“We’ve got to check,” the giant said. “We won’t disturb any of your property. We’re not thieves.”
“What, exactly, are you?”
“We’ll ask the questions,” Blade said. “Now where’s the living room?”
Holly and the children led the way down the hall to a door on the right, and Holly pushed the door inward and flicked on a light. She escorted her children to a faded blue sofa and seated herself between them, hugging them close.
Blade walked to a rocking chair on the left and leaned the shotgun against an arm. “I’ll make this short and sweet. Answer me honestly and we’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
“What do you want to know?” Holly asked.
“Are we behind the Russian lines?”
Holly cocked her head to one side and peered at him quizzically. “You don’t know?”
“I believe we are, but the Russians haven’t strung barbed wire along their frontier or posted signs,” Blade mentioned. “We didn’t see any patrols, which doesn’t mean a thing because they tend to concentrate most of their troops in the cities. So are we in Soviet-controlled territory or not?”
“Unfortunately, you are,” Holly said bitterly.
“Where is the nearest Soviet garrison?”
“Cincinnati.”
“That far?”
“They’ve turned Cincinnati into a military-industrial complex,” Holly disclosed. “The city is an armed camp. They send out regular patrols in a fifty-mile radius.”
Blade scrutinized the modest furnishings in the living room, the peeling green paint on the walls, the cracks in the plaster coating the ceiling. “The Russians let you keep your own home? I’m surprised they haven’t turned your farm into a collective.”
“My grandfather told me the Russians tried to organize a collective system after the war,” Holly disclosed. “But their scheme didn’t work. The farmers wouldn’t cooperate, even though many of them were tortured and killed. The city folks didn’t know beans about growing crops and couldn’t do diddly without help from the farmers. And there weren’t enough Russians to enforce the edicts establishing the collectives.”
“So the Soviets let the farmers keep their land?”
“In most cases. They did succeed in setting up a few collectives here and there, but for the most part they simply take ninety percent of all the crops the farmers harvest,” Holly said.
“They visit you periodically?”
“At least once a week a patrol shows up to check on us,” Holly replied.
“They keep tabs on the crops, and they send trucks at harvest time to take their fair share.” She spoke the last two words with unconcealed rancor.
“You don’t sound too happy about the state of affairs,” Blade commented.
“Would you be?” Holly responded resentfully. “But there’s nothing I can do about it, not after they…” she said, and stopped, her eyelids lowering, her lips compressing.
“They what?” Blade prompted.
“They killed my husband,” Holly revealed softly.
“I’m sorry.”
Holly looked up at him, trying to gauge if he was sincere, and decided he was. “Thanks.”
“Care to tell me about it?”
“There are a lot of poor folks around,” Holly said. “The people in the cities and the towns receive just enough food to keep them alive. Even the farmers barely get by. My husband, Tim, was part of an underground movement.”
“Go on.”
Holly studied his rugged features. “I’ve told you too much already.”
“What about this underground movement?”
“How do I know I can trust you?” Holly queried suspiciously. “You might be with the KGB.”
“Do you really think I am?”
Before the woman could respond, Hickok sauntered into the living room carrying Blade’s combat boot and laces in his left hand. He scrunched up his nose. “Here, pard. Take these before my nose kicks the bucket.” The Commando was slung over his left shoulder.
Blade took the boots and sat down in the rocker to put them on.
Holly stared at the gunman. “There’s no way he could be with the KGB.”
“What the dickens is the KGB?” Hickok asked.
“The Committee for State Security,” Holly said, “the Soviet secret police.”
Hickok chuckled. “I’m not a Commie, ma’am.”
“That much is obvious,” Holly said. “But where are you from? Why are you here?”
“Shouldn’t you be more concerned about your ma?” Hickok rejoined.
Holly appeared shocked. “Damn! How is she?”
“She’s snoozin’ away on the front porch,” Hickok said.
“Bring her inside,” Blade instructed.
Hickok deposited the Commando on the floor next to the rocking chair, slung the AR-15 over his right shoulder, and strolled out.
“Tell me more about the underground,” Blade stated, sliding his right foot into a combat boot.
“Some of the farmers banded together to try and do something about the food situation,” Holly said. “They hide a small portion of the harvest, then smuggle the food into Cincinnati. Not much, mind you, but every little bit helps.”
“They put their lives on the line for a handful of grain,” Blade remarked.
“That’s about it.”
“What happened to your husband?”
Holly sighed. “Tim built an underground bin for grain and corn in the southwest corner of one of our fields to the east. There were trees all around, and no one could see the corner from the road. He never expected the Russians to find the bin.”
“They did?”
“I don’t know how, but they did,” Holly said. “It was like they knew where to look.” She paused, hugging her children, her countenance a mask of sorrow. “They took him to Cincinnati, tried him, and put him in front of a firing squad.”
“But they let you stay on the farm?”
“The Soviet commander of the Cincinnati garrison, General Kasantsev, told me that we could stay as long as our production quota is met. If we’re one bushel short, though, we’ll be booted off and sent to a relocation camp. I think he allowed us to stay because we know the land so well, and because we were in the middle of the growing season when Tim was executed.”
Their conversation was interrupted as Hickok ambled in with the elderly woman cradled gently in his arms.
She was awake, regarding the gunman angrily, her thin hands on his chest. “Put me down, young man! I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself.”
“Mom!” Holly exclaimed, rising and hastening to her mother. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” her mother replied. “Tell this pervert to put me down. I don’t like having strangers paw me.”
“I’m not a pervert,” Hickok said.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” the mother retorted.
Hickok halted and lowered the woman to the floor. “And I don’t go in for pawin’ women. My missus would break my fingers if I tried.”
“You’re married?”
“Yep.”
“Your wife has my sympathy.”
Holly grabbed her mother’s left wrist. “Mom! Don’t talk like that.”
“I’m not scared of these scavengers,” the mother stated.
His combat boots snug on his feet, Blade rose and placed his hands on his hips. “We’re not scavengers.”
The mother swiveled toward him, her right hand covering her mouth.
“Good Lord! I didn’t imagine it. You are real!”
“What’s your name?” Blade inquired.
“Ethel,” she answered, gawking, astonished at his size.
“Have a seat,” Blade said, indicating the sofa with a jerk of his right thumb.
At that moment Geronimo materialized in the doorway. “You’d better come outside,” he informed Blade. “We might have an uninvited visitor.”