“You’re going to need me to look at those wounds.” She turned around, jar in hand, and forced herself to survey his body with a critical eye. “Those communist bastards were not kind to you.”
“No, they weren’t.” Anton looked down at himself. “Not nice at all.”
The bathroom door opened. Footsteps sounded in the hall. Nonna turned, bracing herself for the sight of Tate Craig, but Anton moved to block her view.
“Wait a second, Koz,” he called. To Nonna, he said, “There’s someone I need you to meet, Nonna. Where’s your rifle?”
She narrowed her eyes at her grandson. “Right here.” She hefted it from where it rested next to the pantry.
“Give it to me for a sec.”
“No.” If he wanted her to put her rifle aside, it was because there was likely something that needed shooting. “What’s going on, Antony?”
“I need you to meet someone. Just—don’t shoot him, okay?”
She waited without responding, uneasiness mounting in her chest.
Anton’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t try and sway her again. He knew better.
“Koz. You can come out.”
Out of the hallway stepped the largest man Nonna had ever seen in her life. He had bushy, gray-streaked hair and a beard that was mostly white. One of his arms was easily three times the size of her leg. He was equivalent to the size of three full-grown men.
The sight of him made every square inch of her body tingle with alertness. It didn’t take a genius to know he was Russian.
No wonder Anton had asked her to put her rifle down. She was inclined to use it on the spot.
“Where’s Tate?”
“He’s dead.”
She hadn’t thought it was possible for Anton to look anymore empty.
She’d been wrong. At the mention of Tate’s name, Anton’s expression seemed to fold in on itself. His eyes glazed over. He looked like he was someplace else.
“The Craigs are all dead. The whole family. This is Kozlovovich.” Anton flicked a glance at the towering man. “You can call him Koz. He’s the reason I’m standing here.”
“He’s an invader.” Shooting this man in the head was not beyond the realm of possibility.
“He helped me escape.”
Anton didn’t elaborate on what had needed escaping. Nonna didn’t need to hear the details to understand them. It was obvious he had been tortured meticulously and mercilessly. And the Craigs had all been murdered by Russian scum.
She hardened herself and kept her spine straight. She was proud of Anton. He was a fighter. A warrior. Only true inner strength could have enabled him to survive a KGB torture chamber.
“Thank you for helping my grandson escape,” Nonna said at last. “What is it you want in return?” Did the beastly man even speak English?
“He needs our help, Nonna.”
She harrumphed. Anton brings a Soviet into her home and proposes their family help him? It was almost too much for her to take.
“Go take a shower,” she told Anton. “I will make lunch.” She glared at the Russian. “He may sit at my table, but I won’t hesitate to shoot him. You tell him that.”
Two days ago, Anton would have laughed at this statement. Today, he just nodded. “Okay. He speaks a little English. Koz, have a seat. The coffee is almost ready. My grandma is a good shot.”
“Thank you.” The big man’s voice rumbled through the room.
The sound of it put up Nonna’s hackles. She slammed a pot down on the counter.
Studiously ignoring the monster who took a seat at her table, she set about preparing a simple pasta with venison sauce.
“Antony.”
Her grandson paused in the hallway, glancing back at her.
“Wait for me in the bunk room when you’re finished. I’ll see to your wounds.”
“Okay, Nonna.”
The pipes whined as the shower turned on. Nonna gripped the edge of her tile countertop, taking a moment to gather herself.
Voices sounded from the bunk rooms. Lena rushed into the sitting room, still clad in her pajamas.
“Anton? Leo? Nonna, I heard voices. Are they back—” Lena stopped short at the sight of Koz, mouth falling open.
The big man sat with his hands folded on the tabletop. He looked like he was trying to make himself inconspicuous.
Everyone knew it was impossible for a bear to make itself inconspicuous.
“Anton is back.” Nonna snapped on the stovetop. “He brought a . . . friend.”
“Oh.” Lena stared openly at the Russian. He studied the tabletop, not uttering a word.
“What the heck?” Amanda, Dal, and Juli piled into the room behind Lena. They all gaped at the big man in a stained white lab coat.
Juli, once again dressed in women’s clothing, was no longer the most interesting person in the cabin.
“Sit,” Nonna ordered. “I’m making lunch.”
“Is he—is he Russian?” Juli asked.
“I am Russian,” Koz said. Everyone jumped at the sound of his deep rumble.
Lena spoke, rattling off a string of Russian words. It was Koz’s turn to blink in surprise. He responded to Lena. They exchanged a few words as Lena and the others took a seat.
Nonna felt her temper getting the better of her. The Soviets had murdered her son. They had tortured her grandson and killed the Craig family.
Now one of them sat at her table, talking to her granddaughter. She couldn’t take it anymore.
“Lena.” Nonna may have put the plates down on the table more heavily than necessary. “Set the table. Juli, get the colander out. Dal, we need another load of firewood.”
“I’ll help Lena.” Amanda practically flew to the silverware drawer.
With everyone bustling around her, Nonna felt her nerves calm. She dropped a fistful of noodles into boiling water.
43
Mirror
Anton was too exhausted and aching to stand in the shower. He sat on the floor under the hot stream of water, eyes closed as water washed away the filth. He rested his forehead on his knees, silently crying.
He tried to suppress the tears, but it was no use.
Confronting his grandmother in the kitchen had been one of the hardest moments of his life. He was a failure. He’d ridden off with Tate, intent on saving Mr. and Mrs. Craig.
Not only had he failed to save their family friends, but he’d lost Tate in the process.
Nonna hadn’t said a word about the Craigs, but he’d seen the moment when the shock of their deaths hit her. He’d seen the pain in her eyes. It was almost enough to make him wish he was dead.
Anton Cecchino was a failure, pure and simple. He’d set out on a mission and failed everyone he cared about.
He saw Tate’s dead body on the floor of the prison cell. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Craig, both of them executed like they were nothing more than garbage. He saw them die over, and over, and over again.
It was a reel of the worst moment of his life. Try as he might, he couldn’t shut off the projector. His body shook as he sucked in great gulps of air, trying to get his panic under control.
The stench of cigarette smoke was strong. Even under the clear stream of water, he smelled the agent’s smoke. He felt it enter his lungs and choke him.
That KGB fuckhead might be dead, but Anton knew he’d carry that asshole with him for the rest of his life.
He probed at the cigarette burns, wincing at the pain. His hands slid down to his ribcage, where the pain was worst. Not for the first time, he wondered if he had cracked ribs.
How did someone heal a cracked rib? It wasn’t like he could get a body cast. Did they even give people body casts for cracked ribs?
He didn’t think so. Leo had mentioned one of his teammates cracking a rib in a particularly brutal football game. The guy had been benched for half the season, but he hadn’t worn a body cast.
He stabbed a tender rib. Pain spidered up his body. Impulsively, he stabbed several of the cigar
ette burns, welcoming the pain. It was easier to block out memories of the Craigs when he was in pain.
What Anton really wanted to do was curl into a ball and fall asleep under the warm water.
He could just imagine what Nonna would say to that. “Does propane grow on trees, Antony? What will we do now that you’ve wasted our entire tank?”
He forced himself to his knees. Grabbing a bar of soap, he scrubbed his body. He was ruthless with the cuts, especially those that had been carved into his chest. The soap stung, but it felt good. Blood trickled down his body as scabs softened under his rough hand. The red mingled with the steaming water and disappeared down the drain in pink swirls.
Switching off the water, his hand hesitated over the cheery yellow towels stacked on the back of the toilet. His mother had bought those towels before she died. No one had wanted to change them out for new ones, even though the edges were frayed and there were small holes in all of them. They were a memory of a happier time when the Cecchino family had been intact.
The blood would stain them. Anton couldn’t stand the thought of staining one of his mother’s towels.
Dripping wet, he stepped out of the shower. Every step sent a shockwave of pain through his body. He ignored it, crouching down to open the cabinet under the sink.
Tucked inside was a stack of dark brown towels. Nonna had purchased those, declaring that sometimes hunters were just too dirty to use yellow towels. Anton took one of them, dabbing at the trickle of blood that ran from the carving in his chest.
Pushing back into an upright position felt like an Olympic feat. His leg muscles protested. Bruises had surfaced all over them, presents from the Russian scum bags.
Slowly, he toweled himself dry. The mirror was fogged from the shower steam. Moving automatically, he swiped the towel across the surface.
The white fog was cleared away, revealing his face.
Anton wasn’t prepared for the shock of it. Through the small beads of perspiration that remained on the surface of the mirror, he saw the swollen face of a teenage boy. There were bruises on top of bruises. Cuts on tops of cuts. All the goddamn cigarette burns were red and blistered.
The sight brought the Russian prison cell crashing back in around him.
Tate—Mrs. Craig—Mr. Craig—
The crack of gunshots as his friends were executed. The memory exploded in his ears like fireworks. He gagged on the stench of cigarette smoke, even though all he could smell was the steamy remains of the shower.
It took every ounce of willpower not to punch the mirror with his fist. Nonna would not approve if he destroyed the mirror. She would not approve at all. Her cabin had already been destroyed by mutants. She didn’t need her fucked-up grandson adding to the mess.
He gripped the edges of the sink, sweat breaking out along his back and brow. His heart beat painfully in his chest.
He sank to the floor, struggling to breathe. Was he having a heart attack? He hoped so. Dying here in the bathroom of the beloved family cabin was a good way to go.
His chest heaved as he sucked in great gulps of air, fighting silently against the panic that threatened to choke him.
When it was finally over, he slumped against the bathroom door, even more exhausted than he had already been.
Maybe he really would go to sleep in the middle of the floor.
Pull your shit together, he berated himself. Stop being a pussy.
Gripping the edge of the sink, he dragged himself to his feet. He forced himself to face the boy in the mirror. He’s stared at the boy made in the KGB torture chamber, daring himself to meet him.
No one would ever again call him good looking. The cigarette scars would see to that. Only time would tell how the rest of his face would heal.
He realized he didn’t give a fuck how he looked. What did it matter anyway? Being a pretty boy had never counted for much. It had never been enough to get him the things he really wanted. They hadn’t handed him a pretty girlfriend. They hadn’t helped him throw the football.
They sure as fuck hadn’t helped him survive Russian torture.
He had Kozlovovitch to thank for that. Finding the big man—or rather, being found by him—was like getting the winning lottery ticket.
Not only had Koz saved his life, but he’d shared a lot of information on their ride from Rossi. The big man just might be able to turn the tide of this war—if Anton could get him alive to the right people.
If Anton wanted to see the Russians royally fucked, Koz was the key. Anton had to survive if only to get Koz and his information to what remained of the American military.
Purpose. Mission. It would be enough. He would survive, and he would see the Russian scum get their asses handed to them.
Wrapping the towel around his waist, he opened the bathroom door and walked slowly to the boys’ bunk room.
The Soviet fatigue pants—a twisted souvenir from his trip to Rossi—remained on the floor in a stinking pile.
44
Toughest Girl in the Village
Nonna was just setting the pot of pasta sauce on the kitchen table when she heard the bathroom door open. She glanced up and saw Anton limp into the bunk room, a dark towel around his waist.
“Eat,” she ordered, setting a second pot—this one with freshly cooked noodles—on the table.
Leaving everyone to dig in to the afternoon meal, Nonna headed over to the row of backpacks hanging on hooks by the door. She grabbed her son’s backpack, which hung heavy from the weight of the whiskey bottle. The first aid kit was also inside, still there from last night.
Steeling herself, Nonna marched into the boys’ bunk room. Anton sat on the edge of a bed, buttoning up a clean pair of jeans.
If possible, he looked even worse now that he had showered. The clean skin made the wounds stand out. At least the smell of piss was gone.
“Where are your dirty pants?” she asked.
“I forgot them in the bathroom.”
“I want you to throw them out with the mutant bodies. We’ll bury them.”
“Yes, Nonna.”
She sat on the bed next to him and pulled out the bottle of whiskey. Removing the stopper, she took two long swigs. It was a good delay tactic.
It was a good way to steel her nerves for tending her grandson’s wrecked body.
Wordlessly, she handed the bottle to Anton.
He took it without question. Tilting his head back, he took three long swallows.
“I didn’t know you kept whiskey around the cabin.” Anton handed the bottle back to her.
“That’s because I kept it hidden.” Nonna returned the stopper and pulled the first aid kit out of the backpack. “Let me get a good look at you, Antony.”
He turned so that his back was to her, letting her see the wounds there.
Truth be told, she would almost rather gouge out her own eyes than look at the atrocities done to her grandson. She forced herself to look anyway. Hiding would serve no purpose.
She missed her son every day. For the first time, she felt relief Giuseppe wasn’t alive to see what had been done to his son. Her Giuseppe was a kind-hearted man. This would have shattered his soul.
First came the peroxide. She applied liberal amounts to cotton balls and went for the cuts. Anton didn’t make a sound as she cleaned the disinfected the wounds.
“How are your ribs?” She prodded several of the darker bruises on his torso.
He flinched. “Hurts.”
“You might have cracked ribs.”
“I figured. What can I do?”
“They’ll heal on their own,” she replied. “You just have to take it easy.”
Anton snorted at that. Nonna understood. It was hard to take it easy when they were at war.
“Try not to twist too much or lift anything that’s heavy,” she said. “Make sure you take deep breaths even if it hurts. That will keep pneumonia from setting in.”
“You can get pneumonia from cracked ribs?”
“You cert
ainly can, young man. My great uncle got pneumonia after falling out of a tree and cracking his ribs.”
“He survives the KGB only to die of pneumonia,” Anton muttered.
“You are a Cecchino,” Nonna told him. “You are not going to die of pneumonia. You are a survivor, Antony. Don’t you dare forget it.”
He didn’t respond. Nonna finished cleaning and disinfecting his back. When she was finished, she said a small prayer, asking God to give her strength for what she knew was coming. She was about to face the worst of Anton’s wounds head-on.
“Let me see your other side now, Antony.”
He obediently turned around. She found herself staring into his vacant eyes.
A deep grief shivered through her. Nonna felt cold all the way down to her bones. It was like standing in the winter snow back in her village.
You’re the toughest girl in the village. Luca’s voice drifted through her mind. She could practically smell the fresh snow on the ground, even though it had been several decades since she’d last stood in snow.
She was tough. Luca was right about that. Nonna Cecchino would not weep over the sight of her grandson.
She clenched her jaw, focusing her attention on the carving on his chest. A weaker woman would have fallen to pieces. Nonna merely studied the knife wounds.
“I think it’s too late for stitches. They’re already beginning to scab.”
“I don’t need stitches.”
Nonna rubbed antibiotic cream on the knife wound and covered the abomination with gauze and a bandage.
Next her attention went to the cigarette burns. Using the antiseptic cream, she applied it to the little burn marks all over his body. He had them on his jaw, neck, ribcage, and back. Anton’s handsome face would never be the same.
Setting aside the antiseptic tube, Nonna regarded her grandson. “Did you kill the ones who did this to you?” she asked quietly.
“I wasn’t the one to kill him. But he’s dead.”
“As long as he’d dead.” Unable to help herself, she rested one hand against his cheek, the one untouched by cigarette burns. “I’m glad you’re home, Antony.”
Zommunist Invasion | Book 3 | Scattered Page 22
