Circles of Displacement

by Darrell Bain

  Peggy blinked stupidly, and then shoved her pistol into a pocket. “We've been wandering for days. I thought everyone was gone. I thought we had gone back in time or something. Oh, I'm so glad to see you! Please, I need to call my husband."

  “The phones aren't working. Ma'am. I'm sorry, but we're stranded too. There hasn't been anyone but us here for days.” Dustin stood helpless while he watched the woman's hopeful expression sag.

  “You, too? Oh my God. I thought it was just us. What—where—?” Peggy could not go on. Her shoulders slumped in total defeat. Her husband. Her daughter. Where were they? Where was she, for that matter?"

  “Let's get y'all inside ma'am, then we can compare stories,” Breedlove said gently. Leading her into the confines of the feed store, he was thinking that if these two were here, then there might be others. Maybe things weren't quite as bad as he thought. I'll have to find out, he thought. It don't look good, though, it surely don't.

  Peggy followed the uniformed man into the bowels of the feed store. The sign in front was familiar, at least. She had passed it many times while making her rounds, but dear God, where was the rest of the town? The surrounding forest loomed darkly, like death hovering over a terminal cancer patient.

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  Jason watched as Burley Simpson tilted the remainder of a half-pint of Old Crow whiskey to his lips, drained the bottle, and tossed it away. It sailed through the open door and crashed into the hallway, where broken glass already made progress painful. Jason said nothing. So far as he was concerned, the sooner the liquor was gone, the better. At the rate Burley and his men were drinking, that couldn't be too far off. Already, Burley was rationing the liquor, even among his own circle of cronies, but he put no limit at all on his own consumption, as if trying to make up in a few days for all the years he had gone without. Jason could see that Burley was getting so unpredictable and arbitrary in his drunkenness that occasionally he thought of simply stealing away in the night and forgetting about the whole system. Only the knowledge of the probable fate Burley had in mind for the chained up black prisoners and his responsibility to his own few followers held him in check. That, plus the fact that he knew of nowhere to go. He waited; soon, he hoped, Burley would provide an opportunity for some sort of positive action. The man was too stupidly crazed with power and rancid hatred for the present situation to last long, but Jason wasn't looking forward to a confrontation. Of the free cons, he could count on support of less than a third of those whose skins were light enough to keep them out of chains. Burley had already executed the most militant blacks, but even if he managed somehow to free the rest, he wondered how many would accept his leadership. He knew it would be hard to stay retribution from the blacks if they were freed; and actually, he wasn't even opposed to the idea, so long as it didn't go too far.

  Jason was also, at times, wondering why he should even bother. As it stood, whatever remained of the human race would perish eventually anyway. The two nurses, and the several other women who had been captured, were mostly past the childbearing age, and the way Burley and his gang were abusing them, they wouldn't last long anyway. It hurt him to see the women being used so brutally, just as it hurt to see the blacks in chains, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it right now. Trying would just force a fight between his friends and Burley's cutthroats—a fight that he couldn't win.

  While Jason waited and hoped for a chance to break Burley's grip on the convict society, he occupied himself with exploring that area of Huntsville which hadn't been taken in the change, checking back now and then with the few men he was certain were loyal to him. He even had a few doubts about them. So far as he knew for certain, he was the only innocent man from the prison who had survived the change, and he wasn't even sure of his own motives.

  Over the years, he had gradually adjusted himself to the hard life of imprisonment. His sudden freedom, albeit a most curious one, was now giving him trouble adjusting. He finally decided to trust those men he knew well and let the chips fall where they may. After all, there wasn't much other choice, other than simply disappearing into the forest, and he wasn't ready to do that just yet.

  Jason returned from one of his surveys and found Burley still working through the remaining liquor, giving no thought to saving any for the future.

  Burley wiped his mouth and started to speak. He still held his shotgun in an iron grip. Jason thought he might even sleep with it. Just as he opened his mouth to bellow, a sudden cacophony of shouts and cheers caused him to whirl, weapon ready.

  Inside The Walls, Roscoe was known as ‘Goober', partly for the size of his organ, but just as well for the smallness of his personality. Now, though, he was returning as exuberant as if he had had a quick enlargement performed during his absence. Jason noticed that his rifle was missing, however, and that he wasn't quite as happy as he should have been at the news he was returning with.

  “Women!” Roscoe shouted as soon as he saw Burley. “I found some women! Goddamn, there's two dozen of them, at least!"

  Jason watched as Burley shook off the effects of the whiskey he had been drinking. An evil smirk spread over his face, making him look as malevolent as a berserk clown. He motioned Roscoe inside to where he could question him. Jason followed.

  “Two dozen, at least,” Roscoe reiterated, beaming with pride.

  “Where?” Burley asked.

  “Not fifteen miles from here. I had one of them for a little while, but she got away. That don't matter, though. There ain't but two men with them, and one of them's an old sucker with white hair. We can off them easy!"

  Before Burley could comment, Jason jumped in. “Where's your rifle, Goober? And why didn't you bring the women back here if that old man is such an easy mark?"

  Jason was astonished and elated at the news. He had hoped that the convict-controlled area of Huntsville wasn't the only place on earth where the astonishing change had occurred, but until now he hadn't dared act on that desire, not while he still didn't know what to do about Burley's despotic reign.

  Roscoe's face fell like a collapsing cliff. His glance shifted from Burley to Jason then fixed on Burley. “Aw shit, there was some wolves, big motherfuckers. While I was killing them, the woman got away. They're back there, though. I can lead anyone to them, believe me."

  Burley put his arm around Roscoe's shoulders. “Don't worry, Goober. We got enough firepower to kill any motherfuckin’ wolves. Come on, let's get a gang ready. Young, you said? You sure you can find them again?"

  “Damn right. They're holed up in a big old house and there ain't nothing between here and there but grass and trees."

  Burley began leading Roscoe outside where most of the other cons were gathering. Roscoe had been unable to conceal his discovery as he came in and the convicts were almost going crazy at the thought of women.

  Jason followed behind them. He eyed the congregation, looking at the exuberant faces and an awful dichotomy became apparent, turning his thoughts mushy. Women! How long since he had had a woman? Years. An image of his ex-wife formed in his mind, as he had known her just after their marriage.

  He hated it and yet was fascinated with the memory. The slow, sensuous way she undressed, teasing and luring. The stark feel of her body pressed against his. The memory of her nails digging into his back as he thrust into her. The sexual image was almost overpowering. Even after all the years in prison, he still retained a picture of other encounters, earlier ones, where he had met women free of the mind games his former wife had played with him.

  There was a picture in his mind, an ideal; one where he met and loved and was happy in the loving. He wondered if any of the other cons held such an image. Surely, some of them must, regardless of how they were now gathered around Roscoe, needling him for details. Somehow, he thought, I have to make them see this. And God help me, I have to keep my own feelings in check in the meantime.

  Jason gripped Burley's arm, feeling the hard, weightlifting muscles tense at
his touch. Burley shook free of his grip.

  “What the fuck you want, Jason? A piece of the action?"

  “I'm going to have a piece of it, but not like you think. If Goober's not handing us a line of shit, we need to contact those girls, but—"

  “But what, Jase? We can't fuck them, that's what you're saying?"

  “I didn't say that.” Lord, how I would love to have a woman again!

  “Then what are you saying? Don't fuck with me, Jase, I ain't in the mood for it."

  Jason held his temper. What he wanted to do was lash out at Burley, push his stupid face into his skull, but he knew that wouldn't work, not now, when the rest of the cons were inflamed with the idea of women for the taking.

  Jason tried to explain. “Look, Burley. Something weird has happened to the world. None of us knows what, and we never may. These may be the only women we'll ever find, and if Goober is right, they're not much more than kids. Wouldn't it be better to see if maybe they joined us on their own instead of treating them like the ones you have now?"

  “Sure, Jase. They'll join up with a bunch of cons. All we have to do is tell them we're pansy-ass nice guys and they'll spread their legs as soon as they can yank their panties off. Don't be stupid.” Burley began raising the barrel of his shotgun. Jason stepped in, deflecting the barrel, and dropped his hand to the revolver strapped to his waist. He pushed right into Burley's space, holding the shotgun barrel down.

  “Goddamnit, Burley, don't you understand? If Goober found these women, don't you think there might not be others around? Or other men, for that matter? Maybe even the law. Use your fucking head for a change. Don't go off half-cocked until we know more about what's happening."

  Burley tensed his hand, trying to raise his shotgun. He suddenly became aware of Jason's size and strength, rivaling his own. He shifted his glance around. The other cons were waiting tensely. Some, he knew, would back his play, but Jason was respected as well. Suddenly, he leaned forward, ready for a confrontation. “You sonofabitch. We're going after them."

  Jason lifted his hand from Burley's arm and waved away whiskey fumes. “I know that. We have to. All I'm saying is that we're not going to rape them to death when we find them. If we find them. Goober isn't the most reliable lag I know."

  Burley backed away, just slightly. “Maybe we'll rape them and maybe we won't.” He grinned suddenly. “Maybe I'll fall in love with one of the bitches. What the hell, Goober's teeth bother me anyway. Just remember, though, I ain't responsible for what happens before they get back here."

  “I'll attend to that,” Jason said, glad the confrontation was ended, for now at least.

  He began picking out some of the men he intended to go with the expedition, but he had to be careful. Send too many of his own men and Burley would overpower him while they were gone. Send too few, and he shuddered to think of what would happen to the girls before they returned.

  And there remained the question of the blacks that Burley had enslaved. He still didn't know how to resolve that situation. He had found something that might help, though, in his explorations. In the drawer of a small service station, neglected by everyone else, he had come upon a cache of drugs: coke, pot and Quaaludes. He had secreted it immediately in a better hiding place. Now he was trying to decide the best way to use it.

  * * * *

  In the city of Livingston, forty miles east of Huntsville, there was a much larger group, conglomerated from the night shift at McDonald's and their few customers, the employees of two service stations, the inhabitants of a number of vehicles which had been stopped at a red light and the customers, clerks and workers busy restocking a huge Wal-Mart super store and the Wal-Mart customers.

  Those people caught in the displacement of that portion of Livingston were almost all women, with only a scattering of men here and there, mostly those working at the service stations or shopping with their wives at Wal-Mart. There were a few children, but most of the displaced persons were composed of the night shift at Wal-Mart and their customers, mostly women.

  This group stayed where they were after the change. There was plenty to eat and drink, and no imperative reason to go anywhere else, even had they known where to go. There was also plenty of arms and ammunition in the Wal-Mart store, although it took two days and a number of hysterical outbursts before the restraints of civilization fell away enough to impel the refugees to begin arming themselves. The sight of bison eight feet high at the shoulders crossing the tarmac of the parking lot helped wonderfully in the matter.

  * * * *

  “The cons will come looking,” McMasters said. “We'll have to leave.” He stood by the fireplace in the spacious living room, where Doris and all the girls were gathered. He caressed the barrel of his rifle cradled over his arm, wondering whether he was suggesting the right course of action.

  “Maybe the wolves got that guy,” Doris said, trying to convince herself that it was true. “Maybe he never got back to Huntsville."

  McMasters thought of how convicts loose from The Walls would behave with two-dozen nubile young women. He shuddered inwardly. “Do you want to take the chance? I don't. Besides, there's very little food left here."

  “We could hunt,” Bucks suggested. “There's plenty of game."

  “And very little ammunition. Besides—"

  “I can't face those monsters out there!” One girl shouted. “They'll kill us all!"

  McMasters gestured with his rifle. “Not if we're careful. There's another point too. Our group represents three separate areas where a displacement occurred. The convicts are another. Doesn't that suggest anything to you?"

  “Right,” Bucks said. “There may be more people around, not just those f—those cons. But where do we look?"

  A young girl began crying. “I want to go home. I don't like it here.” She huddled into herself. A friend hugged her until the sobbing tailed off.

  Doris couldn't think. Too much had happened, and there was no pattern to the events she could attach a familiar tag to. Home? God, they might never get home! “Bucks is right, Cecil. Where on earth do we go from here?"

  McMasters stepped forward a little. The early morning sun slanting in through a window glinted on his white hair and cast shadows into the creases of his weathered brown face. “Well, we certainly don't want to go east, toward Huntsville. That was a convict that captured you, Doris. There are more of them there. And Bucks has already come from the west; there's nothing in that direction. I suggest we head northeast, circle around Huntsville, and then head toward Livingston. Maybe something survived of that town."

  Gradually, over a period of an hour or so, he convinced the rest of the group of what he already knew: staying where they were really wasn't a viable option, not with the threat of the convicts on the loose so close. He and Bucks spent the rest of that day looting the house of everything of value they could carry. He armed the girls with such tools as he found in the little outbuilding and with kitchen knives. He had Doris make up packs from clothing and blankets they found in closets, and filled canning jars with water from the well. The most valuable thing he found as he was rummaging around was a half box of magnum buckshot; apparently they had set on a shelf in a closet for years and had been forgotten. He hoped they still worked.

  Carrying all the remaining food presented no problem. More than two-dozen people eating from the stores had already depleted them severely. By early the next morning, McMasters had everyone ready, standing on the porch. The girls glanced nervously out over the grassy, tree studded terrain like new kittens suddenly taken from their mother.

  “Let's move out, folks,” McMasters said. “Bucks, you lead off. Doris, you and the girls stay bunched up behind him, but not too close; leave him room to fire if he needs to. I'll trail along behind and watch our rear.” The group moved out. McMasters, eyeing the makeshift packs, felt somewhat akin to a scoutmaster with a troop bereft of the money for adequate supplies, but as the house passed out of sight behind a knoll, a sense of relief ca
me over him. Whatever lay ahead, he didn't think it could be much worse than what threatened from the rear. Convicts were bad news even when locked up, let alone free and armed.

  Burley and Jason agreed on a half dozen men to send after the reported women, and at Jason's insistence, another group was to be sent to the east to see what lay in that direction. He urged the men to be careful; the scout previously sent that way had never returned. That left Jason with very few men he thought he could depend on. He took the gamble, thinking that information on whatever this New World held was worth the risk. Nevertheless, he felt like a juggler with too many balls in the air. Mishandle one, and the rest were apt to tumble out of control.

  * * * *

  Michael was worried about Sheila. Since shooting her attacker two days ago, she had hardly spoken. She stayed very close to Wanda, following her around like a newly hatched chick trying to find shelter under its mother's wing. She eyed him suspiciously, and he was careful to speak softly to her, imagining how she must feel about men right now. While she was recovering from the beating Reeves had given her, Michael conversed with Wanda, usually while Sheila was resting. She was an enigma; at times she was abrupt and disdainful, as though he was an unnecessary piece of furniture in a new home; at other times she was quieter and softer spoken, eyeing him queerly, like a rambunctious puppy suddenly grown to dignified adulthood. He couldn't figure out what her problem was and it worried him almost as much as his concern over Sheila. He thought it time to begin their search for other survivors and wanted them all to start off as friends and companions.

  “There's no point in staying here any longer,” he said to Wanda on their third morning. “We need to start looking for other people."