Circles of Displacement

by Darrell Bain

  Sheila focused her gaze on Wanda. In this sudden New World, a man was the last person she wanted to trust, not after her last experience. Wanda understood her viewpoint, but she was beginning to lose her doubts about Michael. He was invariably polite, helpful and knowledgeable, and more important, so far he had shown no proclivities toward thrusting sex into their three-way equation. In a way, that was irritating to her. She found herself liking him more and more as time went on. He was unassuming, yet commanding in a quiet way that she liked. Wanda began to think that if she had known a man like him a week or two ago, she might still be in the Army and never have been caught up in the change which had thrown them together is such a strange conjunction. She had not revealed the circumstances to Michael of why she had been heading to Houston on the night of the change, simply telling him that she had been an army officer on leave. She knew Michael noticed the reticence, but he had said nothing. Apparently, he wasn't the type to pry, and anyway, there were more urgent considerations right now than the fact that she occasionally liked women as sexual partners.

  “Can you travel all right, do you think?” Wanda asked Sheila, examining her bruised face.

  “If you say so. I feel all right and my shoulder isn't hurting any more. Will we ever come back? My parents—” She closed her eyes, remembering, and trying not to cry again.

  “We can always come back here, once we find out what's going on elsewhere,” Michael said gently.

  “That's true, Sheila. Really, I think we ought to go. Mike is certain we weren't the only places or people displaced. We need to find others; we can't live by ourselves out here."

  “All right,” Sheila said disconsolately. The picture of Dawson Reeves on top of her, the knife to her throat, intruded into her thoughts. She shuddered, and suddenly was in a hurry to leave. Maybe then she could forget him.

  Wanda, using her army experience, made up packs of necessities for them. She and Michael carried rifles appropriated from the house. They left the .22 automatic with Sheila after Michael pointed out that not only would it be a better piece for small game hunting but there was also most of a case of shells for it—almost nine boxes—and would be easy to carry.

  There was one old sleeping bag in the house, and they gave that to Sheila. Michael and Wanda found a lightweight plastic tarp folded away in a closet. She carried it, while Michael took a couple of blankets. While Sheila was still packing in her room, Michael took instruction from Wanda on the handling of the thirty-thirty rifle. He was no hunter, and had never been in the service. Wanda was pleased that he listened attentively and took her instructions with no hint of a macho attitude, the last thing she wanted to see in a man now.

  “Will this thing stop a bear or a sabertooth, do you think?” he asked.

  “A sabertooth? Have you seen one of those?"

  “No, but judging by what I have seen, I think we can expect them. Don't you?"

  Wanda was a long time answering. “The Pleistocene? That's where you think we are?” She had had the same thoughts; Michael had just brought them into the open.

  “If my memory serves, that's what I think. We've seen ground sloths, Bison, what appears to be dire wolves, as well as those giant bears and armadillos. If we haven't been thrown back to the Pleistocene, this is a damn good imitation of it.” He grinned wryly at her, and then added, “And if the displacements equalized, then think of what must be happening up in our time when some of those critters suddenly appear. The scientists will be going crazy!"

  “I had thought the same thing myself, but I guess I just didn't want to admit it. Christ, do you think there might be Indians around?"

  Michael shrugged. “Who knows? It depends on how far back we were thrown. Besides, this might not be our Pleistocene. It might be a completely different universe. All we can do is look and see."

  Wanda handed him back his rifle. “I guess so. Well, back to your original question; yes, a thirty-thirty should stop a tiger, but maybe not with a single shot unless you hit it right.” She grinned at him. “It sure as hell should annoy one, though."

  Michael grinned back. “I saw a skeleton of one at the Smithsonian once. I'd just as soon not annoy one of those critters, if you don't mind."

  “Me, neither, for that matter. Well, let me check on Sheila, and I guess we can be on our way."

  Michael touched her elbow as she was turning away. “Is she going to be all right?"

  Wanda started to give a sharp answer then bit back the words. Why punish Michael verbally for some sick maniac's act? It wasn't his fault, and if it hadn't been for him, both her and Sheila would probably be dead. Time to start remembering that. “She's had a horrible experience, but other women have survived the same thing. Just be gentle with her. Better yet, set a good example. Right now, she's afraid of men."

  “I will. Poor kid, I feel sorry for her. I just wish I had gotten here sooner."

  “You did fine.” Wanda leaned forward and gave him a brief kiss, then turned and walked to the bedroom where Sheila was still packing. Now why did I do that? she thought. Michael wondered the same thing, and for the first time consciously thought of how refreshingly pretty she was. With no make-up and dressed in functional hiking clothes, she reminded him of the simple beauty of a Christmas tree with the bangles removed.

  Sheila looked up from where she was completing her pack as Wanda entered the room. Already, she knew the trust Sheila had once placed in her parents was being transferred to her, a woman who had appeared suddenly in her life like a life preserver tossed to a swimmer in trouble. Wanda started at a sudden thought that came unbidden into her mind. I could seduce her. It would be no trouble at all. She clamped down on the thought. No, that would be wrong. She is too vulnerable, too hurt and troubled right now. What she needs more than anything isn't a woman, but to regain her trust in men. An image of Michael's pleasant, concerned face under it's shock of short brown hair popped into her mind like a new piece of toast. She smiled to herself. Maybe an example would help.

  “Are we ready?” Sheila asked.

  “Yes. Have you got all your stuff together? Don't forget anything. It might be awhile before we get back here."

  Sheila hefted the pack from the bed and began trying to pull the straps over her shoulders.

  “Here, let me,” Wanda said. She helped her on with the pack and adjusted the front of the straps. She was suddenly uncomfortably aware of Sheila's firm young breasts and coils of loose springy hair hanging to her shoulders.

  “Thanks.” Sheila grinned brightly at her, her first smile since the attack. “I don't know what I would do if you hadn't come here."

  Wanda remembered her admonition. “You should be thanking Mike. He's the one that saved us."

  “He did, didn't he? I've been so scared, I haven't even talked to him much, or even thanked him. Is he a nice man?"

  “Yes, he's very nice. Don't be afraid of him."

  “I won't be if you aren't."

  “Good. Let's go now."

  The rest of the day was uneventful. They camped that night in the protection of the bole of a huge fallen tree and built a fire in front of them. The flickering flames gave light to an overcast night, unlike the previous ones. In the far distance, lightning played fitfully.

  “It looks like we may get some rain by tomorrow,” Michael commented.

  “It's warm enough. It shouldn't bother us,” Wanda said. “The climate doesn't appear to be much different from what we were used to."

  “Nor the bugs, either,” Michael answered, slapping at a mosquito. He took the last bite of his sandwich. The bread was stale, but that wouldn't be a worry any longer. The sandwiches they had packed represented the last of it, anyway. Within a few days they would have to start hunting. He hoped Wanda had more experience at it than he did. What a strange world they had been thrown into.

  Before they left Sheila's home, he took the most accurate measurement he could of the diameter of the displacement around Sheila's home. He had a vague notion that as he
had wandered southeast, the displacements had grown smaller than the couple he had passed through on his journey. If the inner circle of displacements to their northwest were indeed larger, he thought that he had picked the right direction. South of them, they might peter out to nothing, and even if they didn't, the chances of finding humans in that direction would become increasingly less.

  “Who wants the first watch?"

  “I'll take it; I'm not sleepy yet.” Wanda said.

  Michael's smile was unseen in the bare light of flickering embers. “Good. I'm an early riser. Wake me if you need to."

  There was no need. Sheila relieved Wanda, and then woke Michael in the early morning hours, touching him so tentatively that she had trouble arousing him. Before dawn, he saw that the lightning had come closer, and now there was a very faint rumble of thunder in the distance.

  At mid-morning, they broke into another displacement area, just about where Michael had calculated it would be. He nodded to himself in satisfaction, looking around. A small stretch of pavement occupied one corner of the circle, accompanied by two picnic benches and a portion of a third, apparently the remains of a small park along the route of where highway 59 used to run. The rest of the area was nothing more than typical east Texas woods, a second growth of timber springing up to cover what had been logged a few years before.

  A large, fat raindrop spattered on Michael's hand and another on his forehead. He looked up into the sky. Dark, rain-laden thunderclouds were rapidly approaching. “We'd better get under cover,” Michael said. He led the way toward the benches. “Hurry!"

  They made it just in time. “Use your sleeping bag, Sheila,” Wanda said over the rumble of thunder. “It's waterproof, I think. Take your pack inside with you so it doesn't get soaked.” She struggled to get the tarp she carried untied.

  Sheila buried herself in the bag under one bench while Wanda shook out the tarp and hurried under the shelter of the other. Michael ducked his head and crawled in after her. The space was small enough that they had to huddle together while torrents of water poured over the tabletop. It was low enough that their necks quickly began to hurt under the strain. Wanda moved first. “Stretch out, we'll be more comfortable."

  Without waiting for an answer, and without really thinking of what she was doing, she pulled Michael down beside her beneath the tarp. The protecting top of the table was so narrow that they had to lie close together to avoid the runoff.

  Michael slipped an arm beneath Wanda's neck to give her a resting place and put his other arm loosely around her waist. Rain drummed overhead like a clutch of tomtoms. A bolt of lightning flashed and sparkled and thunder crashed immediately on top of it, seeming to split the heavens with its roar. The rain changed suddenly to hail, splattering onto the tabletop and pavement with crashes like splintering wood. Wanda clasped Michael's body as if it was an anchor in the wind, pulling him hard against her.

  “Oh God, I hate this,” she whimpered, ashamed of herself but unable to help it. Thunderstorms had always scared her, and she had never imagined being caught out in one with so little protection. She buried her face against Michael's neck.

  “Me, too,” Michael murmured against her ear. He stroked her back, trying to soothe her. Wanda tried to get closer to him, as if his body was a talisman that, if held tightly enough, would ward off the storm. Somehow, she found her lips pressing against his cheek. Michael moved slightly and that was all it took to bring his mouth into contact with hers. He kissed her, tentatively at first, but another crash of thunder and flash of lightning thrust them even more firmly together.

  To Wanda, the storm sounds seemed to fade in proportion to the pressure of Michael's lips on hers, like a bad dream being pushed away by coming awake in a snugly secure bed. Wanda held him tightly, and then gradually eased away as she felt the movement of his hand at her waist, giving him room to slide it up to her breast. The pressure of his touch made her feel safe and not nearly so scared, as though she were being protected by the tender touch of a kind magician. She lost herself in the dreamy experience, holding him close while the storm gradually died.

  They were still entwined, touching each other with the slow, pleasant sweetness of newly discovered attraction when a voice interrupted them.

  “Hey, you two! The storm's over. You can come out now.” Wanda saw Sheila's grinning face through the slats of the picnic table seats. She flushed and disentangled herself, feeling wet spots on her body where the tarp had not completely protected them.

  Michael eased himself out from under the tarp and rolled into the open. He stood up. Sheila grinned some more at him. He flushed, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but quickly saw that the young girl wasn't upset. He breathed a sigh of relief and reached a hand to help Wanda to her feet. Wanda's cheeks were spotted with bright pink blotches where his beard had scraped and the top buttons of her blouse were still undone. She refastened them, thinking that if Sheila needed an example of how attractive a man could be, she had just been exposed to one, even if it had been unintended.

  Later, as Michael ranged ahead, beating a path through the rain soaked forest, Sheila came up close to Wanda and whispered, “You really like him, don't you?"

  “I guess I do. He sure made me forget about the storm, anyway."

  “Do you think he likes me?"

  “Of course he does. Why would you even ask?"

  “I was just wondering. How old is Michael, do you know?"

  “Oh, in his thirties, I suppose. I haven't asked."

  “That's not so old. Was he married?"

  “He hasn't said. He's not wearing a ring, though. I doubt if it would matter much, anyway, considering our present situation."

  Wanda answered more of Sheila's questions nonchalantly, glad that the young girl was talking more now. It wasn't until later that she began wondering at Sheila's sudden interest in Michael. Then it dawned on her that he was the only man around. No wonder. Still ... am I suddenly becoming possessive? What's going to happen to relationships with no laws to define them? And no birth control. How will that change things when women begin having babies all the time? My God, I haven't even considered those things yet. I wonder if Mike has?

  * * *

  Chapter Eight

  By the end of the first week after the displacement, the scattering of survivors took on the aspects of an elaborate chess game, where people were the players and random chance the strategists. McMasters with his group of dependents was moving north and east, with one of Burley's gang of convicts trailing them. Another gang explored eastward to the other side of Huntsville, with instructions to seek out and cross the Trinity River, if it was still there. Michael, Wanda and Sheila moved north, while Brent and his group prepared to head south again. Dustin Breedlove, the deputy, held his people in the remains of Goodpasture, while the large group of survivors in Livingston plundered the wealth of the huge Wal-Mart store, leaderless as yet. Other small bands and individuals wandered erratically, while still others stayed where they were, hoping for rescue. The board was laid out. Some pieces were moving, others were standing still, protecting their domain and yet others were gathering for assaults. Eventually, most of them would come together like opposing armies blundering into a battlefield not of their general's choosing.

  * * * *

  McMasters cursed savagely as he fell to the ground, the shot still ringing in his ears. He rolled, feeling pain shoot through his leg like a hot branding iron as he tried to seek cover. The ground plunged out from under him and he fell head first down the steep slope of a brush-covered gully. Only his military training enabled him to keep a grasp on his rifle as he plunged downward. Branches and briars raked his face and arms as he fell. He tumbled a final time and again felt solid earth turn to air as he sailed over the embankment of a creek and landed solidly on the muddy bank. The breath was knocked completely out of him and for a long moment he lay there gasping, trying to get air back into his lungs. He was laying at a slant, looking down at his legs.
He saw a thread of blood leaking from his calf, turning the mud where he lay into a soupy pink slush. Shouts came from above. He gasped and crawled upstream, seeking cover. An under cut tree, leaning precariously over the stream, came into view. Hurriedly, he crawled in under it, still clutching his rifle. Concealed there, he brushed dirt from the action and checked to see that the barrel was free of dirt, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg.

  “I got him!” He heard a voice call, just as the boom of a shotgun resounded. He heard a curse, then a rattle of pistol and rifle fire. The gunfire died away, leaving only voices behind. McMasters huddled under the roots of the tree, in water up to his waist and waited for someone to come. He had no doubt that the convicts had trailed and found them. The shouts and yells of coarse voices left no doubt of that. He wondered briefly if Bucks had got away, and then decided that he probably hadn't. Even if he had, he had no doubt that most of the girls had been captured. The sounds he could hear left little doubt of that. Damn, how had they gotten so close without him sensing them? He could only think that they had been intercepted from the side, while he and Bucks were watching behind and in front. My fault! Damn me for an old man, I should have put some of the girls out as flankers. Too late now, though. The damage was done. Any moment McMasters expected a patrol to come down the creek bank and finish him off. He tightened his grip on his rifle and vowed not to be taken easily.

  Surprisingly, no one came to look for him. He supposed that they were too busy with Doris and the girls; either that or they thought him dead. He waited, feeling the water soak into his wound. He debated with himself about trying to crawl back up the gully and attempt a rescue of the women, but his combat experience warned him off. He would just get himself killed if he did that. Better to wait and hope for a more opportune moment.

  McMasters remained hidden for a good half-hour after the mutter of voices had died away, then dragged himself out of the water and up onto the bank of the little creek. One of the girls had been carrying the first aid supplies found in the house. He tore strips off a spare shirt and used them to bandage his leg. The bleeding had almost stopped, and the water had soaked away most of the pain. Using his rifle as a crutch, he climbed back out of the gully, going slow and testing his leg. He thought he was fortunate that no bone had been broken, although he figured that by the next day, the leg would stiffen up enough to make travel difficult. Yet he had to travel. If there was any hope for the girls, he knew he would have to provide it.