Circles of Displacement

by Darrell Bain

  Dustin certainly couldn't rely on physical strength. He was all too aware of his own overhanging belly and shortness of breath from too little exercise and too many cigarettes for too many years. Nevertheless, he was going to try, whether he succeeded or not. If nothing else, the deputy's job had given him a sense of responsibility.

  Dustin watched as Fred Whitestone curled a callused hand around the waist of Carla Marson, his girl and a cheerleader to boot. He was a big youth with strong arms and sun-bleached blonde hair. There was not an ounce of fat on him, nor on his girl, for that matter. She leaned into his embrace, vacuously pretty, waiting for his lead, but there was a tinge of fear hanging over her, like the apprehension she might have felt the first time she led a cheer in the football stadium.

  “I don't know what's happened,” Breedlove said. “I just think we should wait here for help. There's plenty to eat, and I've been calling from the squad car. Help is bound to get here soon.” He said it like a mantra, trying to believe in it even though nothing had come over the radio except static so far.

  “You haven't heard anything from your damn squad car though, have you?” Whitestone smirked. He had armed himself from the sporting goods shop with a small caliber revolver and rifle. He stood spread legged, as if he were an old west gunfighter waiting for his opponent to draw.

  “That doesn't mean we won't,” Breedlove said.

  “Well, Carla and I aren't waiting. Fuck your calls.” Fred turned on his heels and left drawing his girl with him, like a scared kitten being tugged around by a friendly but rowdy dog.

  “You better stay. And you too,” Breedlove said, indicating the other two couples and the two old widows. The other couples he didn't worry about. They were so scared they had quit even trying to make decisions.

  The authority of Breedlove's badge held the other two youths, just barely, but Whiteside paid him no attention. He pulled Carla along with him and strode into the forest. The young girl looked back once, but that was all. They disappeared into the underbrush.

  One of the other boys spoke up. “Mr. Breedlove, maybe Fred is right. Maybe we should go. This is too weird.” His voice cracked on the last word, like a faulty tape.

  Dustin Breedlove had a bright idea for a change. “No, let them go. If there is help somewhere, maybe they will find it. In the meantime, we should stick here.” The widows nodded approval. They, at least, still respected the law.

  “Help!” The cry came from the edge of the surrounding trees, startling in its suddenness.

  Breedlove whirled, amazingly fast for his heft, hand dropping down to his gun belt as if he were used to hearing such cries every day of his life. Carla broke from the concealment of the forest. Her face was no longer pretty. It was as pale and crushed looking as a white toadstool that had just been stepped on.

  “Something got him! Oh, God, something got him! He's dead! He never even screamed, it just bit him and carried him off!” She flung herself into Breedlove's arms, sobbing hysterically.

  Dustin held her, looking apprehensively over her shoulder. Presently, when nothing threatening materialized, he became aware of the girl's firm young breasts pressing against his chest. Well, goddamn. lookit this, he thought. She's acting like I'm her protector. And the others will listen to me now, by God, when I tell them to do something. He eased the girl away from him and began giving orders. They were obeyed with alacrity.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  On a farm to market road just north of where the little town of Coldwater, the county seat of San Sonata County, had once been located, a faded yellow school bus lay overturned where the driver had applied brakes too strenuously. The driver could not really be blamed; the sudden disappearance of the road ahead would have caused anyone to do the same. Fortunately, where the road ended there was no embankment. Unfortunately, there was a large boulder in the way. It caught the right front wheel of the bus and flipped it like a pancake.

  Doris Jenkins, the bus driver, was shaken but not really hurt. The same could not be said for some of her passengers. There were more than two dozen young women on the bus, all the San Sonata Jr. College girl's baseball team, the cheerleaders, the coach, the team manager and Doris’ own daughter, who had come along for the ride and to meet her boyfriend living in Rawling, the little city fifty miles west of Huntsville where the game had been played.

  Doris got the girls unloaded from the overturned bus, helping those that needed it. When the bus was finally cleared and she examined her passengers, she breathed a sigh of relief. No one had been killed. Three girls apparently had broken arms, but that was all. The newly installed seat belts had saved them from serious injury. She stood by the side of the bus, emergency flashlight in hand, ready to signal the first passing motorist. The next morning, she was still waiting.

  Morning also brought disbelief and near hysteria as Doris wondered how on earth she could possibly have wandered from the normal route, heading east toward Huntsville, onto this short stretch of road. The road was obviously one still under construction since it began and ended within a stretch of not much more than a hundred yards. It was impossible, but there it was.

  The country even looked different. There were fewer trees, scattered erratically across the landscape as if planted by a not too bright gardener, and there was grass, growing knee high and waving gently in the morning breeze.

  In the distance, she could see a herd of grazing animals that looked almost like bison, although they appeared to be much larger than any bison she had ever seen. She put that down to distance-altered perspective, but it was still strange. So far as she knew, there weren't any buffalo ranches in this part of Texas.

  All that day Doris waited in vain for help to come. She watched the girl's coach apprehensively as she walked up and down the short stretch of paved road, then stared out over the rough country which extended as far as the eye could see, saying nothing and ignoring questions from the girls.

  Doris tried to console the girls and reassure them, even after she decided that there was no way in the world she could have driven to such a place, but she failed to find any other explanation. She watched as the coach continued to draw into herself, staring blankly into space, her mind unable to comprehend the unexplainable, leaving Doris as the only adult authority simply by default.

  She clung to the remnants of sanity by worrying about the girls and her daughter, Judy. It was the only thing she had to cling to. There was simply no explanation for how they were stranded on a short bleak stretch of rural highway in the middle of nowhere with not a sign of civilization anywhere in sight.

  There was no food, and only a few Cokes and Dr. Pepper in the cooler. Late that afternoon, she climbed on top of the overturned bus and searched the horizon. Far in the distance, almost at the limits of vision, she thought she could make out a farmhouse or some other building. She decided that if no one had come by the next morning, she would send one of the girls there for help; it was too late to attempt it now.

  The night was warm and cloudless, but there was no moon. She and the girls huddled near a campfire lit by deadfall from the nearest tree. She ignored the prohibited cigarette lighter one of the girls produced to start the fire, just thankful for the cheery security of the flames. That situation didn't last long. Soon after dark, a roar split the night, sounding like a big zoo cat at feeding time. Several girls screamed briefly, accenting the invisible threat. Doris jumped to her feet and stared fearfully out into the starlit darkness. The roar had been bone-chillingly close.

  “Girls! Get in the bus! Hurry!” Doris sent them scurrying up onto the side of the wounded bus, and then down inside. It was very uncomfortable, but no one complained.

  A few miles from where the girls twitched in crowded discomfort, Cecil McMasters checked his lever-action 30-30 again to make sure the hammer was cocked and it was ready to fire. Ordinarily he would never have considered leaving it so dangerously lethal before he was ready to shoot, but the roar of the creature the girls had h
eard had gotten his wind up. So far as he could remember, he had never heard a noise like that anywhere outside a zoo.

  McMasters had been out hunting coyotes when the change came, and hadn't even realized it until he tried to find his way back home after a flash and rumble which he thought was the beginning of a sudden thunderstorm. The next morning, a knoll in the distance prevented him from spotting the same building Doris had seen, and he was scared to wander too far from where he was for fear of never finding his way back. As the day wore on, he began to wonder if he still had a home. Nothing looked familiar; not the vegetation, nor the rolling, tree-dotted plains, nor the animals he saw grazing just far enough away to make identification difficult.

  When dusk arrived, McMasters found himself crouching beneath a huge oak with low growing branches, thinking that he must surely have lost his mind. Maybe, he thought, I'm dreaming that I'm back in the Army. That was a familiar scenario, and had been ever since he retired and bought the little ranch just at the edge of that invisible line where pine gave way to Oak and scrub. But I'm not wearing a uniform, like I usually do in my dreams, he thought. And this is too damn real to be a dream.

  Presently he noticed a flickering light in the distance. He stood up, squinting into the darkness, wishing that he had brought his glasses along, but damnit, they just got in the way when he was hunting. Bifocals were hard on a hunter. If you focused on the sights, the target was blurry. If you focused on the target, the sights were blurry. He had finally given up in disgust at his aging body and mounted a scope on his favorite rifle. It was hell to get old.

  As he watched, the flickering light in the distance grew no brighter; instead it gradually began to dim. It must be a campfire, just dying out. He was just on the verge of setting out across country toward it before it faded completely when a blood curdling roar again rent the stillness, too close for comfort. There were thrashing noises, then a wail of pain, like a heifer under a branding iron, and after that, only the sounds of rendering flesh and bones being cracked.

  Moments later, he was perched in the lower branches of the oak, more scared than he had ever been in combat. The campfire, if that was what it was, could wait until daylight. He marked the direction as best he could and settled down to wait out the night.

  * * * *

  Sheila shook off the despondence she felt. If Wanda wasn't a rescuer, at least she was company, and right now that counted for a great deal. For a time, she was scared to let the older woman out of her sight for fear of being left alone again, but that had passed now. She was no longer afraid, even knowing that she might never see her familiar world again.

  Wanda did a lot to soothe Sheila's fears. She watched while Wanda, with quiet army efficiency inventoried the contents of the farmhouse and shared her delight when she found the gun cabinet was stocked with heavier rifles than her own little .22, along with ammunition. Wanda loaded her Dad's 30.06, checked the action and set it aside.

  “Can you really shoot that thing?” Sheila asked, admiration in her voice.

  “Sure. It's a nice piece. A little heavier than an M-16, but it packs some power. I'm glad it's here."

  “It's my Dad's. He uses it for deer hunting."

  “Well, I haven't seen any deer yet, but I've seen other things out there. Big things."

  “Me too,” Sheila said. “What are they?"

  Wanda wondered whether to tell the girl that she was beginning to believe they had been displaced back in time, but decided to let it wait. Right now, she was just glad of the comfort of a familiar shelter and, like Sheila, of human companionship.

  “We'll worry about them later. Let's see the rest of the house."

  Sheila led her on a tour. When it was completed, Wanda poured herself a drink from the sparsely supplied liquor cabinet. There was Bacardi rum, a pint bottle of peach brandy, and half a fifth of Jack Daniel's black label bourbon. She chose the brandy, poured for herself, then raised an eyebrow at Sheila.

  Sheila held out a glass, trying to act sophisticated though she had never taken a drink inside her home in her whole life. The brandy was warm going down, and became even warmer as it settled in her stomach.

  “Now,” Wanda said, sipping her drink, “There are a few things we need to do. Have you checked the freezer yet?"

  “No, there was nothing I wanted to cook from there. Oh gosh! I couldn't cook anyway—no power. I keep forgetting."

  “Well, maybe we could build a fire outside and smoke some of the meat. It's a shame to let it go to waste,” Wanda said. She crossed her legs and settled back even further into the big Lazyboy.

  “Why—Oh. You think it might be awhile before anyone comes, don't you?"

  Wanda's voice was gentle. “Sheila, hon, it might be a long time before anyone comes. A long time. You should prepare yourself."

  “I guess so,” Sheila said dolefully. She tugged nervously at one of her twin ponytails.

  Actually, Wanda thought, I wouldn't mind a hot meal, even if it is cooked over a fire. Sheila's Spam might be all right for a quick sandwich, but it grew old rather quickly. She visualized all the meat in the freezer, and a sudden idea occurred. “Hey! We don't have to cook outside! I saw a Coleman grill in the storeroom, and we can open the windows to let the fumes out."

  “Now why didn't I think of that?” Sheila said.

  Wanda smiled. “I think there's a lot of things we haven't thought of yet. Well, are you hungry now?"

  “You bet! Let's get started. The cats will eat some of the meat, once it's completely thawed, but right now, I want a big steak. You'll have to show me how to use the Coleman, though. I've never started it by myself."

  “Hmm. I've never used one either,” Wanda said, “but come on. Between the two of us we should be able to figure it out. I could use a steak myself, and after that, maybe we can start making some plans about where we go from here."

  Wanda and Sheila talked far into the night, Wanda gradually leading the teenager to her own belief that somehow, some way, they had been displaced back in time. Sheila had cried some, but finally seemed to accept the idea, even though Wanda knew that she still held out hope that this was only a temporary phenomenon. Wanda had just about discarded that idea. She was thinking now, that if she had found one survivor, perhaps there were others somewhere. She had not the vaguest notion, though, of where they should begin looking.

  Dawson Reeves gazed at the farmhouse from the edge of the tree line. Earlier, he had seen two females, a young girl and an older woman, though not that much older, step out onto the porch, look around, then go back inside. He waited as patiently as possible, knowing that sooner or later an opportunity would come to him. He thought once of simply walking up to the house and using his broken arm as an excuse to gain the confidence of the two women, but one of them had been carrying a rifle. He wanted nothing to do with an armed woman. One tied and helpless was more his style, and if he could figure a way, he would soon have that.

  During the day, Reeves began to smell cooking meat. The odor was almost unbearably tantalizing. He salivated constantly while he waited, thinking to himself that it was patently unfair for the two women to be inside eating while he was so hungry that he would gladly have chewed the buttons off his jacket if he thought they were digestible. She would pay, the older one, for making him go so hungry, and the younger one too, but not before having his fun. His imagination made the waiting bearable—but just barely.

  * * * *

  Michael was no longer concerned with physics, biology or any other profession. Hunger pains chased away any hint of equations that tried to form, even after he crossed another circle of normal East Texas countryside. All he could do was note its presence; at this time he could only hope that soon he would run into an area containing something to eat. Hell, right now, he would even settle for a McDonald's, much as he hated their cardboard tasting food. Just the thought of a juicy cheeseburger caused his stomach to rumble painfully. Even as dusk approached, he kept on, stopping only when it was too dark to s
ee where he was going. He took refuge that night in another tree, and slept in fits and starts the whole night, not much more than a hundred yards from where Dawson had been waiting all day for night to fall.

  * * * *

  Melanie Woods had come down from her tree during the day, driven by hunger and thirst. She sampled the unripe tomatoes from a corner of the garden that had come along with her but they were way too tart for her taste and her stomach rejected them. There was no water anywhere in sight and she was afraid to go into the woods. Twice during the long day she spotted animals she didn't recognize emerge from the dark depths of the forest and cross the cleared area, causing her to scurry frantically back up her tree until they were gone. At nightfall, she again climbed up to her perch, but it was harder this time. She was steadily growing weaker, and the awful loneliness was gradually sapping her spirit.

  * * * *

  Jason sent four convicts out as scouts early in the morning, telling them to go no further than the distance that would bring them back to Huntsville, or what was left of it, before dark. Two of the scouts he trusted; the other two were cohorts of Burley Simpson. He doubted that if they found another area of civilization more to their liking that they would return, even if they could, which would suit him fine.

  He noticed that Burley's men carried bottles with them, but he made sure that his own men went dry. There was a method behind this decision. If Burley's men got drunk and lost their way in the woods, he would count it as a blessing rather than a loss, but he hoped his own men would find their way back. Somehow, he had to find out what had happened, and what the future held. In a way, he hoped that the surrounding forest went on and on. If nothing else, it had lifted the burden of bleak years of undeserved confinement from his shoulders, and for that, he was grateful beyond words.