Circles of Displacement

by Darrell Bain

  “Now, little lady, tell me more about your girls and their shotguns.” Burley's grin was as devoid of humor as a hyena's bared fangs.

  Wanda stared into his cold eyes. “I told you already. I organized the survivors at Livingston when I found them there, and came after the ones who killed all those poor men. Why did you have them do that, anyway?"

  “How do you know I was the one that ordered it?"

  Whoops. Keep your story simple, Wanda. This man isn't as stupid as he looks. “Whitney told me on the way here. It wasn't necessary, you know."

  “What do you know, bitch! You ever been locked away? How would you feel if you'd been without a man for ten years?"

  “If you were an example, it wouldn't bother me a bit,” Wanda said deliberately.

  Burley's callused hand lashed out like a striking rattler. Wanda stumbled backward. The whole side of her face went numb with the force of the blow. Burley took a step forward and seized her by her blouse. He twisted the fabric in his huge fist and yanked. His face was flaming red.

  “One more remark like that and you're dead meat, girl.” He shook his shotgun. “I'll cram this up your ass and blow your guts out through your mouth."

  Inside, Wanda was withering like an insect being sucked dry of its vitals by a spider. It was all she could do to keep her voice steady. “You bastard, you ever hit me again, you'd better kill me. You have to sleep sometime."

  Burley threw her across the room. She bounced off the desk, bruising her hip. He glared at her then motioned with his shotgun. “Get up."

  Wanda got slowly to her feet, eyes wary. She had intended to antagonize him; a vile temper could lead to mistakes, but this was enough. Anything more, and he might really kill her. She had never gazed into eyes like this man possessed. There was madness there, and a complete lack of any hint of pity.

  “Move."

  Prodded by the shotgun, Wanda was forced into the cellblock where the other females were being held. A single convict standing guard unlocked the chain wrapped around the bars, and then re-locked it as Burley watched. He stared coldly at her for a moment, then turned on his heel and left.

  Wanda breathed a sigh of relief. She had expected a beating, or worse, but apparently she was safe for the time being. Now she had to decide how much and what she could whisper to the other prisoners. It would be prickly. She wanted to give them hope, but if one of the women had fallen for her captors their scheme could go up in smoke.

  Jason began preparations for the move to Livingston. During the process of checking supplies and giving orders he spoke to a number of cons before casually getting Whitney off to himself. “What's the line, Whit? Maybe Burley believed your bullshit, but I know better. What's that woman up to?"

  Quickly, Whitney told the whole story and then concluded, “They intend to lay the ambush right after we cross the river, if they can manage it. Wronsen is their leader's name. He intends to have a couple of decoys waiting. They'll pretend those monsters out there got the rest and will ask to join us. That's when they'll hit us. We're supposed to help take out Burley and the worst of his gang. They promise amnesty for us, and even some of Burley's men, if they behave."

  “Do you believe him?"

  “Yeah, Jase, I think so. At any rate, I think we have to take the chance. If we don't, sooner or later Burley will take us out; you, especially."

  Jason rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I guess we'll never get a better chance, will we? What role is that Wanda woman supposed to play?"

  “She'll warn the women at the last moment. We're supposed to try to slip them some shanks if we can, or maybe even a few little pistols."

  “We'd better be careful about that. A few of the women already have reason to use them. I'll take care of that part, or get Slats and Killa to. They're both reliable. You did good Whit.” Jason looked around to be sure he wasn't being overheard. “One more thing. You be sure to volunteer to guard the blacks the last day, then while you're with them on the raft, unlock the cuffs and tell them I said to do what damage they can when the fight comes. I know you're straight, and I don't trust anyone else for that job. I don't know how deep the prejudice goes in some of the other men."

  Whitney agreed. He had one more question. “What happens if Wronsen doesn't make a fight of it at the river?"

  “His woman is here. If he doesn't fight at the river, he'll fight somewhere else. Wouldn't you?"

  Whitney suddenly got a dreamy look in his eyes. “For a chance of getting next to a babe like that, I'd fight a Goddamn saber-tooth tiger."

  Jason grinned wryly. “You might have to. We saw one while you were gone. It didn't look to weigh more than four or five hundred pounds."

  * * * *

  Michael sent Brent Sampson and Darla back toward Livingston with instructions to lead Breedlove and his group back to the river as soon as they arrived. He kept all the food and most of the supplies with his group. Whatever happened, he was determined to lay an ambush at the site of the former one. After Brent left, they began burying bodies to conceal the smell from scavengers. It was enough that they were planning to fight heavily armed convicts without having to worry about dire wolves or such.

  Michael sent out scouts up and down their side of the river in case the crossing site was different this time, even though Whitney had told him the convicts had marked their trail. After that, he could only wait. And worry. And let doubts creep into his mind about the success of their plans. Where is Wanda now? What is happening to her?

  Breedlove was antsy as hell. In all the time he had been involved with police work, he had never drawn his gun, and now Gerald, the young black teenager, had come back to tell him that a war with escaped convicts was brewing, and that he had to hurry. Not only was he supposed to prepare for a war, but he was also to arm all the women and prepare them to fight beside the men. Every hand would be needed.

  He did the best he could, delegating some to round up all the food, ammunition and firearms they could comfortably carry while he began giving such lessons as he could in firearm safety and marksmanship. He felt woefully inadequate, but considered himself duty-bound to do his best. To his surprise, the two widows accepted shotguns after he told them about the teenage girls taken captive. The two women who had refused to fight for Michael gave him more trouble, but he solved that by thrusting .22 rifles into their hands and telling them bluntly to either accept them or be left behind. Again, to his surprise, the ploy worked. He wondered why Michael hadn't tried it, and was proud that he had had the gumption. Perhaps Carla's approval of his other actions had something to do with it, he thought. Migod, just having her as his woman almost made a war seem worthwhile!

  By the time his force was ready to leave, he was proud of himself. I can do it, he thought. Whatever in hell it takes in this goddamn crazy New World, I can do it.

  The sky had been inordinately clear since the thunderstorms a few days ago, but as they prepared to leave, Breedlove noticed high scudding clouds beginning to slowly build far to the south. At the last minute, he added such raingear as he could find to their packs.

  * * * *

  George found his son almost completely undone. He had seen a pack of dire wolves cross the displacement area while they were gone. Unprovoked, he had fired his weapon into their midst and very nearly been devoured before he and his family and George's wife gained refuge in their vehicles. It took George Sr. hours of shamed pleading to persuade him to leave the area in search of McMasters and his theory of other survivors. Only the fact that they were almost completely out of food, and, not incidentally, George's account of what a crack marksman McMasters was finally persuaded him.

  McMasters watched George and his little group as they arrived. McMasters’ feelings that the older George would settle down, much as he had seen young soldiers do after their first combat, had been right, but so was his doubt about the youngster. Some men were simply cowards, and nothing anyone could do could change that mindset. It could be worse, though, he thought, reading
each person as they approached. Even if George, Jr. did appear to be almost scared out of his wits, the two women seemed to calm down almost immediately when George caught up to him and Judy on the banks of the Trinity, as if he represented an authority of some sort that they didn't realize consciously they were even missing.

  McMasters was still riding the abused old pony. He thought it might be the last horse he would ever see, but for now, it was a godsend. While his leg was no longer quite so painful, he still had to have help to walk every time he dismounted. He hoped the horse would last long enough for him to get back on his feet. He swore to himself that if it did, he would retire it to pasture for the rest of its life.

  Late the next day, after using a clumsily constructed raft to cross the river some miles from where Michael's makeshift force had defeated the convicts returning from Livingston, they entered another displaced area, and again he found a stranded family, a young couple caught on the gravel road leading to their farm. The farm was gone to wherever all else familiar had disappeared to, and they had simply waited there, weaponless, with no idea of what had happened.

  The appearance of other humans was as welcome to them as a fresh shower after a hard day in the fields. They had each been considering the possibility that they had gone insane. McMasters was very glad to see them. After explaining their mission, he took George, Jr.'s weapon from him and gave it to the man. George, Sr. didn't protest. Perhaps he knew his son as well as McMasters did.

  The next morning, McMasters decided to follow the river for a while, regardless of the harder going. Farms and small towns, as he remembered, had been strung out along the Trinity's winding course like beads on a necklace. Perhaps they would find some of them. He figured the river probably ran more or less in the same bed as in modern times; at least he hoped so.

  Finding more survivors was the only chance there was to rescue Judy's mother and the other girls. He still didn't know exactly how that might be accomplished, but he was determined to try. The feel of Judy's young body pressing against his back gave him an incentive, if nothing else did, though he was still uncomfortable with the way she kept so close to him, helping him to walk and touching him when there was no real reason to do so, as if he had already replaced her boyfriend in her thoughts, white hair and weak eyes objects of little concern. She cuddled up next to him that night like a child holding an oversized teddy bear.

  Sometime during the night their positions shifted. He woke up and found Judy nestled back up against him, spoon fashion, with his arm around her waist. Sleepily, in a normal nocturnal movement, he slid his hand up her body and cupped her breast, molding it into his curled palm. Judy stirred and then was quiet again. He did not have the strength to move his hand.

  * * * *

  “What did Wanda have to say?” Jason asked Burley. In preparing for the move, he had directed that supplies and makeshift packs be supplied to the female captives, the better to conceal any weapons he might be able to smuggle to them. Checking, he had seen the bruise on Wanda's face, and was barely able to conceal his anger. However, if she had escaped with only a bruise, he thought she had been extraordinarily lucky, considering Burley's predilections.

  “Not a goddamned lot. Maybe you can get something out of her. Be nice to her. Mother fucking bitch."

  “I'll talk to her,” Jason said immediately, before Burley had time to reconsider, “but not now. I'll get her aside after we leave.” He hoped that his casual retort would be enough to distract any suspicion Burley might have, and apparently it was.

  “Yeah, you do that. Just don't you try fucking her before I do. I've got my name on that ball buster. She'll be begging to suck my dick before I'm finished with her."

  “Let's get to Livingston, Burley, then get that kind of thing sorted out. The women aren't going anywhere, not with what's out there waiting on them if they run.” He pointed a finger at the encroaching forest.

  “I'll goddamned guarantee they aren't going to run. You aren't planning anything like that are you Jase? I'll kill your ass if you try."

  “Run to where?"

  “Yeah. There's no place else to go, is there? You know, Jase,” he said, suddenly as friendly as he was ever likely to get, “I never thought I'd see the day when us lags would be running the world."

  “Such as it is,” Jason said.

  “Yeah. Well, better this than thirty more years before I was even eligible for parole. You about ready to move?"

  “Just about. All that's left is to talk to the blacks and tell them what's happening. And get them loaded up.” Jason threw the remark off as casually as he was able.

  “Them fucking niggers don't need to know nothing except their place. Loaded up. Haw! They ain't much smarter than mules no way!” Burley guffawed at the analogy.

  “It might keep them from causing trouble on the way."

  Burley had made a point of keeping the blacks isolated from any possible allies. He hesitated now, then decided that Jason was probably right. “Go ahead, then. Just don't get too friendly with them, Jase. Know what I mean?” He patted his shotgun.

  Jason nodded and left. He climbed the stairs to where the blacks were confined, taking one of his men with him. There he ostensibly helped guard them as one by one they were let out and shackled together.

  “I'll take them now,” Jason told the guard.

  “Burley said—"

  Jason leaned into the man's space. “I said I'll take them now. I need to get their loads ready. Or would you rather take a turn carrying one of the packs?” The guard gazed up at Jason's tall solid body and left without further argument. If Jason was holding his own with Burley, he sure wasn't going to dispute his orders.

  Jason led the chained string of men slowly down the stairs, letting his cohort precede him to give warning of any listeners. He pulled Rye aside as far as the chains allowed.

  Rye spoke up immediately, fear coloring his voice. “Jase, you got to do something, man. We can't live like this much longer. Ol’ Burley ain't lettin’ us eat much and he workin’ the hell out of us.” Rye's eyes shifted wildly, as if he were watching for lions in an arena.

  “It won't be much longer,” Jason said. “Something will be coming down in a day or two. Be ready when I get the word to you. You know my men. Leave them alone and I promise you a fair shake. Ok?"

  The chained men muttered among themselves after Jason left them with another guard and the bundles they were to carry.

  “I don't trust no motherfucking honky,” one of them spoke up.

  “Hush up,” Preacher Johnson told him. “Jason is a fair man. If he say we'll get a fair shake, we will. You just do like he say when the time comes.” His deep bass voice made his whisper sound like drums muttering in the distance. There was no more argument. Preacher Johnson had been doing life without parole for a brutal murder committed in a drug induced frenzy. In prison, he had gotten religion, but that wasn't the primary reason for the lack of argument. At six foot six and weighing almost three hundred pounds, very few convicts were brave enough to contest his orders. Not more than once, anyway. His size and conviction saw to that. A number of cons had been converted after he first beat them senseless then leaned on them to mend their ways. If he gave the word, most of the blacks would follow his lead and hope for the best.

  As they left Huntsville behind, Jason felt as if he were juggling eggs, and had too many in the air at once. He didn't think they would have but one good chance to break Burley's reign of terror, and that was contingent on so many factors that he didn't see much of a chance of them all working out as planned. Well, he had done what he could. In his pack, and in those of a few of his men, several small pistols were concealed, as well as a number of knives. After some debate with himself, he had also brought along all the Quaaludes he had found, and left the rest of the drug cache behind. Quaalude would make a person sleepy, and slow the reflexes. At the right time he would share with Burley and his followers, after very carefully warning his own men not to partake. That is
, if he knew when the optimum moment was at hand.

  The next day, he dropped back from his lead position and fell into step with the string of females. His heart went out to them, especially the young girls, and most especially the young black women. What must they be thinking? He could see from the drawn faces and dried tear streaks on dirty cheeks that many of them were on the verge of utter despair.

  “I need to talk with that one,” he told one of the guards, pointing to Wanda.

  “Burley said not to let any of them loose. Not til we're ready to, you know, take care of them.” The guard leered knowingly at the string of young women and licked his lips.

  Jason had been prepared for that. He shook a pair of handcuffs loose from his belt. “I won't let her go anywhere.” He snapped one of the cuffs to his own wrist. The guard unlocked Wanda from the string and Jason attached the other cuff to Wanda. He let them fall to the rear of the file, where he knew two of his own men were trailing.

  “Here,” he said, “hide these quick, and for God's sake, don't dare use them or let anyone else see them yet.” He passed her two small .25 caliber automatics. Wanda quickly shoved one down inside her bra and tucked the other into her pack.

  Wanda tried not to let the other women notice her exuberance. “Thanks. Whitney spoke well of you. He was right."

  “I try,” Jason said. “Quickly, now, are there any other of the women you can trust to keep quiet for now?"

  “Not Doris.” Wanda pointed her out. “She's about to crack. I haven't had time to be sure of anyone else. How long do I have?"

  “So long as it's before we get to the river. Make up your mind before then, and let either Whitney or I know, if you can. And for God's sake, try to stay out of Burley's way—he's going to get down on you just as soon as he thinks he can."

  Wanda rubbed the bruise on her cheek. “I know. Try to keep him off me until we get to the river, if you can.” Now that she was armed, she didn't trust herself not to shoot him if he abused her again.