by Darrell Bain
During the day, Dawson passed through two areas of displacement, but never noticed; it was simply a clearing to him, and a threat rather than a promise. He skirted the area and went on, trying to mark a passage south by the sun. Houston should be in that direction. If he noticed the incongruity of centuries old trees and unfamiliar animals he didn't let it distract him. His whole being was totally concentrated on getting just as far from Huntsville as he could.
He traveled southeast rather than south. He was very lucky. He made another twenty miles that day with nothing more to hinder him other than the pain of his broken arm and a raging hunger. He slept that night scarcely ten miles from the farmhouse where Sheila Holloway and Wanda Smith were comparing notes.
* * * *
At the roadside park on highway 59 between Livingston and Corrigan, about eighty miles north of where Houston had once been located, Darla Cranston had made a friend. She had spent the night in the rear of Brent Sampson's van, sleeping soundly beneath the canopy of western pants and shirts, which Sampson peddled to western stores in a territory encompassing half of Texas.
Brent wasn't the type of man Darla was ordinarily attracted to. He had a slight physique and thinning brown hair, but compared to the three male and two female truckers who had been displaced along with them, he might as well have been six feet tall and as handsome as her father. He had a quiet, confident demeanor that made her feel safer than any amount of shallow braggadocio would have.
Darla was still numb with the sudden change the world had undergone. She had been traveling towards Galveston to meet with her estranged husband when the change caught her at the roadside park where she had stopped for a rest. She was intending to tell him, finally, and in no uncertain terms that their marriage was over. She was tired of trying to support him on her schoolteacher's salary while he perpetually worked at one odd job or another just long enough to qualify for unemployment benefits.
She wondered why they had ever married in the first place, and then she stopped wondering because she knew. He was a handsome hunk of a man with a bubbling, extroverted personality, just like the high school and college jocks she had always been attracted to. It had taken several years of marriage to discover just how shallow he was beneath the confident shell he presented to the world.
When the truckers had become belligerent during the first day of the displacement, she welcomed Brent's diffident invitation to sleep in his van rather than her own little car.
During that day, Darla watched as the truckers congregated together, after a fashion, but she noticed that they were wary of each other, like strange dogs meeting for the first time. She kept her distance as they drank up whatever liquor they had been carrying and began vandalizing the vending machines. Once, when she had gone inside the comfort station to use the bathroom, she came back out to see the looming figure of the odd male trucker.
“Hey, lady, looks like we're all stranded here together. What say let's get acquainted?"
Darla didn't even like his looks, let alone his attitude. He was a big man running to fat, with a balding head hidden by a dirty blue cap with a Poulon logo on the brim. She stepped aside with a murmured, “Later, maybe.” He let her pass, but she could feel his eyes following her as she returned to her car, parked beside the diminutive salesman's van.
Brent greeted her as she returned. She had stifled a giggle when he told her his last name. Sampson. If there was ever a miscognomen, he owned it, but he was very nice. He shared his plunder from earlier excursions to the vending machines with her. He was quietly polite, and stayed close to her when the truckers began getting raucous again.
As the evening wore on, and night approached, she noticed the big trucker who had approached her earlier glancing in her direction. It didn't take much persuasion to induce her to sleep in Brent's van again.
Darla woke early and peeked out of the rear window. Not seeing any movement yet from the parked rigs, she crawled out of the clothed cave in the rear of the van. Brent was already awake.
“Good morning,” he said. “Don't try the bathrooms. They're plugged up, or at least the men's side is."
“Oh. Where—?"
“I went into the woods there.” He pointed.
Apprehensively, Darla approached the line of trees and brush. Wildflowers graced the periphery, then vanished abruptly at the tree line as if they had been devoured by the forest. She stopped behind the first tree, relieved herself, then ran hurriedly back to the van where the little salesman was waiting.
“What do we do now?” was Darla's first question.
Brent hesitated before he answered. He took in her slim figure and apprehensive expression. “It doesn't look good. We're nearly out of food, and there doesn't seem to be much chance of help arriving. I think we should leave."
“Why do you say that?"
“If anyone were coming, I think they would have been here by now. And look around you. Does anything look familiar?"
“No, but—"
“There's another reason. I talked to one of the truckers in the john this morning. He seems to be fairly decent, but he warned me about the others. He says they're all bad characters, except for the woman he's gotten hooked up with. And I heard a shot during the night."
“Maybe it was someone else,” Darla said hopefully.
“No, it was from right here. I didn't wake you because nothing else happened, but it made me start thinking about getting out of here."
“But where would we go? This is like a nightmare. I still have trouble believing it."
“It's no nightmare. Just before you woke up, I saw a cougar."
“There aren't any cougars left in this part of Texas."
“I know, but I saw it anyway, and it was bigger than anything that ever roamed these parts. Look at the trees, too. There hasn't been a stand of timber like that since before the white men came. Christ, I don't know how we can be sure we're even in Texas anymore."
“Maybe we should just stay here,” Darla said, thinking of the darkness and unknown dangers that might be lurking in the forest. “Not in Texas? If that's true, then where are we? And how did we get here?"
“I don't think we should stay. We don't really know how far whatever the hell happened extends. If it's just local, maybe we'll walk out of it. If not, well, I was thinking about heading south, toward the gulf. Living conditions would probably be a little easier there. If the gulf's still there, that is."
Darla had trouble with the concept of never seeing civilization again. She was not an overly imaginative person, although she was competent enough in the classroom, and very observant. She perceived that he was asking her to accompany him.
While she was considering Brent's proposal, she pulled out cigarettes and lighter.
Brent reached out and covered the lighter with his hand before she could strike it. “Use the car lighter,” he told her. “Save that for later. We might need it."
“Oh.” The whole enormous improbability of their plight finally sank in. She eyed her cigarette lighter like the rare gem that it had suddenly become, then abruptly made up her mind. “Let me get my things. I'll go with you.” Brent Sampson might not be a big husky, but he seemed to know what he was doing, at least more so than anyone else at the park.
Brent turned to do his own packing, wondering if leaving was really the right course of action. What had finally decided him was the truckers and their increasingly vile tempers. He wanted to get away from them as soon as possible before his own courage was called into question. He knew there was no way he would be a match for any one of them physically and he hoped to avoid having to use his little pistol, even as a threat. And there was Darla, the little blond schoolteacher. He could tell from the way she had begun looking at him that she was relying on him for protection.
He laughed to himself, thinking the situation was like something out of a science fiction movie, with him as the wimpy boyfriend trying to protect the heroine. Well, he might be small, but he was no wimp. At least h
e didn't think so. Modern civilization didn't leave a lot of room for testing the proposition, at least as long as a body minded his own business as he tried to do. And he knew he had one advantage over the other men: he had already analyzed their predicament and was beginning to think of long-term survival rather than immediate problems.
He tied the sleeves of several new shirts together to make packs for them, then began exploring the van for other useful items. There were precious few. His little pistol, with one spare clip, extra trousers, shirts and a few books of motel matches, a flashlight, a jack handle, his shaving bag, spare underwear from his suitcase and a roll of lifesavers he had tossed in the glove compartment and forgotten. Not much equipment to carry them over a hundred miles to the gulf. Good God, what if they were all the people left in the world? Then what? He backed out of the van and was startled to find the trucker he had been talking with earlier standing beside him.
“You folks planning on leaving?"
The question was asked in a pleasant, easy manner. Brent eyed the man. He appeared to be in his early thirties, except for almost completely white hair, at least that portion of it showing below the sides of his cap. The butt of what appeared to be a heavy revolver hung from one pocket of his light jacket, but his manner was not at all threatening.
“Yes, we are,” Brent said.
“Thought you might be. Mind if we tag along?” He hooked his thumb back over his shoulder toward his rig, where a small blonde woman waited, shifting her feet nervously.
Darla appeared by Brent's side, glancing from one to the other of the men, as if comparing the relative merits of friendly gladiators.
Brent caught the implication of her scrutiny and found he was both challenged and amused by it. “He wants to come with us,” he explained, and then added. “It's okay with me, if you don't mind. This is the guy I told you about."
“I'm Bob Jezac, ma'am. Her name is Alice.” He pointed to the blonde. “I don't know her last name yet, but she seems to be good folks. She was hauling some furniture for Levitz when we got stuck here. Has two kids somewhere. I feel sorry for her."
Brent did, too. He was glad he had no immediate ties to worry about. “Yeah. This is a bad situation all around,” he said. “Well, bring whatever you think you can use then, and let's get going. I think we need to be gone before those other jokers wake up.” He turned back to his packing.
Brent felt Darla eyeing him in a new light. He had given the bigger man what amounted to an order and just assumed obedience, in the same manner that he had taken the lead with her. If civilization had been replaced with the jungle he could see just a few feet away, women's lib would be of less value than the checkbooks left in his van. And if that was the case, why shouldn't she hook up with someone who seemed to know what he was doing? Muscles didn't mean everything.
* * * *
Jason stood on the periphery of the coterie surrounding Burley Simpson, listening to him give orders. Burley had moved his headquarters into a small restaurant and was busily trying to drink up all the Coors beer still on tap. Jason sipped one himself, but slowly.
He didn't like what was going on. Burley had gangs of three or four cons looting the other shops within the ring of scrubby forest and bringing it all back to the restaurant. The cons were not doing the actual work; gangs of black men in leg restraints hauled the boxes and crates. They were being piled in disorderly heaps at the back of the dining area.
As Jason watched, one of the blacks tripped and was whacked across the brow with a shotgun barrel. Jason winced. The man was a friend of his. The Negro staggered back to his feet and resumed work, ignoring a trickle of blood coloring his face. Jason sympathized as he glared hate in Burley's direction but the big man laughed and took another swig of beer, obviously enjoying himself immensely.
Jason stepped forward and tapped Burley on the shoulder.
“Yeah, what you want Jason? Man, did that nigger get a lick! Serves him right.” He wiped foam from thick black whiskers.
“Are you giving any thought to what comes next?” Jason asked. He was already looking into the future and didn't like Burley's disregard of anything other than his immediate pleasure. There was no telling when, if ever, the supplies of food and drink could be replaced.
“What you mean? We got it made, man. The screws are gone, man; gone. Except for those two.” Burley pointed to the only pair of surviving male guards. “Haw! Lookit them. Chained up with niggers. I never thought I'd see the day!"
“You may not see many more days if we don't get better organized than we are now,” Jason said politely.
Burley frowned, obviously trying to make his brain consider something further than his next beer. “You think the law's gonna come back?"
“Who knows? Probably not, or they would have been here by now. What I'm thinking is that we'd better start organizing for long term survival. What's going to happen when the food runs out? Or, the ammunition for your shotgun? Have you thought of that? Look, you know I used to be an engineer. I want to take a few men and start surveying what's left here, maybe put a few places off limits until we can sort things out."
“Fuck it. If the food runs short, we can let the niggers starve. And you—” His glare at Jason was cut off by a scream. There was no doubt that it was human. The horrible sound was almost palpable with terror. It cut off abruptly as the whole gang rushed out onto the street. A cacophony of gunfire erupted, booming shotgun blasts, pistol shots and a scattering of rifle fire. There was no doubt about the location. A group of men still clad in the drab prison white edged into a circle around a huge mound of fur and the remains of something that had once been human.
Jason and Burley broke through the circle. The largest bear he had ever seen, or heard of, larger even than that, still had its jaws clamped into the middle section of the tattered remains of a con Jason had known slightly. He was very dead, as was the bear, or whatever it was. It had been riddled with gunfire.
Jason eyed the beast, thoughts skittering in his head. He recovered more quickly than Burley, who was standing gape-mouthed, his shotgun drooping from one hand, a can of Coors in the other, tilted in his big fist so that a stream of beer and foam gurgled down to the pavement.
“You see what I mean? That thing must have been shot forty times after it was already dead. How many more of them do you think might be out there?” Jason swung an arm out to encompass the surrounding forest. “We need to put some sentries out to warn us, and not waste ammunition in the future. We need to see what tools we have on hand and how long the food will last. Seeds, even. Get it through your head, Burley. The rest of Texas might be gone forever. And the rest of the country too,” he added, as an afterthought.
Burley seemed to come to his senses. He brought the remainder of the can to his lips, chugging it down in one huge gulp. He crushed the can in one fist and tossed it away. Jason watched it clang onto the pavement.
“That's another thing. We ought to save everything. Even cans. Who knows what we might be needing in the future?"
Burley squinted his eyes at Jason, started to say something disparaging, then thought better of it. For all his coarseness, Jason knew he wasn't nearly as dumb as he acted.
“Awright, Jase. You take Bunch and Jonesy and get some sentries organized and start finding your fucking tools and nailing up the stores. I'll send you some niggers to help."
“What are you going to be doing?"
Burley grinned lasciviously. “I'm going to go fuck me a nurse again, that is if there's anything left of her. She was an old bag to start with, but her and that other titless wonder are still better than those lezzie guards or the other two old broads we caught. Hey, you want some before we use them up? You ain't had a turn yet."
“Maybe later,” Jason temporized. “Send the work gang over to the hardware store. I'm going to start there."
Jason began inventorying the contents of the few stores not already looted, hoping that sometime he would get an opportunity to speak to the chain
ed blacks without being overheard by one of Burley's cohorts.
At mid-morning, while the guards were haranguing one end of the line of chained men, he surreptitiously sidled up to the other end of the coffle. He knew two of the blacks in leg irons, the others he didn't, but he took the chance anyway. In case any of Burley's henchmen were watching, he struck one of the blacks across his shoulders, hard, but not enough to hurt, or even cause that much pain. “Listen up, motherfucker,” he yelled, then bent close as if to reinforce his orders. He whispered quickly to the man he knew best. “Stay loose, Rye. I'll get y'all out of this when I can. Tell Preacher I said so."
Preacher Johnson was a huge, easy going reformed crack addict and the real leader of the blacks, but he was off with another work gang. Jason knew that Rye would pass on the message, though.
Rye Moseley caught on immediately to Jason's feigned beating. He cringed as if expecting another blow, then whispered back. “Goddamn, Jase, don't take too long to do something. That crazy motherfucker Burley gonna off us all soon as he finished with us. I know he is. He crazy."
“Be ready. I'll do what I can.” Jason promised, hoping an opportunity would come. He was sickened by Burley's brutality toward the blacks.
“Thanks, bro'. Don't wait too long.” Mosley got back to his feet. Jason saw the despair in his eyes. He hoped he wasn't promising more than he could deliver but he knew he would try. His own suffering for something he wasn't responsible for gave him empathy for the black prisoners
* * * *
Deputy Dustin Breedlove was trying his best to assume leadership of the little knot of humanity remaining in the small town of Goodpasture but leadership wasn't really his thing. He had been a deputy sheriff for several years, the best job he had ever held, but making decisions came hard to him. The only thing he really had going for him was the ingrained respect of the teenagers for his badge, but he didn't know how long that would last. Already, one of the boys he recognized as a local football star was starting to question his orders, and he didn't really know what to do about it. How do you give orders to a youth who by virtue of his sports prowess has been complimented, catered to and indulged by parents, coaches and teachers since before puberty?