Nick tittered. “Sprout wings and a halo.”
Blade indicated the smoldering fire with a wave of his left hand. “Why don’t you have a seat? There are a few questions I’d like to ask you.”
“I’ll bet there are!” Nick declared, smirking. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playin’, but I’ll go along with it. I don’t have any choice, do I?”
Blade stepped aside as Nick walked to the stool and sat down.
Sundance came down the stairs and moved to the right. He leaned against the wall, his automatic rifle cradled in his arms.
“I ain’t never seen guns like yours,” Nick mentioned, admiring the Commando in Blade’s right hand.
“You see? Don’t these guns prove we’re not Russians?” Blade asked.
“They don’t prove diddly,” Nick retorted.
Blade sighed. “What are you doing down here all by yourself?”
“Jackin’ off,” Nick answered, and chuckled.
“Can’t you give me a straight answer?” Blade queried.
“Why the hell should I?” Nick rejoined. “I hate all you Commie sons of bitches!”
“But I told you we’re not Russians,” Blade reiterated.
“Oh, you may not be from Russia,” Nick said, “but you’re still a Commie bastard! I know you’re forcin’ some of our women to have kids for you! I know you’re raisin’ the kids like they would have been raised in your rotten Motherland! I know!” His voice vibrated with the intensity of his emotion.
Blade frowned. This was getting them nowhere. He’d hoped to glean important information from their conversation, information which might aid Sundance and him in the attainment of their goal.
Sundance noted the expression on Blade’s face. “Let’s get out of here,” he suggested. “This crazy old coot won’t help us fight the Russians.”
“I guess you’re right,” Blade admitted reluctantly. He smiled at Nick.
“Be seeing you. Take care of yourself.”
Blade and Sundance started toward the stairs.
Nick watched them cross the basement, his blue eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You’re just gonna leave?”
“Yep,” Blade confirmed.
“You ain’t gonna kill me?”
“Nope,” Blade answered.
“This is some kind of trick!” Nick exclaimed.
“Nope.” Blade reached the bottom of the stairs.
“I don’t get any of this,” Nick muttered. “Why’d you bust in here, if you don’t intend to kill me?”
Blade reached the third step. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“What questions?” Nick asked.
Blade paused. “You’ll help us?”
“I still don’t believe any of this,” Nick said. “I think you’re jerkin’ me around. Then again, there’s no way a pair of Hunters would walk off and let me live.”
“Hunters?” Blade repeated.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know what Hunters are!” Nick stated.
“Of course we do,” Sundance said. “Hunters kill game. I’ve hunted plenty of times. Deer, bear, ducks, you name it.”
Nick squinted at Sundance. “Either you’re the biggest idiot this world’s ever seen, or you’re the biggest liar.”
Sundance turned. “I wouldn’t make a habit out of calling me a liar.”
“Touchy, ain’t we?” Nick retorted.
“Will you help us?” Blade interjected.
Nick nodded. “You got me curious now. I’ll answer your questions.”
Blade and Sundance returned to the fire.
“So what are you doing down here all by yourself?” Blade asked again.
“Eatin’ a rabbit I conked on the head with a rock,” Nick said. “The homes around here were abandoned ages ago. I figured I could hide out here for a spell. No one ever comes around here, except the Hunters, of course. Valley Forge is off-limits.”
“What are these hunters you keep talking about?” Blade inquired.
“Hunters are murderin’ slime! The Commies train some of their soldiers in trackin’ and night-stalkin’, and everybody calls ’em Hunters.
They hunt us down. Get a bounty for every Freeb they kill. Double the bounty if its a Packrat,” Nick detailed.
Blade’s brow furrowed in perplexity. “I don’t understand. What’s a Freeb? And a Packrat?”
Nick seemed surprised by the question. “I’m a Freeb, dummy! And the Packrats are the kids, the ones hidin’ out in Valley Forge.”
“You’re a Freeb?” Blade said. “I still don’t understand.”
Nick stared up at the giant, amused. “They sure grow ’em stupid where you come from!”
“I told you we’re not Russians,” Blade stated sharply. “And we’re not from around here. We don’t have the slightest idea what a Freeb is. Or a Packrat.”
Nick pursed his lips. “You know, I’m beginnin’ to believe you turkeys. Well, Freeb is short for freeborn. Anyone who ain’t been printed and mugged by the Commies is called a Freeb ’cause the Commies ain’t got no record of ’em. You understand that?”
“So far,” Blade said. “But why do the Russians mug people? To rob them?”
Nick gazed at the washer and dryer. “Dummies! I’m dealin’ with dummies here!”
“Who are you talking to?” Sundance asked.
Nick pointed at the appliances. “Them.”
Sundance glanced at Blade. “This geezer is nuts.”
“I’m nuts?” Nick said. “Tell me somethin’, boy. Do you know which end of a horse the shit comes out of?”
“Why are we dummies?” Blade queried.
“Because you don’t know what it means when I say the Commies mug folks. They take mug shots for their files. Get it? Photographs. Pictures. You do know what a photograph is?” Nick said.
“I’ve seen some,” Blade answered. Actually, he’d seen thousands. Kurt Carpenter had stocked the Family library with hundreds of volumes depicting a pictorial history of humankind. Photographic books on every subject were represented, from sailing to spaceships. “But how is it you haven’t been… printed and mugged… by the Soviets? Don’t they mug everyone?”
“They try to,” Nick stated. “But they don’t catch everybody. Their Admin Centers are concentrated in the cities and towns, and they have trouble keepin’ tabs on all the rural folks. I was born nearly seventy years ago, on a farm in western Pennsylvania. My mom and pop never took me in to be mugged.”
“How long have you been hiding out like this?” Blade inquired.
Nick sighed. “Too damn long. I’m gettin’ tired of all the runnin’ and hidin’. I’ve been in these parts for about a year. There are a lot of abandoned homes around Valley Forge, and I keep movin’ from one to the next. Like I said, no one ever comes here. It’s illegal to be caught in Valley Forge. Oh, I bump into the Packrats now and again. But they keep their distance, and I keep mine. Besides, I ain’t got nothin’ they’d want.”
“What are the Packrats?” Blade asked.
“The kids, dummy.”
Blade looked at the window. “There are kids out there?”
“Bunches of ’em,” Nick answered. “They live in gangs, and spend their time foragin’ for food and fightin’ each other. When they’re not hidin’ from the Hunters, that is.”
“Where do these kids come from?” Blade queried.
“Everywhere,” Nick replied. “But mostly from the big cities, like Philly.
They’re orphans, usually. Their parents get killed by the Commies, and they have nowhere else to go. So they hoof it. If they don’t hit the road, the Commies will use ’em in their slave-labor camps. A lot of the runaways wind up here, or places like Valley Forge. They hear about it through the grapevine.”
“Kids,” Blade said, feeling an overwhelming revulsion for the Russians, and thinking about his little son Gabe.