David Robbins - Spartan Run

“Let’s go,” Blade commanded, and motioned for the Helots to precede him along the walk. He gazed at the fields to the south and spied a lone figure far off. The father, perhaps?

“I demand to know what’s going on?” the mother said angrily, glaring at the giant. “This little man waltzed into my kitchen and told me to come outside. Ordered me out of my own house! You’re not Spartans. What gives you the right to boss us around?”

Blade hefted the Commando. “This does.”

“Well, I never!”

Erica hastened to her mom’s side. “Don’t be too hard on them. They saved me from a mutant.”

“Why did they save you?” Mrs. Johnson responded suspiciously.

“What?”

“Perhaps they have an ulterior motive.”

“We have no intention of harming any of you,” Blade assured her while staring at the barn.

Mrs. Johnson nodded at Grennell. “And what happened to Ricky? I suppose he did that to himself?”

“He tried to shoot one of us,” Blade explained.

“I can’t say as I blame him,” the mother said arrogantly.

A moment later Teucer walked from the barn and gave the hand signal for “all clear.”

Blade stepped onto the porch and indicated three chairs arranged next to the wall, to the left of the door. “Why don’t all of you take a seat?”

“And if we’d rather stand?” Mrs. Johnson rejoined.

“Sit anyway.”

“Such rudeness. I hope the Spartans skin you alive.”

“We don’t want to be impolite, but we must take certain precautions,” Blade explained. “We don’t know if we can trust you yet.”

“Trust us?” Mrs. Johnson said tartly. “Haven’t you got the shoe on the wrong foot?”

“Please take a chair.”

“You must be a barbarian,” the mother stated. She moved to the nearest chair and sat down in a huff.

Erica and Grennell followed suit.

“I have a family of my own,” Blade said in an attempt to pacify the older woman. “A wife and a son, both of whom I love with all my heart.

Rikki, here, is also married,” he said, and indicated the martial artist.

“None of us are barbaric. We were all reared at a place called the Home, where we were taught to revere the Spirit and respect others. We’re not any threat to you whatsoever. Believe me.”

“I’ll believe anything you tell me.” Mrs. Johnson replied. “I make it a point never to argue with a giant holding a submachine gun.”

Grinning, Blade shook his head and turned as Teucer hurried up the walk. “What did you see?”

“Animals. A horse. Two cows in stalls at the rear of the barn. All those chickens outside. And in a small pen attached to the side of the barn on the west are seven pigs,” the bowman detailed.

Blade glanced at the mother. “Was that your husband I saw out in the fields?”

“Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t.”

“Please, Mom,” Erica interjected. “Can’t you be nice to them?”

“I can, but I won’t,” Mrs. Johnson snapped. “For all we know these men are scavengers or worse. The Spartans have told us about the conditions outside our territory. Every stranger is to be considered an enemy until our masters decide otherwise.”

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi cleared his throat. “Is any person truly master of another? Aren’t we all equal in the eyes of the Eternal Source?”

Mrs. Johnson peered at the man in black as if studying a peculiar insect she had never seen before. “Are you religious?”

“All of us are,” Rikki answered politely. “Everyone at the Home is encouraged to develop a spiritual consciousness, to seek spiritual answers to the fundamental questions all of us eventually ask. Who are we? What are we doing here? What is our destiny? These are questions every thinking person views as supremely important.”

“What religion are you?”

“Myself, I practice Zen. But there are many Christians at the Home, as well as Moslems and those of other faiths. The religious books in our library are among those most checked out.”

“There might be hope for you after all,” Mrs. Johnson said. “I am a firm believer in the Holy Bible.”

“And where in the Bible does it say that you should call other men your masters?”

“Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and to God the things that are God’s.”

Blade stepped to the west end of the porch and peeked around the corner. The figure he’d spotted earlier was approaching slowly, evidently unaware of the situation at the house. Blade leaned against the wall and waited, idly listening to Rikki and Mrs. Johnson discussing the importance of religion. He admired the way in which the martial artist had verbally disarmed the woman and gotten her to open up. Engrossed in their conversation, he didn’t realize several minutes had elapsed until he heard the steady tread of someone who was almost to the front of the house, and he quickly swung out, the Commando leveled.

Not eight feet off a tall man abruptly froze. He wore jeans and a patched flannel shirt. His face was rugged, distinguished by a square jaw.

Blue eyes stared fearlessly at the giant. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Mr. Johnson?”

“That’s right.”

“My name is Blade. Kindly step onto the porch, Your wife and daughter are both here.”

“Martha and Erica?” Johnson stated, and hurried forward. He took one look, relief washing over his countenance.

“Harry!” Mrs. Johnson declared.

“Are you all right?” her husband asked.

“Fine. These men claim they won’t harm us.”

“That’s right,” Blade threw in. “If you’ll give me your word that you won’t cause us any trouble, we won’t need to keep you under guard.”

Johnson stared at the giant. “How do you know you can trust us?”

“You impress me as being an honest man.”

The declaration seemed to surprise the farmer. He smiled and nodded.

“Fair enough. I give you my word none of my family will be a problem.

Satisfied?”

“Yes,” Blade said, and slung the Commando over his left shoulder. “Now why don’t we all go inside where we can talk?”

“Hey, what about me?” Grennell queried. “Can I go home now?”

“No.”

“But you said you wouldn’t keep us under guard.”

Blade shook his head. “I said I wouldn’t keep the Johnsons under guard. You’re a different matter. Where we go, you go.”

Grennell glowered, but had the presence of mind not to reveal his innermost thoughts.

“Martha, why don’t you make some tea for our guests,” Johnson proposed, coming onto the porch.

“Gladly. And Erica can help,” the mother said, with a glance at the giant. “If it’s all right with you, of course.”

“Go ahead,” Blade agreed. He let the Johnsons and Grennell enter, then turned to the bowman. “Stay out here and keep watch.”

“Will do. You never know when those chickens might decide to jump us.”

Blade ignored the crack and went in, Rikki right behind him. The living room was sparsely but comfortably furnished. Grennell sat in a chair on the left, Harry Johnson in a rocker on the right. The women were moving about in the kitchen, which was connected to the living room by a doorway situated at the southeast corner.

“Have a seat,” Johnson said, gesturing at a sofa along the east wall.

“Thanks,” Blade said, and did so.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi remained near the doorway.

“So what can we do for you?” the farmer inquired. “We’ve never had the opportunity to talk to outsiders before. You’re different than I expected.

The Spartans tell us that most outsiders will slit our throats in a minute and steal all of our possessions. Yet something tells me you’re not the throat-slitting type.”