by Darrell Bain
“I haven't been in that direction, but if you saw a house there, let's head for it,” Bucks said. “Any kind of shelter would be better than traipsing out in the open, without even no gun. A tiger got my partner and our horses the first day. Have you seen any of them?"
Doris didn't trust herself to speak again just yet for fear of letting the girls know just how low her spirits had sunk. Tigers? In Texas? That must have been what scared her and the girls back into the bus during the night. Dear God, things were even worse than she had imagined. But maybe there would be someone home at the building she had glimpsed. Maybe even a radio or TV to explain the phenomena. “Hurry, girls, let's go.” She motioned, and the teenagers followed along, still bunched up. Bucks limped along by her side on blistered feet.
There was indeed a house; a large two-story gray and white brick building came into view over the next rise. There was no sign of life as they neared. The house sat in a bouquet of azaleas and young oaks. The lawn was fresh and green, as if mowed only a few days ago. Doris thought it was the most welcome sight she had ever seen.
Just as she felt the swishing of knee-high grass against her legs change to the welcome carpet of mown grass underfoot, a high shrill scream erupted from behind her. It then stopped as abruptly as if it had been sliced with a knife. She whirled and was struck numb.
A huge cat was clawing at the shoulders of one of the girls, trying to shake her loose from a six-inch fang that had pierced all the way through her neck. Arterial blood sprayed into the cat's face, blinding it. It roared and shook its head. The girl's body flipped through the air like a rag doll, arms and legs flying limply. Her body smacked into the earth with a dusty thud.
Bucks thought he knew what the scream meant even before he turned and saw the saber-tooth shake its victim loose from its fangs. He reacted immediately. “Get to the house!” he yelled. He dropped back behind the cluster of girls, who stood frozen with terror. “Run, dammit!” He slammed a hand into the shoulder of one girl and the backside of another. He had no earthly idea what he would do if the cat charged him.
The huge cat shook its bloody head to clear its vision, then it bounded to cover the body. It crouched over it and growled, a low rumbling bass that seemed to shake the very bones. The girls broke and ran toward the house. Bucks backed slowly away, leaving the cat hovering over its victim. It shook it's head once more, then reached down, hooked the body with it's fangs and began dragging it away, letting the body trail back between it's front legs.
Doris pounded at the door of the house. “It's locked!” She screamed. She looked back over the shoulders of the fear-stricken girls, trying to see if the cat was coming back again. She shrank from a moving form, seen in flashes between the figures surrounding her.
With relief, she watched as Bucks broke through the crowd and shook the doorknob. The door was solid, immovable. He grabbed a solid oak deck chair, backed off, then plunged forward and heaved it through a window, shattering the glass and frame. He brushed shards of glass away with his bare hands, bloodying them in the process. “Inside,” he snapped at Doris. “Try the door. If it's deadbolted come back here. We'll all go through the window.” He made a cup with his bloody hands for Doris to stand on and she scrambled through the broken window. Seconds later the front door swung open and Doris was almost crushed in the stampede as the girls rushed to get inside. Bucks followed the last one in, then slammed and locked the door.
For the first time in three days Doris felt safe. She almost smiled when Bucks exclaimed, “Christ on a horse, if this ain't the sorriest mess I ever seen I don't know what is!"
* * * *
Dawson Reeves waited until just before dawn before he made a move. He figured the women would be in the deepest phase of sleep by then. During the day, he had noted how the surrounding forest cut into one corner of the house, and decided to explore that area first.
Under ordinary circumstances, he would have had his tools and could have come in through the front door with little trouble; he was experienced at such entries. Now, though, he had only the clothes on his back and a long pine knot club he had picked up somewhere along the way. He still had no idea that he had been displaced in time, though the strange animals and seemingly endless forest gave him an eerie sense of disorientation.
Dawson crept around the edge of the forest until he got to where it met the back of the house. There, he found that Sheila's carpenter work was easy to slide through; she had built it for larger denizens than a fugitive convict. He stood up in the dimly lit hallway. The door into the living room was ajar. A faint light came from within. Cautiously, he peeked around the door. In the light of the flickering candle Wanda had left burning he saw something that gladdened his heart. A .45 caliber pistol was lying, lethally innocent, beside the almost burnt out candle.
Dawson picked up the pistol. His thirst and hunger disappeared momentarily at the feel of the cool metal grip in his hand. This was much better than a club, much better. The only question was whether a round was chambered under the firing pin or not. With his broken arm, it was impossible to test. Well, he would know soon enough. At any rate, it would make as good a club as the pine knot he had discarded, and he was counting on surprise in any case. He cocked the pistol, though.
The second door he eased open revealed two dimly seen forms snuggled together on a bed. This had to be the two women. During the whole long day while he watched, he had seen no other humans. Dawson was running on his last reserves. The horror of his fearfully close call with the lethal injection still lay heavily on his diseased mind, and the days of struggling through the forest had brought him close to madness. He gripped the pistol tightly and flicked the light switch. The click was surreally loud in the darkened bedroom, but no light came on. One of the forms sat up in bed. Without a second thought, he pulled the trigger of the gun.
Wanda came abruptly out of her early morning somnolence when Dawson flicked the light switch. Her eyes opened and she sat up in bed. A vague figure was pointing something at her. Before she was really awake, the familiar snap of a firing pin clicking on empty brought her to full awareness. The snap came again, accompanied by a vile curse. She threw herself from the bed as the figure strode forward, brandishing the pistol like a club. She threw up an arm to deflect the blow, but it was too late; she knew even as the butt of the pistol crashed against her forehead, knocking her senseless.
Dawson was favoring his broken arm as he delivered the blow and it threw him off balance. He stumbled and fell, banging his arm on some dimly seen obstacle. The pain was ferocious. He yelled in anguish, trying to curse at the same time.
Sheila threw off the sheets and scrambled from the bed just as Dawson was getting painfully back to his feet. His dirty white prison garb caught the first ray of morning light through the bedroom window. To Sheila, he appeared as a ghost-like wraith. She screamed and retreated from him and stumbled over Wanda's prone body. She went down and her head bounced on the carpeted floor, stunning her momentarily. The ghostly figure began advancing. She screamed again, piercingly, and scrambled toward the other door to the living room. She wrenched it open and scurried through, Dawson right behind her, still cursing in frustration and pain. Sheila's only thought was to escape from the nightmarish apparition that had invaded the bedroom.
Dawson caught up to her just as she managed to unlock the front door. He pounded at her from behind with the pistol butt, but missed her head, hitting her shoulder. He heard a snap—Sheila's collarbone(?)—although she appeared not to feel it. The blow slowed her flight though. She stumbled out onto the porch and Dawson caught up with her again, hammering at her with the pistol butt. She went down, still screaming in terror. It took several chops with the pistol to quiet her screams, though he never landed a solid blow as he had on Wanda, simply beating down the ineffectual defenses of her upraised arms until her screams subsided into low moans of pain. One blow had smashed into the side of her jaw, splitting her lip and loosening teeth. Another grazed her forehead, o
pening a gash that poured blood, blindingly, in her eye. Several other blows landed on her arms and breasts, leaving great purple swellings.
Dawson stood up over Sheila's prostate form, breathing heavily, exultant that he had managed to beat both of the women into submission. He kicked angrily at Sheila's body. “Get up, bitch! Back inside.” He pointed the unarmed weapon at the sobbing girl huddled at his feet.
Sheila stumbled upright, shrinking back from the pointed weapon. Dawson assumed she had no idea that he still couldn't fire it. She rubbed at the blood still pouring down one side of her face, trying to clear her vision. Dawson gestured with the pistol, forcing her back inside, through the living room and back into the bedroom where Wanda still lay unconscious.
Beams of the rising sun came through the window, illuminating the room. Dawson glanced around, and then found what he was looking for. “Pick her up and stuff her in there,” he said, indicating the open door of a closet.
Sheila's head and shoulder were hurting horribly and she was still stunned from the blows. Her mind didn't want to believe what was happening, but a vicious kick to her hip and a threatening gesture from the gun prodded her into doing what Dawson told her to. Painfully, favoring her bruised collarbone, she dragged Wanda into the closet. She shut the door at the killer's request, then grunting with effort, she pushed the heavy bed up against it. She wiped again at the congealing blood on her face and suddenly became aware that she was nearly naked. Blood and perspiration plastered the thin nightgown to her body. She shrank under Dawson's gaze. His awareness, also, had suddenly taken in her figure. He grinned evilly. “Nice,” he said. “Real nice. We're going to have some fun, girlie, but first I want something to eat and drink.” He gestured with the pistol, completely in his element now.
* * * *
The first scream startled Michael Wronsen awake, almost causing him to lose his balance where he clung in the crouch of a tree. At first he wasn't sure that the sound had been human, but the second and third scream left no doubt. Somewhere near, a woman was in mortal terror.
Michael dropped down from his perch and began running toward where he thought the screams were coming from. He was startled into stopping as he broke through the forest into the clearing surrounding the farmhouse.
Less than a hundred yards from where he stood, on the porch of a rustic home, he saw the figure of a man clad in dirty white garments flailing at the figure of a woman or young girl with what appeared to be a pistol. Even as he watched, transfixed, the last scream broke off into a bubbling moan, and the female went down. He was much too far away to intervene, and even as he watched, the white-clad man kicked and beat the girl back inside the house.
All Michael's instincts urged him to run for the house and help. He suppressed the desire with considerable difficulty; there was no cover between him and the house, where the porch was now dappled with spots of blood, and he was almost certain that the weapon the man had used to club the girl into submission had been a pistol.
Michael stepped back into the cover of the forest and began a quick examination of his surroundings. Soon, just as Dawson had, he noted that the circling forest cut into a corner of the farmhouse, and like him, decided that was the best way to get close enough to do some good.
He began creeping along the forest edge, keeping under cover. Even as he worked his way nearer, and as various scenarios for rescuing the girl swirled through his mind, he couldn't help noting that the cleared area around the farmhouse was approximately the same size as the one which had trapped him, and nearly the same size as the others he had passed through. A pattern began trying to form in his mind, but he pushed it aside; there were more urgent considerations competing for his attention.
Michael took as much time as he dared, determined not to be spotted from some furtive glance out a window, but after awhile, he wished he had hurried. Another scream came from within the house then broke off into an exclamation of pain. Sobbing gasps followed that. His imagination carried an all too clear picture of what must be happening inside, and he hurried his pace, stopping only to make certain he had a round chambered in his pistol.
He eased his way from around the trunk of the tree growing next to the sheared off area of the house. Sheila's barricade provided no more hindrance to him than it had to Dawson. He slithered through, gained his feet and followed the muffled sounds to their source.
It was all he could do to restrain himself from firing. Only the possibility of an errant shot hitting the girl restrained him. Dawson had switched the pistol for a kitchen knife. He was holding it to Sheila's throat, where several shallow slashes trickled blood onto the carpet. He was on top of her, hips thrusting, uttering animal grunts of pleasure while he held the knife. Sheila was sobbing brokenly, glassy eyed and hopeless.
Michael made two mighty strides toward the prone figures, then with his third step swung a sweeping kick to Dawson's head. It connected with a sound like a pumpkin being dropped from a hayloft. If Dawson's head had been a football, it would have been a sixty-yard field goal. Michael's boot connected with a sickening crunch to the side of Dawson's head, shattering the zygomatic arch and breaking his nose. He twirled after the kick, still holding his pistol in one hand, ready to shoot if he had to, but that first blow to the head had been all that was needed.
Dawson was unconscious, bloody froth bubbling from his nose and mouth. Michael bent and jerked Dawson off the prostate figure of the girl. He was sickened at what he saw. The girl's torn nightgown was pushed up around her neck, the bloody folds circling it like a bizarre red necklace. Her shoulders and breasts were splotched with purple bruises and her lips were puffy. She moaned and shrank from him, as if he were another attacker.
“Easy, take it easy,” Michael said. “You're safe now. Don't be afraid.” His voice trembled in reaction to the girl's despair.
Sheila rolled shakily to her knees, pushing the gown down to hide her nakedness. “The closet. Wanda's in the closet,” she mumbled through split lips. Michael could barely make out what she was saying.
Michael glanced up, suddenly aware of a banging sound coming from a closet door as it thudded against the barricade of the bed. He glanced down at the man to make sure he was still out, then laid his gun down and heaved at the bed.
Wanda scrunched through the partially opened door. A golf ball sized welt over her left eyebrow was rapidly purpling, and tears of frustration were streaming down her cheeks. She spotted Michael's weapon on the bed and grabbed it, swinging it around and pointing it at Reeves with murder in her eyes.
“Don't!” Michael shouted. Something about the prone figure of the unconscious man was ringing a bell, and something else was shouting in his mind that whoever he was, his presence here was important to understanding what had happened to them all. He held his breath as the dark-haired woman held the gun steady, supporting it with both hands, pointed unwaveringly at Dawson Reeves’ head.
* * * *
Cecil McMasters knew he shouldn't waste ammunition, but he did anyway. The screams of the girls from the baseball team had drawn him at a galloping run, but he was too late to save the one who had been taken by the saber-toothed tiger. From a distance, he watched unbelievingly as the four hundred pound cat slaughtered the young woman while the others ran for the safety of the house that had appeared as he came over a rise. He waited as the tiger dragged the carcass back in his direction until he was sure of his shot. He nailed it just behind the shoulder.
The tiger roared, swirled and charged. McMasters worked the bolt faster than he had ever done before, fired, then fired again as the beast staggered and slowed. It fell, still kicking. McMasters puffed out breath like a sagging blimp. He noticed his hands were shaking, and grinned wryly at himself. Just like in combat. The shakes start when it's all over. He began working his way toward the house, still careful to watch for other dangers. He hadn't lived this long by being careless.
Back at the house, Bucks heard the shots, but he wasn't about to go outside, not without
something to defend himself with. With the whole world turned upside down he wanted to be certain that whoever fired the shots was friendly before he committed himself. He peered out through the broken window then circled the spacious living room, pulling the blinds down at each window.
Doris glanced at him curiously from where she was still trying to comfort the hysterical girls. The distant firing had registered only vaguely with her, barely heard over the crying, sobbing teenagers. She kept one arm around Judy, as if even within the protection of the huge house, she needed to shield her.
“Keep the girls here,” Bucks said. “Let me look around. Stay away from that broken window. Better yet, put something in front of it. I heard shots from somewhere."
“Let it be the police,” Doris said.
Bucks shook his head but didn't contradict her. He had heard the roar of the big cat as well as the rifle fire, then nothing else. If it had been the law, or army or whatever, more sounds would have come, but there was nothing but a deadly silence now from outside. He left the girls and Doris still in a huddle and began exploring the house.
It was as if the owners had simply closed up and left to go out to eat, or possibly went on an overnight trip. Everything was clean and as neat as a vacant school on the first day of summer. There were only two incongruities: when he opened the refrigerator, the smell of souring milk and vegetables sifted into the kitchen, and the sink sputtered, but gave no water. The refrigerator did have a water jug, however, and the ice trays held tepid water. He called Doris, and left her and the girls drinking thirstily.
A few minutes later, Bucks was convinced by a quick perusal of the ground floor that, whoever the owners had been, they were not hunters. There were no deer or havolina trophies visible, no gun racks or gun cases anywhere on the first floor. He climbed the stairs with dwindling hope and made a hurried search of the upstairs.
In the closet of one bedroom, he did finally find a weapon, of sorts, an old double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun, with half a box of moldering shells, all number six game shot. He loaded the old weapon even as he wondered whether the shells would still fire, and carried it with him while he made a circuit of the upstairs windows.