by Chris Pike
“What discovery?” Nico asked. “Holly, have you heard anything about a discovery?”
“Not a thing. There could have been, but we didn’t arrive here until after the grid went down. We’ve been too busy trying to survive. We haven’t paid much attention to the rumor mill.”
Nico let that sink it. “Dorothy, go on. Tell us the rest.”
“Apparently, there was a lot of talk about how big the oil field was. I don’t remember all the numbers and such, but someone said it was like finding Spindletop on steroids. The amount of oil in the ground would match what Saudi Arabia has.”
“They have a lot of oil,” Nico commented.
“And,” Dorothy said, “I’ve seen trucks carrying oil field equipment.”
“How’s that possible?” Holly asked. Modern cars aren’t working. That includes trucks.”
“These weren’t American trucks. They were Russian. The rumor mill has it the Russians are rounding up all the able-bodied men to work in the oil field.”
“What? Why?” Holly stared at Dorothy in disbelief.
“I don’t understand,” Nico said. “It would be foolish to go house by house to round up men.”
“They don’t have to,” Dorothy countered. “Somehow they are finding out about large gatherings, like town hall meetings…or Cassie’s wedding. They come in, take who they want, and kill the rest. Like what they did here.”
“But they didn’t harm you or anyone else at this table.” Nico was getting impatient because things weren’t adding up. “Weren’t only close friends invited to the wedding? Do you think it was someone at the wedding who is in cahoots with the Russians?”
“Like who?” Dorothy sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “One of us? Unlikely. We were all shot at, including Anna and myself. I certainly wouldn’t put my life or my daughter’s life in danger to help the enemy. It had to be one of the guys.”
Nico was deep in thought, but the mention that the traitor could be one of the men in the close knit circle brought his head up. “Let’s go over who was here. Dillon, Ryan, Chandler, an elderly neighbor who was killed, and who else?”
“Larry Monroe.”
“It can’t be him.” Holly scowled and rubbed the back of her neck at the mention of her longtime neighbor. “I’ve known Larry for a long time. My parents always talked highly of him. Besides, his wife was killed. Why would they kill the wife of someone who was helping them?”
“She would’ve been collateral damage,” Nico surmised. “Nothing more, nothing less. It happens in war.”
“There’s no way Larry would put his wife in danger. Absolutely no way.” Holly demonstratively shook her head. “It certainly couldn’t be one of us either.”
Amanda and Cassie cast suspicious glances around the table wondering if anyone in the room could be the traitor. Kate didn’t know what to think. She decided the best course of action was to keep silent and to watch for indications anyone was being deceitful.
Too wound up to remain seated, Holly scooted her chair back, then paced the length of the table. “It couldn’t be one of us. A Russian soldier searched the house for us, but when he found us, he motioned for us to be quiet. He could have taken us all out with his AK.”
“What?” Nico asked incredulously.
“We were hiding in a secret room. We knew someone was in the house searching for us. We could hear him going room to room, opening doors and so forth. When he found us, he looked directly at Anna, and that’s when something in him changed. Why would that be, Dorothy?”
The room suddenly became silent.
Anna’s gaze bounced around from one adult to the other. While she didn’t understand the implications of what the grownups were talking about, she knew it wasn’t good. Dillon and his friends had been taken in the raid. The man she trusted to help her and her mother was held prisoner by the Russians. Her mother was being ganged up on. Anna sniffled and dropped her chin.
“Dorothy? Why would that be?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him, never met him. I’m nobody. I’m barely scraping by raising chickens and selling eggs.” Dorothy’s gaze zeroed in on Holly. “You think it’s me?”
Holly didn’t answer.
Nico divided a glance between Holly and Dorothy.
“Well,” Dorothy huffed. “If this is what you think of me then I’m leaving. I’ll walk home if I have to.” Dorothy pushed back so hard on the chair, it fell over. “Anna, let’s leave.”
Anna’s eyes were rimmed in red. She hiccupped and sniffled, and began to say something when she burst into tears.
Dorothy addressed the group as if she was a teacher scolding her classroom. “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve upset my daughter. She’s crying.”
Holly dropped her shoulders, recognizing playing the blame game wasn’t getting anybody any closer to the truth. “I’m sorry, Dorothy. I’m wrong to question you. I’m stressed and worried about Dillon and the others,” she said. “For everyone here, including you. I’m truly sorry. I don’t want you or Anna to go. You are welcome here.”
“That’s right,” Cassie said. “Anna is like a little sister I’ve never had. Please stay.”
“Can we?” Anna asked, searching her mother’s eyes for affirmation.
Dorothy didn’t answer immediately. “Okay, we will, but only for a few more days.”
“One good thing has come of this,” Nico said. “We know we have at least one Russian on our side. The question is why?”
Chapter 25
Corporal Andrey Koshkin listened with feigned interest as Colonel Burkov shouted orders.
Once the prisoners had eaten their fill of the hearty breakfast–just like Burkov had promised–they were allowed a bathroom break then escorted onto the football field.
The rest of the soldiers ate the same fare the Americans were offered: scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, jam, pancakes, syrup, fruit, and unlimited coffee. Unlike the simple Russian breakfast food of black tea, rye bread, and sausage which the other soldiers demanded, Andrey grew to enjoy the American style breakfast. It was more pleasing to the palate, not bland and heavy like the Russian food.
Andrey was in mid-bite when Burkov bellowed, “Corporal Koshkin! Come here.”
Andrey immediately placed the fork on the plate, dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin, then a swift pivot and a few steps later he approached his commanding officer, saluting him.
“Go get the horse. Saddle him and bring him to the football field. I want to ride him.”
“Yes, Sir,” Andrey replied automatically. “Right away.”
Andrey had been chosen to work with Cowboy once Burkov learned he had been raised on a farm with working horses. While Andrey viewed riding horses as a favorite pastime of the rich, he nevertheless recognized Cowboy’s verve. He was a magnificent animal, sturdy and smart, and Andrey had seen the horse react to Dillon’s orders. Andrey’s rudimentary English allowed him to converse in simple sentences with complete words. The contractions the Americans used were quite confusing, especially spoken with the southern drawl, which sounded more like singing than words. A one syllable word became two. Phrases unique to the Texan culture made even less sense.
He learned fast though.
Andrey listened and mentally repeated English words he heard or those he thought were words or phrases. One particularly strange string of sounds Dillon used when riding Cowboy perplexed Andrey. The words were spoken in front of Cowboy’s name, and for the life of Andrey, he could not understand them. The best he could come up with was whydem. He used an English to Russian translator app he had on his mobile phone, yet regardless of how he typed the word, there was no translation. It was quite frustrating.
Coming to the corral where Cowboy was penned, Andrey spoke to the horse in low tones, and approached him using careful movements. Jerky or fast movements tended to spook horses, a fact he had learned at an early age, and he still bore the scar above his left eye. Hooves tended to do th
at to the skin of a young boy. He was lucky not to have lost an eye.
Andrey saddled Cowboy and led him to the football field where the Americans were standing on the fifty-yard line. The prisoners were spaced randomly, milling around and talking, waiting to hear the reason for their imprisonment.
“Silence!”
The bullhorn sounded loud and clear.
The Americans took notice.
Dillon glanced at the stadium’s press box. A guard armed with an automatic weapon was stationed there where he had a 360 view of the high school and surrounding woods.
Built during the 1960s on the outskirts of the town of Hemphill, the high school served not only Hemphill, but other rural communities as well. Only one two-lane road had access to the high school, and even the entrance to the school was guarded.
However, as with other prisons, and regardless of how well it was locked down, there were always deficiencies, and Dillon was determined to sniff those out.
From the moment he had been captured, Dillon observed the guards, their habits, and whether or not they were friendly or talkative. He memorized their weapons and their ease at handling them. Though he did not understand Russian, it was fairly simple to gauge who was in charge and who had the most clout.
Mingling with the others on the football field, he noted the distance from the football stadium to the woods. An escape during daylight was out of the question, although nightfall or when the guards changed might be doable.
The land had been carved out from a once pristine and a nearly impenetrable tangled thicket of virgin forest and underbrush, some of which remained. One side of the land sloped to a stream, which meandered for a while until it fed into a bigger stream. Animal trails snaked through the woods, patted down by countless trips of deer and other mammals. While an animal trail would be a logical path to follow, it would also be the easiest for his pursuers, so he decided natural spaces in the woods where he could run through would be a better escape route. Perhaps a fallen tree would provide a natural path, one his pursuers would overlook.
Andrey entered the stadium and led Cowboy onto the field dotted with weeds and low growing dandelions. The horse stopped to nibble at the edible flower but Andrey tugged him away.
“Ah, such a magnificent animal,” Burkov said. He strutted over to Cowboy and inspected him, running his hands over Cowboy’s mane, and down his shoulders.
Cowboy held his head high and blew a hot breath out of his nostrils, snorting his uneasiness. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Burkov’s movements and listened to the sounds the man made.
Cowboy had been around enough people to recognize who was good and who wasn’t, and Burkov fitted into the latter category. He wanted nothing to do with this man.
When Cowboy spotted Dillon in the crowd of prisoners, his eyes got big and he whinnied softly, taking a step toward him.
Burkov jerked him back and Cowboy’s head spun around. He stamped his feet and tossed his head, blowing hard through his nostrils. Burkov struggled to get the increasingly agitated horse under control, and he thought about how he’d appear to his men if he couldn’t control this horse. Burkov had come prepared though.
He took out his whip, flicked his arm back, and cracked the whip in the air, testing it. Like a ring master, he made several figure eights in the air, and with all his power he cracked the stinging leather on Cowboy. The horse jumped and screamed. Burkov held tight to the reins, hitting him repeatedly with the whip while yelling angry profanities.
The shear brutality inflicted on Cowboy stunned the prisoners and the Russians. Brutalizing the enemy was one thing, but an animal? What kind of sick, twisted mind could enjoy that?
Dillon made a move but Chandler held him back. “Don’t, Dillon,” he hissed. “No matter what he does, don’t intervene. We have to think about Holly and Cassie. Think about Amanda. We can’t help them unless we live.”
Dillon’s muscles relaxed and agreed with Chandler’s sage advice. When the time came, Burkov would get his comeuppance, and if Dillon had anything to do with it, well, it couldn’t come soon enough.
After several agonizing minutes, Burkov gained control of Cowboy, and while he may have broken the horse’s will to resist, he hadn’t broken his spirit. Cowboy must have sensed there was a time to fight, and this wasn’t it.
With Cowboy under control, Burkov tested the saddle, making sure it had been put on properly and was tight enough. He somewhat trusted his subordinates, yet he had learned saboteurs were quite clever and could engineer a hit on his life by making it look like an accident. A loose saddle could result in a fall from a horse. And if the rider hit the ground awkwardly, death or paralysis could follow. Burkov wasn’t about to become a statistic.
Andrey mentally bit his lip. “Excellent work, Sir. He is ready to ride.”
“Have you ridden him yet?”
“No, Sir. The pleasure is all yours.” Andrey knew better than to ride the horse, especially since Burkov had mentioned it first. Upstaging a high ranking officer never had good consequences. Andrey knew his place.
Burkov mounted Cowboy and sat tall in the saddle.
Cowboy snorted once and tossed his head. He didn’t like having Burkov in the saddle any more than Dillon did.
“This is just like John Wayne in the movies,” Burkov said, pleased he had shown Cowboy who was boss. He addressed the prisoners. “I shall now show you how to properly ride a horse.” Burkov kicked Cowboy, prodding him to move.
Nothing happened.
Burkov lurched in the saddle and kicked Cowboy again, this time harder.
Cowboy lowered his head, waving it from side to side. He flattened his ears and his tail switched in a show of aggression.
“Go!” Burkov shouted. He jammed his heels into Cowboy’s side.
Cowboy stood firm.
Burkov kicked him again, harder, more violently. “Run!” he shouted. The heat in Burkov’s face rose to an elevated level, his heart beat fast, sweat broke out on his forehead. “What the hell is wrong with this animal?”
Cowboy pawed at the ground.
Burkov dismounted Cowboy and stood to his side, glaring at the animal. “Andrey, what did you do to him?”
“Nothing, Sir. I saddled him as you instructed and brought him to you.”
Burkov paced the length of Cowboy, his footsteps heavy on the ground. He couldn’t let a mere beast embarrass him in front of his men and the prisoners. Any indication of weakness or the possibility he was losing control could have dire consequences. He knew all about going for the jugular and dispatching a weakling who got in his way. Putting a hit on one of his adversaries required finesse and planning, and it gave him great satisfaction knowing one more obstacle was out of the picture. But Burkov never had an animal upstage him. This was new territory and it confused and scared him.
In a fit of anger, Burkov drew his pistol and sighted it at Cowboy’s head. A collective low gasp came from both the prisoners and the Russian guards.
Nobody moved. Nobody said a word. Nobody breathed.
Andrey’s mind raced for solutions to mitigate the tense situation, and unless he intervened, the outcome could be disastrous. He took a chance. “Colonel, may I have a word with you in private?”
Burkov shoved the pistol against Cowboy’s head.
“Colonel?” Andrey said urgently.
Burkov whipped around. “What!”
“I need to speak with you in private.”
“Now?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Very well. This better be good.” Burkov holstered his pistol and went with Andrey. They walked a few steps away where they talked in private.
Dillon stared at Chandler. “That bastard was about to kill Cowboy.”
Chandler nodded. “I know.”
“Why didn’t you tell him the magic phrase?”
“I thought about it, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. Cowboy would be better off dead than with that psychopath.”
Burkov s
trolled over to the prisoners and acted as if nothing had happened. His face was tranquil, his posture normal, his gait relaxed.
The madman had surfaced, and that was disturbing and enlightening at the same time.
Chapter 26
The soldiers glanced around nervously and spoke in low tones, while the American prisoners listened intently, trying to discern the subtle underlying meanings of the foreign words. While the Americans didn’t understand the Russian language, they did understand the concern and worry the soldiers were showing. It was obvious Burkov had hidden the undisciplined side of himself away from his subordinates, away from his superiors, because anyone who would kill an animal for not obeying would certainly unleash his anger on unsuspecting humans.
When Colonel Burkov addressed the Americans, there was no indication he had been in the throes of a meltdown five minutes earlier. The way his demeanor changed on a dime worried Dillon.
“I suppose it is time for me to address the reason you are here. It is quite simple. America is rich in natural resources, and while Russia is equally rich, certain unforeseen factors have required us to seek additional resources. Those reasons do not need to concern you. Therefore, I will not address them.”
Burkov took a breath.
“The Russian people need what you and I are standing on. Not the dirt or the grass, but the riches under the dirt, in the formations where decomposition and pressurization of decaying plant and animal life turned into oil and gas.
“We are shorthanded due to circumstances beyond my control. American men can work as well as Russian men. We need you to work on the rigs. While we cannot remunerate your time, we will treat you with compassion and make sure you are fed and clothed. Do you have any questions?”
Burkov observed the men’s reactions, and while they tried to contain their displeasure, he knew otherwise.
“Good. You will be escorted back to your quarters to await further instruction. Training will start tomorrow, and you will be educated on safety and proper procedures. I sincerely hope you are satisfied we are not savages. Once we are finished, you may go back to your lives. I ask for your cooperation in all this.”