barker’s job was clear: to maintain order in the camp, to help stomp out dissent, to keep people secure and alive until help arrived.

But people kept dying, and help never came.

“Watcha thinking about, handsome?”

The teasing, feminine voice behind him in line surprised him out of his reverie. Barker turned and saw a beautiful young woman with blonde hair—an unusual sight to see now that no one had access to hair dye. This girl was a natural blonde, her pretty face pale, with tired eyes.

Amazingly blue eyes.

The tops of her full breasts were exposed, her button-down men’s shirt opened a little too far for modesty. Still, the woman had a genuineness to her, something in her bright smile.

“Bet you’re thinking about food, huh,” she said, when he didn’t answer. “I know the feeling.”

Finally, his manners came back to him, and he offered his hand. “Private Barker, ma’am, nice to meet you.”

“Jenna, down on Track one-oh-five.” She smiled, cocking her head. “It
is
nice to meet you. Because we haven’t met before, have we? How is that possible?”

“I stay away from the Tracks.”

“You should visit me sometime. Save up an extra ration to share, and come say hi.”

He frowned down at her. “Men aren’t permitted in the women’s sleeping quarters. You know that.”

Jenna turned quickly, a pretty blush filling her cheeks. She seemed to be scanning the line around them.

“Wait,” she said. “There aren’t any authorities around. Why the goody-two-shoes act?”

“It’s not an act.”

She shrugged. “Okay. Never mind. Sorry to bother you, sir.”

Shit. Now he felt like a tool. They approached the soldiers on mess hall duty, men who served food with one hand, their other hand on their rifles, ready for trouble. They handed each of them their cup of water and one slice of bread, although calling it bread was being nice to it.

Jenna started to walk off, but Barker quickly caught up with her. “Hey. Jenna.”

She looked up at him in surprise. “What’s up?”

“Sorry for being a prick.”

She laughed, the sound so sweet and cheery he would have smiled if he weren’t sure she was laughing at him. “If that’s you being a prick, I can’t wait to see what you’re like when you’re being nice. It would probably rock my world.”

“What if I gave you this?” he asked, offering her his bread.

She took it quickly, stuffing it inside her brassiere. “Come on, let’s go. My roommate’s still up here, so we’ll have the train car to ourselves.”

“No—I mean…” Barker paused, wondering how to say what he wanted to say without offending her. She was just doing what every other single woman in the camp did to survive. It wasn’t her fault.

“Come on,” she said, taking his hand.

Her hand was so small compared to his, so fragile. All of her seemed fragile, her collarbone jutting out sharply beneath her open shirt. The fact that men abused their power over the women in the camp infuriated him. Barker would never stoop so low.

Fucking bastards.

He took a deep breath, calming himself. “I mean, I gave you an extra ration. So you don’t have to do that tonight, okay? Don’t do anything. Just go to sleep tonight. Will you do that?”

“Are you sure you’re a soldier?” She laughed, as if she were joking, but her question seemed genuine.

“No. I’m not sure at all.”

Jenna smiled. “Thank you, Private Barker.”

“You’re just going to sleep, tonight, right? Alone?” He wanted to hear her say it, so he’d know he hadn’t handed her his ration for nothing.