The Pulse (9 page)

“Can I help?” he asked, even though the last thing he wanted was for her to have a reason to leave even sooner.

She hugged the backpack against her chest and shook her head. “No. Thank you.”

Damn it. He never should have told her he was a convicted murderer.

She looked at him fearfully now, and he couldn’t blame her. This was all his fault. Now there was no way she would stay with him. But for her to leave, unprotected, wasn’t right. He couldn’t let her go.

“You should pack bleach,” Mason said. “To treat water.”

Emily nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Damn it, Emily,” he said, unable to keep the frustration from his voice. “Don’t look at me like that.”

She looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry,” he sighed. “I just hate you looking at me like I’m a threat to you. I’m not. I’d never hurt you.”

“Did you say that to her, too?” she asked, her eyes blazing with anger and fear.

“Her?” Confused, Mason searched her face.
What is she talking about?

“Your victim,” she spat out.

Mason shook his head. “My victim, as you put it, was not a her. It was a him. And no, I never promised him I wouldn’t hurt him. In fact, if I remember correctly, I told him the second I saw him that he was dead meat.”

Emily gasped.

Fuck.
He may as well tell her the whole story now. Even if it meant bringing up painful memories. “Do you want to know what happened?”

She nodded mutely, still hugging her backpack to her chest as if she were a child, clutching a teddy bear for comfort.

“I have a sister named Stephanie,” he said, sitting down on the edge of an uncomfortable plastic hospital chair. “She lives in LA.”

Emily didn’t speak, but she was still listening, which Mason took as an invitation to continue. “She got attacked. Raped, by a man who worked in her apartment building.”

He felt his pulse pick up as the memory came flooding back—how he had rushed into the emergency room, only to find his sister beaten, a half-dead look in her eyes.

He pushed the memory to the back of his mind so he could focus on speaking. “I tried to play by the rules. We pressed charges. Hired a lawyer. But the—the man who ruined Steph’s life got off on a technicality. A fucking technicality!”

His voice rose in anger and he had to count to ten before he could speak again. The seconds seemed long.

Emily didn’t speak, but she hadn’t run away, either.

“Then it became clear to me—my sister would spend the rest of her life traumatized and scared, and this asshole—this rapist—would get away scot-free. So… I knew I had to take matters into my own hands. Caught up with him after he got off work and beat the shit out of him. But I couldn’t stop—didn’t want to stop. I just… kept going, kept hitting him. All I could think about was what he’d done to my sister.”

Emily still hadn’t said a word, but he knew she listened. Tears filled her eyes. Were they tears of fear… was she scared of him?

“I’m not proud of what I did,” he said. “The cops got me the very next day, and I went without a fight. I deserved to go to prison for life for what I had done. And I’ll probably go to hell for it in the next life as well.”

Mason looked down at his hands, surprised to see they weren’t trembling.

“It wasn’t my place to decide who gets to live and who should die,” he said. “I understand that now. But I can’t say I’m sorry for what I did. Because with that evil man dead, Stephanie could finally breathe again, you know?”

Emily nodded. “Yeah.”

“Do you see what I mean now, that I’m not a danger to you? I’d never hurt you, Emily. And I can’t let you run off. Because that would be like letting you kill yourself.”

Emily dropped the backpack on the hospital bed and ran up to Mason, throwing her arms around his neck. “I’m glad you killed that rapist,” she said. “We need fewer of those in the world.”

Mason hugged her tightly, burying his face in her hair. “Thank you,” he said. Knowing she didn’t hate him for his crime made him feel like a weight lifted off his shoulders.

“But, Mason,” she whispered, “I can’t stay. No matter what you say to me, I can’t stay in New York. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. I’m not safe here.”

Mason nodded even though he wanted to hold her here, tie her down and make her stay safe with him. He couldn’t keep her if she didn’t want to be kept.

Emily picked up her backpack and hefted it onto her narrow shoulders, tightening the straps so the weight was distributed equally. She stood on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on his cheek.

A chaste kiss. A kiss that said good-bye.

“Good luck, Em,” he said, his throat tight. “It was really great meeting you.” He shook his head—that didn’t sound right. They had more than just met. “If you change your mind, I’ll be at my apartment.”

He pulled a worn pencil stub from his cargo pants and scribbled his address on a scrap of litter.

Emily took it from him with shaking hands and read it before putting it in her backpack. “Thank you.”

She turned and walked out of the room and down the corridor.

Mason stepped out into the dank hospital hallway and watched as she strode determinatedly toward the front exit of Roosevelt. With no way of communicating, no phones, no Internet, unless people were within walking distance of a visit they might as well be out of his life.

He’d never see her again. Just like he’d never see his sister Stephanie again.

Emily shouldered her
bag and walked out the front door of Roosevelt Hospital, refusing to look back at Mason. If she did it would all be over. She wouldn’t be able to leave.

Why? Why did he have such a strong effect on her?

Knowing he wasn’t the cold-blooded murderer she originally thought he was made her feel safer around him.

Well, he
is
a killer
, she amended. But at least he had honorable intentions. And after life on the Tracks, she could easily understand wanting to kill a rapist.

She might try it out herself someday, if she had to. And if the army came for her, all bets were off. She’d fight to survive.

She wouldn’t go quietly, no way in hell.

Outside, Emily glanced around.

Stalled cars littered the streets, many vehicles with their gas tanks open, the gasoline long since stolen and used for fuel for older cars and some rebuilt generators, or so Emily had heard.

She hadn’t seen anything generator-powered at the camp. They must be saving the generators for important stuff. But like what?

If there was radio, what else had Colonel Lanche hid from them?

Emily needed to listen to the radio. Her shocked mental state had prevented her from listening to, from even touching the radio before Mason found her. She had to see what was going on in the outside world. But she needed to find a place she could hide out in privacy.

Looking around, she realized she’d walked over from Tenth to Fifth Avenue, arriving at the Plaza. Tilting her head up, she took in the beautiful hotel. Here would work. Why not?

It’s not like she needed a reservation.

Emily stepped into the Plaza. The smell of stale urine floated in the air, and the once magnificent front lobby was in disarray. Some asshole had even sprayed graffiti across the main concierge desk.

Looking around for the stairs, she stepped carefully over the broken glass on the floor and opened the door to the stairwell. She climbed up to the second floor, pausing on the landing.

She had to go up higher.

At the fifth floor, Emily stopped and opened the heavy door out into the carpeted hallway. The very first room door she tried swung open. Of course. The electronic locks and key cards wouldn’t work after the Pulse.

She looked around the room in awe. It was beautiful—plush, luxurious, even though it had been obviously ransacked. The bedding was missing, and someone had smashed the table to shreds, most likely to use as firewood.

She shut the door behind her and bolted it. At least the physical bolt still worked. Setting the radio on the carpet, Emily sat cross-legged in front of it and held it reverently in her hands. She cranked the hand-crank, grateful it wasn’t battery operated.

The radio seemed to come to life in her hands and she nearly dropped it. It had been that long since she’d heard a voice come out of anything other than a person. The signal was very poor, and static-y. She raised the volume, pressing her ear to the radio’s speakers.

“This is American Victory Radio,”
a man’s voice said.
“Check in daily for news from around the country as we rebuild, better and stronger than ever.”

Yeah, right
, Emily mused, but she listened anyway.

“President Powers has declined, amidst much controversy, help from United Nations officials to rebuild,”
the voice on the radio continued.
“American Victory Radio supports our new president’s decision, as America must not cede control to outside forces
.”

The UN wants to help?
Emily thought, listening in surprise. It made sense, she supposed. But once they came in and took over, they might never leave.

America would be done for.

“If you are in need of food, shelter, or medical care, there are state-sanctioned shelters in every state across the US,”
the voice continued
.

“If you wish to take federal food rations, any food you have on hand will be taken and added to the federal food bank.

“We at American Victory Radio do not advise, repeat do not advise, taking federal rations unless absolutely necessary for survival.

“And please, on that note, Americans, don’t loot from your neighbors. Don’t steal. Don’t let the terrorists who destroyed us with the Pulse destroy our integrity as well.

“We are still, after all, America.”

Wow, lots of patriotism, Emily thought. Just like after 9-11. Americans, New Yorkers, rallying together to fight against the terrorists.

She twisted the knob on the radio, hoping to find another station. Someone else in the whole of the country had to be on, right? Well, maybe they were, but she was too far to hear their station. White noise filled the room as she carefully searched the gamut of both AM and FM stations.

Emily turned off the radio and stared at it. Those other state-sanctioned shelters, what were they like? They might be—hell, probably were—as bad as Grand Central. But maybe, just maybe, they were okay. Better.

Maybe there was a farming community out there in the country somewhere she could be a part of, if she could only reach it. Someplace where she could eat chicken instead of rat. At the thought of chicken, her stomach rumbled. She was hungry already, but she couldn’t dig into her emergency supplies yet.

Something outside the door fell down with a clatter. Gasping, Emily’s head whipped around the room.

The door was locked, bolted. She should be safe. But what—or who—was out there?

Someone knocked sharply at the door. Emily shrieked, clasping her hand over her mouth in horror.

A man’s voice. “Open this door, by order of the United States Army and the New York State police under President Powers’s martial law.”

Oh God no.
This couldn’t be happening. How, how did they find her so quickly? Did they hear the radio? Did they follow her since she left Roosevelt?

Her hands trembled as she slid the radio underneath the bed and stood up.

“If you don’t open this door,” the voice said, “I am authorized to break it down. You have one last chance.”

She froze, unable to move. No way in hell she’d open that door.

She wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“Back away from the door,” a voice barked, and she cringed. A terrible smashing sound filled her ears as the door fell in off its hinges.

A group of five soldiers stormed in and she screamed. One large man stepped up to her and quickly ran his hands over her body.

Oh God, they’re going to rape me.
Then, nothing. Just a pat down.

“Clear,” the soldier said. Then he turned to her. “Where is it?”

Emily shook her head. “Where’s what?”

The soldier slapped her then, hard across the face. The sound of his hand hitting her skin rang out like a shot in the hotel room.

She held her cheek in shock. This wasn’t a soldier, couldn’t be.

A real soldier would never do these things. These men who called themselves the army were nothing more than opportunistic thugs wearing uniforms, probably taken off the corpse of a real soldier, she thought bitterly. Her cheek stung.

He grabbed her arm, yanking her forward, pushing her to the ground. She curled into a ball and covered her head with her arms, bracing herself for the blows.

They never came. The men were ransacking the room for the radio.

“Found it.” A soldier’s triumphant voice rang out.

Her heart raced. They would kill her now. Mason had been right—this was a suicide mission. She hadn’t even gotten out of fucking Midtown!

The thought of Mason steeled her resolve to fight. If she didn’t fight she’d never see him again.

The soldiers, radio in hand, stood over her on the floor. “She’d be cute if she weren’t so dirty,” one said, laughing.

“I don’t mind ’em dirty,” another said.

Emily bit back her terror and fisted her hands, ready to kick his ass, even if it was the last thing she ever did.

“Does Lanche need her for anything?” the man who slapped her asked the other soldiers.

“Let’s bring her back in case he does.” The man who had spoken looked at her and rubbed his crotch lasciviously. “You’re a whore, I can tell. You’ll make a nice addition to the Tracks.”

The other soldiers hooted and Emily spat in his face. She couldn’t go back, she’d rather die. “I’m not going,” she said, her voice hoarse from screaming. “Fuck you.”

“Oh I will,” he said, his voice deadly serious. He wiped her spit from his face with a dirty handkerchief. “You can count on it.”

He hoisted her up over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. She clawed at the soldier’s back, screaming at the top of her lungs in rage and fear. His hand came down hard on her ass, making her yelp in surprise more than pain.