by Darrell Bain
Reeves blinked and tried to twist in the chair. Michael reached and gripped a handful of hair, jerking Dawson's head from side to side. To Dawson, it felt like a hot coal being rattled in his skull.
“Answer me. Do you know what will happen if I'm not satisfied with what you say?"
“No,” Dawson muttered. He still couldn't think of anything worse than that awful lethal syringe, and he still was determined to give as little information as possible. At the very least, it would prolong his life, painful as it had suddenly become.
Michael shook his head again, and then released his hold on Dawson's hair. “It's very simple, Mr. Reeves. The first time—the very first time—that I catch you in a lie or think you're not being truthful with me, I'm going to leave."
“Leave?” Dawson couldn't believe that. It didn't make sense.
“That's right. Leave. Then, I'll tell those two women in there that you don't feel like talking. I may come back later to see how you're doing, but probably not. You look bad enough now. I don't think I could stand the sight of you after they finish."
Michael was no psychologist, but his instincts were sure and certain. The worst fate Dawson could ever imagine was being tied, helpless, while one of his victims was free to do with him as she pleased. He broke, completely and utterly.
An hour later, Michael left the man alone in the room, completely wrung out. To the man's blubbering request to use the bathroom, he gave a curt reply: “Piss in your pants, you son of a bitch."
Wanda put a finger to her lips as he closed the door behind him. “Sheila is sleeping. I had some Valium in my purse,” she whispered. Michael followed her out onto the porch. They sat down on a couple of wrought iron chairs.
“What did you find out?” Wanda asked in a tight monotone. She sat with her hand near her pistol. The last few experiences with men gave her little enough reason to trust the male species. Just the sight of Michael's bearded face caused her to shrink inside, like a porcupine coiling up and displaying its barbs.
Michael noticed her reaction. He rubbed his whiskers as if to brush them away. He spoke pleasantly. “Quite a bit. Is there a map around here?"
“I saw an atlas earlier. Wait here, I'll get it."
Michael turned the pages until he found the map of Texas. He circled the spot on the map where he had been stranded, then added the several areas of displacement he thought he had traveled through. Then, he made a circle on the map representing the city of Huntsville. “Now, do you know for certain where we're located?"
Since Wanda had already gotten that information from Sheila earlier, she showed him, watching as he drew another small circle. “Good. Now let's mark where you were stranded.” Wanda told him and he marked it on the map, wishing as he did that he had a service station road map rather than the smaller page from the atlas.
“I think I see. You're suggesting a pattern to the areas of displacement,” Wanda said.
“Right. Now, did you pass through any other areas that you think were displaced?"
Wanda thought, and then tentatively pointed out two more points on the map. “That's all I'm certain of. There may have been more.” She was impressed. This matter-of-fact man who had rescued her and Sheila was nobody's fool. She admitted to herself that until now, she had not even thought to look for a pattern to the sudden disappearance of civilization. She was glad that she hadn't shot their prisoner when all her instincts told her she should have. Moreover, maybe Michael Wronsen wasn't so bad, even if he was a man.
“OK, that will do for now,” Michael said, “although it's sort of hard to make sense of things on the scale of this map. There's too much clutter on the page. Is there any paper around?"
“I'll find some.” Wanda searched through drawers until she found a yellow legal tablet and brought it back out to their table. “Will this do?"
“Good enough.” Michael smiled at her, noticing as Wanda allowed the frown she had been wearing to leave her face. Maybe she was willing to work with him now, he thought, especially if he could make some sense of the sudden changes that had occurred.
Michael measured the proportions of the map, and then carefully drew the circles they had agreed upon on a blank tablet page, expanding the scale. When he had finished, he had a picture confirming his suspicions. Wanda stood beside him, looking down at it. “You see?” Michael asked, looking up at her.
“Not completely."
“It's simple, or at least I think it is. See how the top areas of displacement form an arc? Then look—if you extend the areas beneath, they also form an arc. Then, there is the displacement at Huntsville, where Reeves got loose. If we extrapolate like this—” He drew more circles. “—then the displacement areas form concentric arcs, with Huntsville at the center."
Wanda peered closely at the drawing. “It looks like there's some missing areas. There should be a ring of displacements just outside the center at Huntsville, and others circling to the north if you continue the pattern."
“Right. I think there is, but we just don't have any information from those locations. The pattern suggests it, though. All we have to do is look."
Wanda turned her gaze from Michael's drawing to his face. He wasn't smiling at all. What am I missing? Damn, I'm an Army officer so I ought to be able to read a map better than a civilian! “Is there anything else? Other than that you seem to be suggesting that we should go look for other people west and north of here."
Michael hesitated before answering. “There may be other areas outside what I've shown you, but look: even if there are, and if they conform to the pattern we're seeing, they would be progressively further apart.” He waved his hand toward the surrounding jungle. “We could search forever and not find them. On the other hand—"
“The closer to Huntsville, the closer together they would be. And it's too far to try to explore north of there. Yes I see it. Sheila should be able to travel in a couple of days, and we can go look around closer to Huntsville.” Wanda appeared to brighten, “We may find other survivors—other women?” She looked into Michael's face and noticed that he didn't seem to share her enthusiasm. He still seemed to be holding something back.
“What's wrong?"
“Reeves told me that he thought he wasn't the only prisoner who escaped when the change came. There might be many of them, and they are probably armed."
Wanda drew in a breath. “Shit. Nothing's ever simple.” They were still contemplating the idea when they were startled by a rifle shot from within the house.
They both jumped up and ran back inside. Two more shots echoed through the house as they ran, but Michael already suspected what had happened, and he was right. Sheila stood beside Dawson Reeve's body, the little .22 rifle already drooping. As they came into the room, it dropped to the floor, and she stood beside the body of her tormentor, body shaking as if it were fevered. Blood dribbled from three neat holes in Reeves’ head. His last victim had become his executioner.
Michael watched as Wanda wrapped Sheila in her arms and turned her away from the body. She glared at him over the girl's shoulder. He took the hint and left them alone, wondering how this situation would play out. From the look in the older woman's eyes, it didn't seem all that promising.
* * * *
McMasters had climbed to the top floor of the two-story home where he and Bucks and the girls had taken refuge. It was pure impulse, or perhaps a relic of his army days; he wanted to get a good view of the countryside. What he saw made him curse out loud.
In the distance, a white clad man was prodding Doris along with the barrel of a rifle, away from the house. Already, they were almost a hundred yards away, and McMasters had left his rifle downstairs. Had he brought it with him he would have had a clear shot, but by the time he got downstairs and out onto the porch, Doris and her captor were out of sight.
“What's wrong,” Bucks asked, holding the old shotgun nervously when he saw the grim expression on McMaster's face.
“Someone has grabbed Doris. You stay here w
ith the girls. I'm going after them.” He heard a gasp from inside the house, and figured that must have been Judy, Doris’ daughter. Well, no time to console her now. He ran down the steps, boot heels clicking.
McMasters tried to hurry at first, but then slowed. It would do no good to get Doris’ abductor in sight, then be too winded and shaky to hold his rifle steady. A lifetime of cigarettes and strong drink had slowed him down and he knew it, even if he was still only in his fifties. Guess I'll quit smoking and drinking now; the incongruous thought came as he made himself slow down. Cigarettes and liquor were apt to be in short supply for the rest of his life.
In the distance, Roscoe Billings taunted Doris as he hustled her along. “You got a good time coming, girl, and the rest of ya'll, too, soon as we get back. We got dozens of cons ain't had a woman in years."
Doris stopped. Cons? Convicts? Roscoe lashed her with the rifle barrel. “Get a move on woman. We got a long way to go. Say, I bet even Jason will want a turn with you, or one of those other little Honeys.” He laughed cruelly, anticipating the hurrah that would greet him when he got back to Huntsville.
Behind them, McMasters was puffing. He slowed, walked for a few minutes and then increased his pace to a dogtrot. Where in hell were they? He suddenly thought of the saber-tooth that had taken the girl and remembered to look over his shoulder and to the sides occasionally. Finally, he caught a movement in front of him, a blur of white that disappeared as he watched. He tried to increase his pace, but soon slowed again. Never mind, he would catch up, soon now.
It appeared that Roscoe wasn't as perceptive as McMasters. Entranced by the thought of how his status would increase by bringing back news of women to the cons, he failed to check his surroundings often enough. His first warning was a shot from somewhere behind him.
McMasters saw three huge wolves rushing toward the couple just as they came into plain sight. They had been drawn to the area by the scent of blood from the tiger's kill, but had found slim pickings there. Now, though, other prey was in sight. McMasters had no time to even shout a warning. Gasping, he raised his rifle, picked up the lead beast in the scope and fired with the calm urgency he had once displayed in combat. The wolf went down, but the wound was not fatal. It was on its feet again in seconds.
Roscoe whirled, saw the charging beasts and forgot all about Doris. He fired quickly, missed, then missed again. His next shot took the second wolf in the chest in mid leap just before it crashed into him, almost three hundred pounds of black furred muscle. He went down, his rifle jarred from his hands. From somewhere behind him he heard another shot.
Doris screamed and ran back the way they had come.
McMasters worked the bolt of his rifle frantically, zeroing in on the third wolf as it veered toward Doris. He missed, worked the bolt again and dropped it just as it was preparing to leap. While he was busy, Roscoe scrambled from beneath the dead weight of the wolf he had shot and scuttled away. The first wounded wolf was limping in his direction. He turned tail and ran, forgetting all about his rifle.
McMasters didn't waste any more ammunition. For all he cared, the wounded wolf could have whoever had captured Doris. He ran to meet her, shaking now that the crisis was over. Doris flung herself into his arms. He patted her shoulder, even as his eyes roamed the tree-studded grassy veldt, searching for any further danger.
“Hurry! Let's get out of here!” Doris urged. She was on the verge of hysteria.
“We're safe for now. Wait here,” McMasters said. But Doris refused, following almost close enough behind to trip him.
McMasters eyed the two dead wolves warily, amazed at their size, but that wasn't what he had come back for. From the corner of his eye, he had seen a rifle go flying, and that was what he was after. Carnivores here, wherever here was, seemed to have little fear of man and the better armed they were, the better he would like it. He spotted the abandoned rifle and picked it up. He checked that it was still loaded and handed it to Doris. “Here, carry this but, be careful, it's ready to fire.” He thought briefly of trailing the man who had abducted Doris, then decided it would serve no useful purpose. He was probably too winded to catch him anyway, and there was always the possibility he carried another weapon, or that there were other of the huge wolves around.
“Come on, let's get back.” Doris was only too glad to go with him. A little later, after she had calmed down, she repeated Roscoe's comments. McMasters had no trouble believing her. A gang of convicts loose in a world of saber tooth tigers and giant wolves made as much sense as anything else. He wondered again if he should have trailed the convict and tried to catch him, but finally decided he had done what was best under the circumstances. As the house came back into view and Doris hurried on ahead, a scenario began to run through his mind. It's going to be like combat again, he thought. If that sucker gets back to Huntsville, he and his buddies will be back, and it won't be so easy next time. Not with only two rifles and an old shotgun and not much ammunition. And two-dozen or more women to protect. McMasters began to consider moving his charges, but as yet, he had no idea where they might go.
* * * *
Melanie carried Peggy's nursing bag over one shoulder and held onto Peggy's hand as often as she was able to as they trudged beneath huge oak and pine and sweet gum trees. Often, tangles of blackberry vines growing where a forest giant had fallen and provided an area of sunlight hindered their progress. Peggy tried to work her way around those obstacles, but often avoided them only to blunder into mazes of muscadine and mustang grapevines growing from the moist earth before attaching to the trees. Several times an hour, she assured Melanie that yes, they were ‘trying to find momma,’ but she had about given up hope. Once, they saw an animal that could have made four of them. Although it vanished from sight before Peggy could tell exactly what it was, she was certain that no denizen such as that belonged in Texas. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what it was anyway. She held tight to the grip on her little pistol after that, trying to suspend belief in the animal. Something like that just can't be, she thought, it just can't.
Peggy kept them headed in the direction of where she thought the town she remembered might be located, trying to keep her hopes up, but it was hard to be optimistic. Had it not been for Melanie's cheerful acceptance of the incongruous surroundings now that she had company, she might have despaired but the little girl's presence steadied her. She prayed silently for relief while she thought of her own child and husband. Late that evening it seemed that her prayers had been answered again.
Dustin was talking to the two teenage boys, Gerald Blackson and Randy Shelton. Randy was tall and brown, Gerald equally tall, but thinner, and much darker. He wore his hair in an abbreviated Afro. The deputy had drawn the boys back into the confines of the feed store, away from the others, where he wanted to make certain they understood his instructions.
“Make sure your girlfriends and everyone else understands, hear? Watch them two old biddies especially. We need to eat up the food that will spoil first. After that we can work on the cans and dried stuff. If I'm not handy, tell those other folks I said so. Now hold up your right hands. I'm going to swear you in as deputies so you got some authority if you have to crack down on anybody."
The two teenage boys grinned, then became solemn when Breedlove frowned at their merriment. “This ain't no joke, boys. God only knows when we'll ever find out what's happened here. In the meantime, you're young and strong. I'm going to be counting on you to help maintain order until we get some relief."
Breedlove's stern words got their attention. For the first time in their young lives, they were being treated entirely as adults, even to being given authority over the old ladies and the dispirited middle-aged couples who were still thinking that the disaster was something natural and that, momentarily, government help would arrive. Breedlove had about given up on that idea but he wasn't yet ready to spread it around. The boys listened with growing respect. The death of their friend, and even more, the fact that Carla had taken up
with the policeman, impressed them with the fact that they were involved with something more than just an adventure.
“What about the night watch you want to keep?” Randy asked. “Do the girls stand watch too?"
“They'll have to, soon, but I want to spend tomorrow with them first, to get them checked out with their guns. Until then, they would probably be more dangerous to us than anything else.” Neither of the boys asked how long the watches might continue, and Dustin was grateful for their lack of curiosity. He had no idea himself how long it would be before relief came, if it ever did. He was getting very worried, but he wasn't about to let it show, not while everyone was looking to him for leadership. The only bright point he could think of was that the feed store owner had also been a gun dealer and now he had everyone well-armed.
“Deputy! Come quick!"
Ohmigod! Breedlove thought. Please don't let it be one of the girls. Damn it, he had told them to stay inside one of the other buildings while he was talking to the young men.
Carla burst into the room of the feed store, her chest heaved with excitement. “Dusty, someone's coming! A woman and a little girl!"
Thank the Lord! Breedlove ran out of the feed store with Carla, followed by the boys. Already, the two strangers were drawing close, a woman who looked to be in her thirties, accompanied by a small blonde girl, clinging to the older woman's hand. They appeared to be just about at the limit of their endurance. The woman in particular looked to be so exhausted that he doubted if she could have made it much farther.
“Thank God! Thank God!” Peggy cried, tears streaming down her face. The sight of familiar buildings and other human beings lifted the despair hovering over her like the sudden appearance of blips on a flat line EKG.
“Ma'am, would you mind pointing that little pistol in another direction?” Breedlove asked. The woman was wild-eyed, dirty, bug bitten and so scratched from briars that her body looked as if she had tangled with a gang of unruly cats. The sudden hope of rescue drained out of him as if someone had told him his lifeboat was leaking.
