Circles of Displacement by Darrell Bain

Author:Darrell Bain
Language: eng
Format: mobi, pdf
Tags: Science Fiction/Fantasy
Publisher: Double Dragon Publishing
Published: 2010-12-15T07:08:23.652000+00:00

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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.

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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.

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