Circles of Displacement

by Darrell Bain

  “Cut me out Stars, Witchman and Motorcycle Man,” he said to a cohort, a blonde punk with an underslung jaw by the name of Goober. “Bring them here."

  “What are you going to do with them?” Jason asked, already suspecting.

  “I'm going to make a fucking example of them, what do you think? If any of those monkeys are trouble, those three are."

  He was right about that, Jason thought. The three men he had named were leaders of the black contingent in the prison system. Straight, all of three of them, not in for drugs or murder. They were accomplished thieves serving their time quietly, using their influence only to control contraband and to keep their fellow blacks from falling into trouble with the guards. They were just as rabidly racist as Burley, however, and Jason suddenly knew that their fate was sealed. He thought briefly of trying to intervene and then discarded the idea. It would do nothing to help and might very well result in him joining them. Better to wait and see what else Burley had planned.

  Jason watched while Burley's blonde punk prodded the three blacks out of the yard with his newly won shotgun, being very careful not to get too close to them. He motioned them into the administrative office that Simpson had made his temporary headquarters. Simpson didn't even give them a chance to talk. He raised his short-barreled twelve-gauge automatic and fired a shot into the belly of each one, splattering himself, Jason and Goober with blood and bits of flesh. Three other of his fellows watched with cold faces from behind him. Burley turned to them. “Dump those apes back in the yard so the rest of ‘em can see."

  The bodies sprawled limply in the yard moments later. One of them still twitched and moaned; the shotgun blast had been a little off center. Burley, surrounded by his cohorts, stepped onto the edge of the tarmac and addressed the remaining blacks. “Listen up, you monkeys! Your day is ended. Black ain't beautiful no more. You started out as slaves and that's what the fuck you're going to be from now on. When a white man speaks, you say yessir, and you do exactly what he says. That clear?"

  There was no answer from the black prisoners other than fearful mumbles. Burley fired the shotgun over their heads, the blast resounding in the yard like a clap of thunder.

  “I said ‘is that clear', you motherfuckers? Let me hear you!"

  “Yessir,” a few mumbled.

  “That's ‘yessir, Captain', you black bastards. Let me hear it again, and louder this time. Any motherfucker I don't hear loud and clear can answer to this!” He shook his shotgun in the air like a cudgel.

  “Yessir, Captain.” The chorus was louder this time.

  “That's better. Now line up, you black bastards, and get your chains on. No, that way, you stupid shits!” Burley gestured with his weapon. Two of his followers were ready. As each black man was passed back into the remaining portion of the building, he was affixed with leg irons and handcuffs. Slavery had returned to the North American continent.

  Jason watched the proceedings, feeling a sickness inside himself at the brutality and murders. He thought again of simply sneaking away in the night, leaving Burley to his rampages but a look outside at the surrounding scrub forest stopped him. Wherever they were, this might be all the world he was familiar with and he was reluctant to abandon it just yet, even though he knew that if he stayed, sooner or later he and Burley would clash.

  * * * *

  Sheila's tears were finished. With the resilience of youth, she adjusted. By the following morning, she determinedly put the thought of her parents out of her mind and began considering her predicament.

  She avoided the hall until after she was dressed and had something to eat, then she plundered the garage for a hammer and nails. She found some one-by-fours and two-by-fours, relics left over from when her dad had converted a spare room into a tool shop and storeroom. Checking carefully to be certain that the sloth-like animal was gone (and that no other denizen was lurking there), she nailed up a barrier in front of the tree trunk.

  She didn't think for a moment that her barrier would stop a determined attack from a really large beast, but at the very least, it would let her use the bathroom in relative comfort, even if she had to haul water from the spring to flush the commode. That done she unlocked the gun cabinet, thinking that under the circumstances (whatever they were), she ought to have some sort of protection nearby.

  Perhaps it was natural for her to pass over the thirty-thirty and the other, heavier rifle, but she had never fired either. Instead, she chose the Remington automatic .22 that she was comfortable with. She had shot it many times, mostly at squirrels and rabbits. She really had no conception of what use a rifle would be under the circumstances; she only knew that there were beasts beyond the friendly circle of familiar ground, and that she should arm herself.

  There was a natural stream not a hundred feet from the house, and she was getting very thirsty for a drink of water. Cokes and Sprites weren't satisfying her. Not only that, she needed water to flush the commode; it was starting to smell. This was nothing new to her. In the southern part of East Texas, violent thunderstorms and hurricanes were a common occurrence. Sometimes the power would be off for days.

  Handling the .22 rifle in one hand and a large bucket in the other, she left the house. If she kept her glance down low, the surroundings were entirely familiar. Sun brightened the front yard and gravel road just as she had seen them for as long as she could remember, and portions of the chain link fence remained intact. But let her glance travel far and the dark, encircling woods brought her back to the reality of the present, like returning to a horror movie after a bathroom break.

  The stream was no longer running. She stood looking at the pool of water. Minnows bounced in it the same as always, but it no longer flowed on down to the bottoms. Its origin, where it had bubbled out of the ground all her life, had gone to wherever all other once familiar landmarks were, in some other space or time.

  Shaken, she filled her bucket and returned to the house. Carrying it caused her to break out in a sweat. Even in late June, the humidity was high in this part of Texas—or wherever she was. She used part of the water to take a sponge bath, then she used most of the remainder to flush. Hopefully, she tried her radio, and got nothing but static. She took the little rifle to bed with her that night. The loneliness was awful. She thought she would give anything she ever hoped to own for some human companionship.

  * * * *

  Wanda Smith struck off the next morning, pistol in hand, determined to break the solitude of fearful waiting. She traveled east, for no good reason she could think of, carrying her bag in her left hand, pistol in her right. The bag soon grew heavy, but she lightened it from time to time by eating an apple. Occasionally she spotted an animal large enough to make her want to avoid it, but they seemed content to let her go her own way.

  As the day wore on, sunlight began dappling the forest floor in spots, making the walk seem almost like a cheerful stroll in a park, except that the wilderness of vine-tangled trees went on and on with never the slightest sign of civilization. She began to wonder if she would ever see another human being, ever again know the warmth and comfort of companionship. By the time dusk began to fall, she thought she might even welcome the sight of Colonel Brewster should he appear.

  Wanda took refuge that night in the hollow of a huge palmate-branched oak, hardly a hundred yards from the chain link fence still partially surrounding the home of Sheila Holloway.

  * * * *

  Michael Wronsen spent that night safe in his elderly Explorer, but the next morning, hunger finally brought him out of his intellectual ferment. His stomach growled painfully, and thirst was beginning to dry his mouth. He held on ‘til noon, but finally moved out, armed with only his pistol and a lonely six rounds of ammunition.

  Whatever else, he was grateful that the change had occurred in Texas, where the possession of firearms was as common as hamburger in a meat market. He soon found, however, that cowboy boots were not made for long hikes. But he pressed onward, thinking that eventually he might reac
h the city of Houston, or whatever was there in place of it now.

  He had no idea that there might be other areas of displacement until late that evening when he stumbled out into another cleared area. Looking around, he saw that the surrounding forest formed a perfect circle, just as the previous one had.

  As tired, hungry and thirsty as he was, his mind again went into the physics mode. He stopped in the center of the clearing to get his bearings. A noise behind him caused him to whirl, pistol ready. A perfectly normal house cat wrapped itself around his legs, purring happily. Now where could it have come from? There was nothing resembling a house, or any other remnant of the twentieth century in sight. He walked around the clearing, followed by the buzzing cat, which seemed to think he might have breakfast in his pocket.

  He alternated his gaze from the encircling forest to the clearing and to the ground, not really knowing what he was searching for until he found it. Footprints. An old sixteen gauge shotgun cartridge, half buried in the dirt. A stray scrap of paper, a bent nail, and finally, just as his path took him near the forest's edge, a little block of mown grass. So, a home had once been nearby, even though he thought it might now be as far away from him as the most distant star. Or perhaps near enough to touch, in another dimension, or another time, he wasn't certain of either. All he could do right now was add the fact to the data he was gathering, and wish to hell a garden, or a grocery store had been in the area. He was getting very hungry.

  Hopefully, Michael plucked a pear from a small tree growing in the clearing. He tasted, then spat out the remains. They were still weeks away from being ripe. Squaring his shoulders, he plunged into the forest again. He had been traveling in what he hoped was a straight line, but had no way of telling if that was the route he was taking. The trees he had been traveling beneath were so huge that the sun was seldom visible enough to gauge direction from it. Actually, like most travelers in unfamiliar territory where no distant or distinct landmarks are visible, his progress had curved to the southeast. By late afternoon, he was nearing the home of Sheila Holloway.

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  Nothing had changed, Sheila knew. She had slept with her rifle in bed with her and had had horrible dreams. One of them woke her, just at daylight. She gasped and cried out, then gradually came back to reality as she realized where she was. Even through the closed bedroom door, she could hear the raucous call of early rising birds, but not a sound from the rooster she was used to waking up to.

  She got up and dressed in the dim light, then cautiously opened the door into the common hall. Her carpenter work of the day before still stood, blocking the end of the hall like untidy scaffolding. She used the bathroom hurriedly, thinking as she did that perhaps she should have waited and gone outside, saving the inside room for emergencies. The commode didn't seem to be draining very well. She thought about it, and suddenly it made sense. The septic system probably flowed in the direction of the new forest next to the house. Did the strange displacement continue on underground? It was something to think about, but not now.

  The refrigerator exuded a sour smell when she opened it. She took the remains of a gallon of milk out, sniffed, then took it out onto the porch to give to the cats. They lapped at it eagerly, but she noticed that one of the kittens was missing, and the mother cat sported a torn ear. She looked out over what had once been a safe and secure yard. The circling forest still threatened, looking ominous, as she tried to peer into it's dark interior.

  Thoughtfully, she waited until the cats had finished the milk, then moved the mother cat and remaining kittens into the house. She rummaged in the storeroom and found the cat box and kitty litter where it had been stored away and placed them back in the converted garage. It was make work, of sorts, something to keep her mind occupied while she tried to figure out what she was going to do.

  Perhaps the disturbance had only been local. Suppose that only a short distance away everything was still normal? She hoped desperately that it might be, but finding out would mean tackling those dark woods, and she wasn't sure she was prepared to do that yet.

  Presently she found a warm coke. She took that and a sandwich of Spam and cheddar cheese and her little rifle out onto the porch and began to eat, feeding bits of her sandwich to the old short-tailed tom. One more day she thought, then if no one comes, I'll try it.

  Something that looked like an oversized buffalo poked its head out into the clearing. She shuddered. Or maybe I won't. God, this is scary.

  * * * *

  Wanda Smith munched another apple from the security of her hideaway, then stood and stretched. She brushed away bits of twigs and dried leaves that clung to her body and looked around her. The forest was no less threatening in the early morning light than it had been the previous evening. She wondered if she had made a mistake by leaving the area where she had originally been stranded. Well, no use thinking of it now; she doubted that she could find her way back, anyway.

  Traveling had been relatively easy; she had simply kept to the vicinity of the huge oaks and pines, where their shade stifled most other vegetation, but every tree looked the same. I'm probably lost, she thought, but at least I know where east is, and south. If I keep in that direction, eventually I'll come to the gulf. If there still is a gulf! God, what in hell has happened? Am I the only person left in the world? Presently, she picked up her bag and continued her trek.

  A few moments later, the light suddenly became brighter, as though it were no longer being filtered through the leaves and needles of the huge trees. Something metallic sparkled in front of her. She edged cautiously toward it, and suddenly, like a mirage from out of time, a chain link fence appeared before her. She whooped joyously and gripped the fence links hard, not wanting to take a chance on them suddenly disappearing like her previous world had.

  “Ow!” she exclaimed, drawing back her hand, shaking it. She had closed her fingers over a strand of barbed wire running along the top of the fence, a discouragement to cattle trying for the greener grass on the other side. Wanda flicked droplets of blood off the palm of her hand, annoyed that she hadn't seen the wire, but ecstatic at the implications. Somewhere close, there must be other people! Just the thought of seeing another person blinded her momentarily to the fact that the world had changed in a fashion she still didn't understand.

  “Hello!"

  Wanda looked up at the shout. Her heart thrummed excitedly at the sight of a young girl bounding off a farmhouse porch, almost falling as she skipped down the steps.

  Wanda looked for a gate as the girl sprinted toward her, and spotted one a few yards away, but even as she headed toward it, she saw more huge forest trees, exactly like the ones she had been trudging beneath, enclosing the cleared area around the farmhouse like a dark green wall. She opened the gate, alternating her gaze from the nearing girl and the incongruous demarcation of virgin forest and rustic homestead.

  The girl bounded into her arms just as she closed the gate behind her. A stunning impact jolted the back of her neck, and she staggered in response.

  “Oh! I'm sorry!” Sheila stepped back, one hand covering her mouth, the other still clutching her rifle. She had forgotten she was still carrying it, and as she threw her arms around the delectable sight of the other woman, the barrel had come around and struck her from behind.

  Wanda rubbed the back of her neck and grinned at the young, red-headed girl in front of her, freckles standing out prettily across the bridge of her nose and spreading across her cheeks. “Never mind. I'm so glad to see another person that you could have hit me with a sledge hammer and I wouldn't have minded."

  “Oh, me too! I thought the whole world had gone away and left me. What happened? Are my parents all right? No, you wouldn't know, but we can find out, can't we? Oh, I'm so glad to see you!” Sheila dropped her rifle and hugged Wanda hungrily again, not even noticing the other woman's disheveled appearance, or the pistol she was carrying, or the bag by her side where she had dropped it.

  Pee
ring over Sheila's shoulder, Wanda took in the cleared area surrounding the farmhouse. The area looked to be about the same extent as where she had been stranded. Her hopes fell. As glad as she was to see the young girl, the situation had not changed; it had only become more complicated. She patted Sheila's shoulder, and as gently as she could, said, “It's not that simple, hon. The same thing that happened to you, happened to me."

  Sheila backed away, bringing both hands up to her face as if trying to hide from Wanda's revelation. “Oh, no! You mean it's like this everywhere? What—oh, shit! What's happening? Have I gone crazy?"

  “I don't know what's happened, but if you're crazy, so am I. Come on, let's get away from here, and we can compare stories.” Wanda looked back over her shoulder apprehensively. During the previous day, she had caught glimpses, and seen tracks, of animals that she had no desire to meet, especially standing in the open like this. She took Sheila Holloway's hand and led her towards the farmhouse, reminding her to pick up her rifle. If what had happened to the two of them was a universal phenomenon, they would certainly be needing it.

  * * * *

  I should have been dead, Dawson Reeves thought to himself, but I'm not. Whatever the fucking hell happened, it saved me from the gurney, and that damned injection. Dawson struggled along, carrying his broken left arm in his right. He had gathered dead limbs and torn strips from his shirt to make a crude splint. He still cried out sometimes with pain when his arm was jostled, but he didn't let it slow him down. He wanted to get as far from Huntsville as possible.

  Eventually, I'll find out where I am, he thought, and then it's just a matter of getting close to some unwary person. That shouldn't be hard; he could use his obviously broken arm for an excuse, and the smudges and dirt should camouflage the white prison garb to some extent. It would be easy, he hoped, and then nobody better get in his way. No way I'll ever let myself get strapped in again.