Transient Pulse: The Shockwave Series

By Laura Juntunen

When the nation is hit by a mysterious shockwave, the resulting power outage interrupts the world as we know it. Everything that was powered on at the time of the transient pulse is destroyed, seizing cities and populations in mass explosions caused by the rippling aftershocks.

The lingering darkness severs society in two: those who choose ruinous control, stealing and murdering for provisions, and those who begin to create plans for long-term survival.

The latter includes Dixie, a strong, yet hesitant young woman living in the heart of southern California. Dixie is forced to build plans to navigate the country in hopes to find a northern safe zone with Paul, a level-headed survivalist.

When Paul goes missing, Dixie must overcome her chronic uncertainty and make the first of many life-or-death decisions:

Will Dixie choose to wait for Paul, using up their limited supplies in the delay? Or, will Dixie begin the journey on her own, possibly having to turn to the dark side of society to survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Juntunen
• Release date: Mar 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781955010061

Laura Juntunen

Laura Juntunen is a rising author of both fiction and non-fiction books. Her works include 5-Steps to Self-Made Happiness: The Happiless Chokelist Strategy, which was built around her life coaching business practices. Her debut fiction novels, The Shockwave Series, focus on post-apocalyptic survival. When not working on her author career, Laura thrives in the fitness industry as a club manager, personal trainer, and fitness enthusiast. Laura enjoys motorcycling, spending time with family, and diving into dystopian and fantasy novels with a glass of whiskey in her hand. Laura reads, writes, and podcasts out of central Indiana where she lives with her partner Brian and their two bunnies, Flop and Buck.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Dixie cleaned her gun , a nine-millimeter Smith and Wesson, smooth and cold to the touch. The gun slid into the waistband of her jeans, feeling awkward and heavy; she had never carried one before. Pacing across the room, Dixie practiced pulling the gun from behind her back and aiming at the blank television screen. With the shadowed reflection as her target, Dixie had a vague idea of what it would look like to have someone shoot at her.

It seems life-like enough, she thought.

Dixie looked down at her gun, analyzing the shiny, yet rough handle, the white sightline dots down the top, and the way it sat, snug in her palm. The idea scared her.

I could never shoot someone, not even an animal.

Dixie had been looking forward to never having to do something like that, to take an innocent life. Paul was the one who was comfortable around guns, he was going to be doing the killing if it was necessary.

The thought of Paul brought Dixie back to her reality. The decision that laid before her was not one that she wanted to make. She had not seen Paul since he left to fill the final five-gallon tanks with gasoline. With uncertainty of how much gas or supplies they would need for their trip, they figured it would be better to be safe rather than sorry later down the road.

Can we even call it a trip? Dixie wondered as she pushed an extra pair of socks into her grab-bag.

Dixie and Paul had resolved to travel one thousand miles across the country to Paul’s family’s home in Canada. They had not heard from his family since before the electric pulse hit. Despite this, they had decided to traverse the country, knowing that there was more hope in Canada than in a dilapidating city.

The aftermath of the shockwave was too devastating to hope for any type of recovery in San Francisco. Yet no one knew if the neighboring countries had been hit by the electric pulse, nor if the entire United States had been stuck. The only evidence of hope was the radio waves, where radio announcers were attempting to provide information as quickly as they could.

Dixie thought back to her conversation with Paul. Dixie had argued that they did not know if their family was dead or alive. The trip was not guaranteed to be successful if there was no one to help them once they arrived in Canada. There was no way of knowing if the sister country held a safe zone, nor what they would find when they arrived. Dixie struggled with the options, and in the end, Paul had convinced her that it made sense to take their chance with Canada.

Dixie and Paul watched their community become a wasteland as the population died in the four weeks since the shockwave struck. Death was around every corner, either from physical ailments, accidents, or other survivors. The transient pulse had killed most of the population right away. Those who survived suffered a worser fate; it was now a kill or be killed mentality that crippled the once thriving society.

After regular work and social order were no longer an option, supplies had started to dwindle. The gas stations and grocery stores had been raided or held against their will. Some of the more ruthless survivors were now called Chasers. These groups of outlaws had begun hoarding supplies and killing people, chasing their victims to their death. This transformation of the community caused bartering to become a common practice.

Four weeks without power. Four weeks of hunger, confusion, and murder. Four weeks since the shockwave hit the nation. The world had changed, along with the people in it. Now, with so little understanding of what she could be stepping into, Dixie had to make a crucial decision.

All that had been left to do was stock up on fuel so they could start driving to hopeful safety. Paul had left to do this and had not come back. It had been two days and it was now past their initial deadline to leave their home. The indecision in Dixie’s mind was killing her as she sat, using up her resources waiting for Paul to return. Dixie needed to make her decision.

Dixie went over the options again, speaking to herself. Should I stay and wait for Paul? Her body straightened, trying to take a diplomatic, logical stance.

Well, I don’t know what happened to him, she swallowed, speaking to herself. She paced back and forth in their small, dark kitchen. I don’t know if he is dead or alive, or if he is on his way back to me.

She fought the recurring question in her head. Will I ever see him again? It kept repeating in her mind, making the decision insufferable.

Dixie and Paul had been married for only a year. They had met in their final year of college and knew each other for a few months before marrying on their graduation day.

Dixie had met Paul’s family once, shortly after graduation, when deciding if they should leave the south and move up to Paul’s childhood home. Rather than a honeymoon, they vacationed in Canada, staying for ten days that first summer together. His family was important to Paul, and Dixie did not mind postponing the honeymoon for a few years.

Paul’s mother Wanda had abused the newlyweds, angry they had married without her knowledge or presence. The first few days of their visit were difficult, but Wanda grew to be a mother to Dixie. And though she had only known the family a short time, they were all she had now. Dixie was grateful to have Paul’s family, as her own parents had passed when Dixie was a child. Growing up in the foster care system had not provided a circle of safety to cling to. Dixie felt she had finally found a new support system.

Dixie thought about the family home in Canada, located far into the countryside. If the area had been struck by the pulse, there would be less violence compared to the cities in central California. Some sense of safety could be expected. If Canada had not been struck, it would be a refuge of safety.

Paul’s argument to pursue Canada sped through her head as she returned to her initial train of thought.

Or, she continued to herself, should I wait for Paul to return?

Dixie looked at the pile of supplies remaining in the apartment. She had put most of the boxes into her truck already. She knew that the supplies would run out if she waited.

To leave and assume Paul is dead. Or to wait, and hope he returns before I use up our resources.

Either way, a decision had to be made, and quickly. They would have to stop and restock at some point. But if Dixie left now, alone, she would be able to make it without having to stop.

Dixie turned to the kitchen counter where the maps were laying. The mismatching papers overlapped, creating a single line from San Francisco to Kelowna, Canada. Paul had plotted out their route; it would be at least seventeen hours if they were traveling steady without breaks. The fact that they had maps was a miracle in itself. GPS and Google Maps were the navigation tools in society, paper maps were a thing of the past.

Thanks, mom and dad, Dixie thought to herself as she picked up the worn and wrinkled papers, placing them into sequential order for the travel ahead.

Dixie gathered her thoughts; she had food, water, and a weapon. All that was left to pack up was the extra fuel source. Dixie shook her head, realizing that if Paul did not return, she would have to stop to get more fuel. She walked to the bathroom, shadows covering her features as she turned to the sink.

I am on my own, she whispered.

Dixie stood, leaning on the countertop as she looked in the mirror. Without running water for the last four weeks, sponge baths had been the only option. Her dark brown hair was wilting and dirty, turning grey from malnourishment, the usual auburn tint extinguished. Her frown line deepened on her forehead as she strung her hand through her hair, combing out the knots. She paused, looking at her dark blue eyes; the exhaustion was evident. The circles lining her lashes had deepened over the last few days. The once full and bright lips were now dry and flaking; lightened to ash and thin with thirst.

Dixie continued the analysis of her body in the mirror, drifting her gaze down her skin. She strained to flex her arms as her eyes followed the faint blue veins, the streets on the map of her existence. She saw her fingernails, broken and filled with dirt. Her body had narrowed, though it still held the muscle she had worked so hard to build. The worst of what Dixie saw was not in her physical features, it was within. She began searching her face for another option, another path to her future. Though she knew what she needed to do, she could not release the struggle; she could not accept the answer.

Dixie kept fighting, knowing that she was wasting precious time. He might be dead, Dixie thought to herself. Her finger slid through her hair, pulling it back into a braid one strand at a time.

The morning sun streaked through the frosted window above the bathtub. It illuminated her skin and cast shadows on the wall beside her. She looked at the shadows and then turned towards the window. She closed her eyes and let the light and heat of the rising sun envelope her features. She began to see hope in the sunlight.

Dixie’s breath was speeding up as she let the reality of her next steps sink in. She walked to the living room and towards the blinds at the front window of their apartment.

I’m wasting time; I might as well go, right? The indecision built up within her. If she left, only to find out that he had returned after her departure, she would kill herself of guilt.

But what if he’s dead? If he is dead, he would want me to leave on my own, not waste time and supplies waiting for someone who would never show up, right? The thoughts swirled through her mind as she retraced their last moments together.

The quick squeeze Paul had given to Dixie’s arm came into mind and the feeling of his touch reappeared to her body. The pressure was remembered; the stroke of his thumb on her elbow; his usual smell of spicy cologne and lazy Sunday afternoons. The senses flooded Dixie’s memory. She could feel the tears filling behind her tired eyes, the rims red from struggling to stay awake. Not a tear could fall. Not yet, she thought as she squeezed her eyes shut, giving up is not an option.

The gun created a huge bulk underneath Dixie’s shirt, obvious to a knowing eye. Dixie swung a jacket over her back to conceal the lump. It did not work, but she did not have time to worry about it. She grabbed a bag of supplies, opening the front door, and making her way to her truck.

Dixie had been trying to be discrete with bringing bags and supplies to her vehicle; there was no way of knowing who you could trust.

Most neighbors were hunkering down except those who did not have the means to hold tight, and Dixie knew they would leave her alone. There were many though, who had to steal supplies and provisions to stay alive. The gangs of teenagers were specifically becoming an issue.

These young, unknowing minds were choosing to gang up rather than stay with their families. They would raid cars and apartment complexes and had been lingering nearby for the past week. They would knock on doors, acting innocent and in search of food. As soon as a naive patron would open their door, the rest of the gang would jump from their hiding places and barge in, leaving terror in their path. Luckily, that is all they left: fear. The real threat were the adult groups who would resort to killing.

Dixie, having been alone the last two nights, was trying to stay sane through her fear. After the teenagers had begun looting the apartment complex, she had started sleeping in the crawl space above her bedroom closet. The child-gang knocked her door down the first night Paul was missing. She had not lost much that night, the kids had not cared for the bulk of the supplies she had. Her alcohol stash had been the biggest loss; the teenagers had found the things she had wanted them to find, nothing more.

The Chasers were those who would have taken all her supplies if given the chance. They did not have a conscience, they no longer cared for anyone but themselves. And they would not stop their mission with only the supplies; they were killers, they were the real threat. The Chasers were found wherever gunshots were heard. No one felt safe on their own. It was everyone on their own; none of the all for one and one for all nonsense.

The neighbors had come by after the child-gang raid events. Dixie had been there, hiding with most of her supplies in the ceiling above her bedroom closet. She did not respond to their knocking.

These neighbors were supportive and helpful to Dixie, even though they had hardly spoken before the shockwave.

There are still good people in the world, Dixie thought as she paced through the events of the last few weeks.

Dixie had thought most of her neighbors had died off. Afterall, half of the population had died after the first shockwave; the remaining population had begun killing each other for survival. Those who made it through the killing sprees began going mad or were in hiding from the insane. Everyone was starving to death. Neighbors would reveal themselves, but rarely. Dixie felt bad for ignoring their knocking, packing up her belongings, and leaving them behind. But she had to think about her own survival.

People had left earlier, packing up in the middle of the night. Some fled in secret, some waved goodbye with nothing to hide. And then some had not meant to disappear. The woman from across the hall told Dixie she was bringing her youngest daughter to the hospital. The woman said she would be back within an hour and had asked Dixie to tell her husband when he returned from the store. The woman never came back. The husband never returned either.

Their two teenage children had been left in the apartment, later claimed by one of the child-gangs. They had been abandoned, or so they thought, but no one knew. Had the woman left with her youngest, hoping to make it on her own? Had the couple planned to escape without their older children?

No, that couldn’t be it, no one was that heartless, Dixie thought. She then reconsidered the idea. It’s not out of the question, I suppose. I was abandoned. Many times.

Dixie’s upbringing in the foster care system flashed through her mind and she shook her head to end the memory. No, she resolved, the most logical explanation would be that they were injured or killed while they were out.

Only a few hospitals were left functioning and they were under high patrol. If someone went towards the entry doors too fast, they were shot down by the guards, thinking it was an ambush. This had happened more than once. Dixie had heard stories on the radio and in passing with the few neighbors she still trusted.

The memories of the neighbor’s stories were swirling in her mind as Dixie placed the last bag of supplies into her truck. She made her choice; she was going to leave, hoping that Paul would be close behind her and able to catch up. They had planned on taking her truck, Paul’s vehicle being left behind where it shorted out during the initial shockwave.

Paul had gotten help from a neighbor to tune up her truck the week before. The neighbor had been a mechanic and was eager to help in exchange for some maps of various southern routes. He had cleaned up the motor, changed the oil, checked the tires, and given them some extra tools for when they would be traveling. He did all this in exchange for some simple maps.

The mechanic and his family had left the day before Paul had disappeared. Dixie wished they were still around but realized that it would not have been beneficial. They were going east, over towards the gulf; she needed to go north.

But still, Dixie sighed, it would have been nice to have them nearby the past few days.

Dixie was on her own. She kept reminding herself of this, not wanting to admit it, but knowing she had to. It was not much of a choice. Each night there were more gunshots, screaming, and fires. This had caused the air to feel dry and it choked the neighborhood of the usual spring breeze.

Dixie ran up to the apartment one last time, to see if she had missed anything. She kept an eye on her truck; she never knew when there would be kids running around grabbing what they could find.

Dixie looked at the bedroom and felt the loss of comfort she knew she would not have while traveling. She grabbed the air mattress from the closet. She strapped the mattress to her back and clipped a water bottle to it. Again, she looked around the apartment. There would be nothing left for Paul if he ever returned. She decided to leave a water bottle on the counter in case he did return, along with a note. She did not want anyone trying to track her down, so she wrote:

I’M FOLLOWING OUR PLAN.

Dixie looked at the note and the water bottle, realizing it was not enough to help him. Her heart burned with guilt as she went back to the pen and scribbled:

I’M SORRY. I LOVE YOU.

They had not planned on getting separated. They had not thought getting split up would be a possibility, especially before they started traveling. Dixie remembered Paul’s instructions. If they got separated on the road, they would continue pursuing Paul’s childhood home on their own. Since this was the plan for when they would be traveling, Dixie understood that it was what Paul would want. This gave her a small release of pressure in her chest; she had to follow their plan.

Paul had gone over the directions with Dixie and made her memorize the roads and turns they would take to get to his family. The maps were now packed away and out of sight in case she was stopped on the road. Hiding the maps was safer than using them; she would only retrieve them if she got off track. But Dixie was confident in her memory. She would have the route etched in her mind for the rest of her life; every morning and night she repeated the route, ensuring memorization.

Dixie shook her head to get herself back into the present moment and looked around. Tears were welling up behind her eyes again.

No! She yelled at herself. You’re not allowed to cry. You can cry when you make it to Wanda; when you get there and see Paul waiting for you. You can do this. Don’t cry. Her attempt at a pep talk gave her the minimal amount of reserve that she needed. There was nothing left to do but leave.

As Dixie closed the apartment door, she pulled out her key and locked the bolt. She laughed to herself. If anyone came to the apartment, they would not check the lock, they would break down the door. There was no reason to lock doors or have a sense of security. She left the apartment key hanging in the door.

Dixie turned around and ran down the stairs to her truck. She jumped in and locked the doors with a push of a button.

Would that keep anyone out? Dixie took a deep breath. This is the last time I will see our apartment, this state, this life. This is the last time that I can have a moment of weakness.

Dixie shuddered and a tear tried to escape. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to be numb.

There is no turning back.

CHAPTER 2

Dixie started the engine to her dark gray 90’s ford Bronco, the old hum of the vehicle livening her spirit. The truck had been restored and had few issues left to fix. Dixie had been