Pulse

The handle of the lamp creaked under her loose grip. She held it in front of her, though no flame emanated through the glass. Supplies were running low. The stale air left an unbearable taste in her mouth. It was a smell she had never been able to get used to, her body rejected every atom of mustiness that entered her lungs. She’d been here for too long, but there was no alternative. She stepped tentatively on the loose coals beneath her boots, careful not to start a small avalanche that would echo down the tunnels for miles. She’d been walking for what felt like weeks, it was the only thing left to do. It was slow progress as she made her way towards the city. Holding tightly to the harsh metal handle of the lamp with her left hand, her right traced the coarse, damp walls for direction. The stone oozed and was cold to the touch but it was her only guide as she shuffled onwards in the dark. The only sound was her measured breathing and the echoing droplets of water, like a metronome counting the moments she had left.

She thought back over her time underground, the pandemonium after the first Pulse, the confusion, the panic, unable to let that fear go. She stopped once she felt the corner of the stone under her fingertips, the trickle of water picking up pace at the sharp edge of the wall. She stopped and crouched, her back dampening against the stone. Listening to the echoes in the distance, she removed her rucksack and placed it on the ground silently before relenting and sitting on the coal herself. She fiddled with the lamp in the dark, creaks echoing through the tunnels, gently turning the dial on the front and finally releasing a dim flame behind the glass. The tunnel barely illuminated before her looked exactly as she’d pictured, the same as every stop she’d made. Grey, damp and empty.

Reaching within the taught zip of her outer jacket, she removed the trinket from around her neck and dangled it infront of her face. Gold plated and heart shaped, the locket shuddered in her grasp. She’d held it a thousand times, and it always filled her with hope. The gold reflected streaks of light across her face as she pressed the mechanism and the locket popped open, revealing a well worn and barely decipherable photo of a young dark-skinned boy with dimples. Her memory filled in the blanks. The locket swung in her palm, the face of the boy ever encroaching but retracting further before her. Silently, she closed the locket and tucked it tightly into her shirt, replacing the overlapping layers of clothing and foil. She brushed a stray braid behind her ear, under the heavily armoured foil-lined helmet. She always knew it was a conspiracy, seeing those nutjobs on television with their foil hats warning the masses of UFOs. She’d dismissed them, but now, desperate, she tried everything to keep the Pulse at bay. For now, it had worked.

Rummaging inside her almost empty rucksack, she removed a small dirty bottle and tipped what was left of the water into her parched mouth. She knew she couldn’t stay underground much longer. Stretching her legs and loosening her boot laces, she reached and turned off the lamp. The comforting hiss of the gas marooned her in overwhelming silence once more. She leaned back and closed her eyes, hoping to rest even for a few moments. Silence filled the air. She took thick breaths of it, bringing down her heart rate and clasped at the ever elusive comfort of sleep.

~

She awoke with a start. The wall shook behind her, vibrating with an unnatural frequency, a low deep rumble. In a blind panic, she scrambled to cover any exposed skin with her foil-lined clothes, pulling her helmet tight over her head. She waited. The rumbling continued for what felt like an age, then as abruptly as it had come, it was gone, leaving her alone underground once more. She’d covered herself in foil to reflect the Pulse; a desperate attempt to keep herself safe with a primal desire to survive. Futile she assumed, but the crackle underneath her clothes was somewhat comforting. She re-tied her shoes, shrugged on her rucksack and reached for the handle of the lamp once more. The shape of the tunnels had an unfortunate way of distorting sound and for a short while she was disorientated, but the depth of the tracks were certainly what was protecting her. This much she knew. It was the reason she and many others had taken refuge here after the Rollout. One day she knew the tunnels would betray her, but every moment until then was a blessing.

She continued walking, taking a right turn and shuffled, finally and begrudgingly towards a distant light. A platform in the distance; her portal to the surface. It was impossible not to dwell on the events of the last year as she approached the fluorescent lights of the station. As with any other seismic shift in power, it began with unrest. Riots and protests ruled the streets, demonstrating for equality and respect. She’d even been a part of it, rightfully demanding better from those in power. They’d continued through the Virus, despite the fear mongering and social guilt. A nasty strain of the flu, they said, had emerged from the East. The government, in their guise of protecting their citizens began a mass Rollout of vaccinations; “preventing the spread and devastation of the Virus”. It became mandatory, and most had obliged without suspicion. Travel cards were issued, borders were shut and businesses were closed. Only children under fourteen were spared. With the majority vaccinated, that was where the conspiracy came in, with the introduction of the Pulse.

She reached the platform, the brightness of the lighting burned her retinas and she squinted, crouching under the ledge, listening and waiting for her eyes to adjust. Removing her right glove, she placed it on the concrete platform and waited. Nothing. The stillness of the ground calmed her nerves slightly as she scrambled over the ledge and shuffled along the platform, walking heel-toe to reduce the echo of her steps. Cracked tiles on the walls showed her exactly how far she’d come. St John’s Wood. Further than she thought. She’d almost made it.

~

Nobody truly knew what the Pulse was. For her, it had to revolve around the vaccine, there was no other explanation; there was no such thing as coincidence. The Pulse had been created, she assumed, as a military weapon. A synthetic frequency that, through the chemical pathway created by the vaccine, rerouted your neurons, removing free will and making you compliant and malleable; the ideal capitalist citizen. She’d seen it first hand; the initial resistance, the tremor and finally, the internal light going out. What she had witnessed terrified her more than any amount of time in the darkness. She pulled her rucksack tightly up on her shoulder and patted herself down, a reminder of the protective layer under her clothing.

Reaching the edge of the platform, the concrete staircase stood before her, brightly leading upwards to the surface. She reached forward and held the metal banister tightly, waiting. No rumble. She began to slowly climb the stairs, hugging the banister for support. She knew they released the Pulse periodically, but she’d never been able to find a pattern. It was a risk to expose herself, but it was either this or starve alone in the dark. She could always relent, join the other’s who’d been taken, willingly or not, by the Pulse and its effects. Return to a life of menial labour, robotic, devalued. To many, no free will meant no pain, no disappointment. Some even chose it, believing identity, individuality, free thought and expression was the cause of humanity’s strife. She’d often weighed up the options, but the will to live always won out.

She had a purpose. After the Rollout, London shrank. With the only areas deemed necessary being in the centre, the rest of the city died. Condensed into eighteen blocks, Greater London had fallen to ruin. Skyscrapers larger than ever before housed, educated and were places of work for those who had survived the Virus and fallen victim to the Pulse. And that’s where they took the children.

The sunlight blared down heavily as she emerged from the depths. The streets abandoned, empty and silent. It was as if life had simply stopped still. Bags, packets, even abandoned shoes lined the roadside. People in a final act of desperation leaving everything behind to hold on to whatever freedom they had left. Most fell to the Pulse immediately. A tear escaped her eyes as a fresh breeze she’d almost forgotten about caressed her face. She darted from the safety of the station and crouched in the shadowed doorway of a video rental shop, long emptied. Unnecessary. On the horizon, she saw the tower blocks; her destination loomed over her in shadow.

Relaxing slightly, she emerged from the shadows and walked the empty streets alone. The sun was beginning to dip behind the abandoned architecture when she spotted it. An old Off Licence. Shoving through the door, she was greeted by shelves of fully stocked dry foods; crisps, biscuits, tins and cans. She frantically dropped her rucksack and tore open the zip, filling as much as she could. Leaving her belongings, she explored the rest of the shop when she spotted it, the one thing she needed more than anything else; tin foil. Sighing with relief she charged over and began pulling down rolls of the protective sheets before crouching on the ground and removing her helmet and jacket. Peeling each layer of foil from her limbs and methodically replacing it, the sweat was pouring from her. Her ebony skin was red raw from the foil, but with no time to lose, she quickly began to wrap herself up once more, leaving the discoloured, blood encrusted sheets on the ground.

She pulled the fastener tight under her chin, balancing the helmet over her braids. She returned to her belongings and carefully packed as much as she could carry. Leaving the shop as she found it, she turned and walked back the way she came, returning to the tunnels. Shadows kept her hidden above ground, but as she noticed the familiar red and blue sign in the distance, she heard voices approaching. Dull at first, they became louder as she reached the station. Strikingly, she could barely understand; no inflection, no tone, no emotion. Sounds and grunts. She reeled in horror at the thought that perhaps even communication had ceased to be efficient or even necessary in this world and crouched in the shadows waiting for the voices to subside.

She waited and waited, too long. Her calves began to cramp, when finally, she felt it. At first, she didn’t recognise the telltale hum. Placing her palm flat onto the concrete, she knew. The vibrations began slowly, building in pressure before they began to jar every molecule of her being. Her head felt warm and she fought the urge to remove her helmet. Pulling the layers of cloth and foil tight over her skin she screwed her eyes closed and curled up for protection. All she could do was breathe. Holding onto her purpose, her mind extended back to the memory of the boy, her boy and the tower blocks where they took him. Her arm reached across her chest to feel the warm metal of the heart-shaped locket against her skin. She lay on the ground and let a tear escape as she fought to stop the face of her son from fading. She looked up to the sky and breathed in the crisp fresh air as the hum began to subside, leaving her alone on the curbside once more.

Stillness resumed, no birds, no voices, no pulse.