Zommunist Invasion Box Set | Books 1-3

by Picott, Camille

  His father slammed the truck door and sped down the road. He was gone in seconds, a trail of dirt drifting into the sky the only sign of his passing.

  A thousand thoughts swirled through Leo’s head. How did his father intend to find Lena and Dal?

  If things were bad in Bastopol, they had to be ten times worse in Rossi. It was a real city with over fifty thousand people. It was nothing like the tiny town of Bastopol. What if the Soviets had—?

  Leo shook himself. Focus. He had to focus. His father was gone. Lena and Dal were in Rossi. Adam was bleeding out in their driveway. Adam was the priority.

  “Come on.” He hustled the boys into the house, Adam slung between them.

  Anton kicked the door open, calling, “Nonna! Nonna!”

  Their grandmother appeared in the kitchen doorway. Confusion creased her brow as she took in the bleeding teenage boy. Lars’s hysterical shouts of, “The Russians are here!” echoed through the house.

  Nonna’s face set into a hard mask. “Bullet wound?”

  “Yeah,” Leo said. God, Adam was one heavy guy.

  “Where’s your father?”

  “He left for Rossi. To find Lena and Dal.”

  They lugged Adam into the kitchen. Leo swept an arm across the table, sending newspapers and a basket of napkins scattering to the floor. They laid Adam out on the table.

  “First aid kit,” Nonna snapped. She set to work with a pair of scissors, snipping off Adam’s jersey.

  Leo tore through the house and threw open the cupboards in the utility room. He rifled frantically through the contents, flinging things to the floor in his search.

  Anton joined him, the two of them tearing through the cupboards in search of the first aid kit. Where the hell was the thing? It was in here somewhere.

  “Got it!” Leo snatched up a small white metal box with a red cross on the front. He sprinted back into the kitchen with Anton at his heels.

  Lars came into the kitchen, eyes dilated with panic. “The Russians are here,” he shrilled. “They’re attacking. They’re killing us! They—”

  Nonna delivered a stinging slap to his face. She delivered a second one for good measure, the force of each slap leaving a bright red mark on Lars’s cheek.

  “You are among snipers now,” she snarled up at the big teenage linebacker. “Snipers remain cool and calm under pressure. No more screaming. Shut up and act like a man.”

  Sniper. That was the family namesake. Cecchino in Italian translated to sniper. Leo’s great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather had fought in the Napoleonic Wars. He’d been so damn good at shooting enemy soldiers that he’d eventually taken his moniker as a surname.

  Nonna shoved Lars into a chair. He plunked down without a sound, eyes wide as he stared at her.

  “You.” Nonna stabbed a finger at Bruce. “Call all the parents and let them know you’re safe.” She snatched the first aid box out of Leo’s hands. “Get me the grappa,” she ordered. “And clean towels.”

  Anton went for his father’s liquor cabinet in the living room. Leo dashed back into the utility room for clean towels. Adam’s groaning filled the house.

  By the time he returned to the kitchen, Nonna had finished cutting open Adam’s shirt. Blood gushed out on the table from his shoulder.

  “Leonardo, grab his ankles,” she ordered.

  Nonna grabbed the grappa bottle while Leo obediently grabbed Adam’s ankles. Keeping one hand firmly pressed on Adam’s shoulder, she pulled the cork out with her teeth. She upended the bottle, pouring it over Adam’s shoulder.

  Adam yelped and jerked.

  “Hold him,” Nonna snapped.

  Leo increased his grip on the boy’s ankles. He stared at perfect new yellow Nike shoes that were now marred with blood. He would have killed to have shoes like that back in high school.

  “Bullet went clean through,” Nonna reported. “That’s a good thing. I just have to stitch him up. Antony, get the needle and thread from my sewing machine. Here, son, take a sip of this.” She cradled Adam’s head, lifting the grappa bottle to his lips.

  Leo watched his grandmother coax the boy into drinking several long swallows from the bottle. He remembered the time she’d caught him trying to sneak a sip out of father’s glass. She’d delivered a stinging slap to his bottom he’d never forget.

  “That’s not for you, Leonardo. Grappa is for men, not boys.”

  And here she was, pouring it down Adam’s throat like it was cough syrup. Leo took that as a bad sign. Nonna clearly wanted Adam drunk.

  Lars had slid from the chair to the floor, thick legs sprawled out in front of him. His eyes glazed as he watched Nonna work. Sweat dripped down his temples and his skin was pale. He looked sick, but Leo chalked it up to shock.

  Bruce was glued to the wall, attempting to get in touch with his and Lars’s parents. No one was picking up on the other line, but he kept dialing.

  Nonna dumped grappa onto her hands before taking the needle and thread from Anton.

  “Have you done this before?” Leo asked.

  Nonna never looked up as she threaded her needle. “I survived the Nazis in Italy, Leonardo. You didn’t do that without learning a few things along the way. Antony, hold his shoulders while I work.”

  No one said a word as Anton moved into place.

  Leo watched his grandmother in awe. Nonna had cleaned up plenty of family cuts and scrapes over the years, but he’d never seen her like this before. She was perfectly focused, her hands rock steady and sure in their work. If the massive amount of blood and twitching, moaning teenage boy bothered her, she didn’t let it show.

  “Now flip him over.” She snipped the thread and she finished the first set of stitches.

  Adam groaned as Anton and Leo flipped him over. His limbs were loose from the grappa.

  “This is just a scrape,” Nonna told him. “You’ll be fine. I’ve seen much worse.”

  Nonna never spoke about her childhood in Italy during World War II. Leo resolved to ask her about it. Someday. When he wasn’t busy holding down the ankles of a teenage boy on the kitchen table.

  “There. He’ll be fine.” Nonna made the last snip of her scissors. Across the front and back of Adam’s shoulder were neat lines of stitches. Nonna poured the grappa over the skin, washing away the last of the blood. Then she grabbed a roll of gauze out of the first aid kit. “Help him sit up, boys.”

  Leo and Anton could do very few things without arguing. This moment turned out to be no exception.

  “Leave his feet on the table,” Leo snapped as Anton attempted to rotate the teenage linebacker.

  “It will be easier for him to sit if his legs are over the side.”

  “Don’t you know anything? You have to keep legs elevated when someone is hurt.”

  “What are you talking about? His—”

  “Boys.” Nonna’s voice cracked. “Sit him up. Now.”

  Anton grudgingly moved beside Leo. They levered Adam into a sitting position.

  Nonna wrapped the wound in gauze. When she finished, Leo and Anton moved Adam to the sofa in the living room.

  There was a brief moment of silence. Anton and Leo stared at one another. The weight of the Soviet attack hung between them.

  “Dad said to get to the cabin,” Leo said at last. “Pack a bag. We leave in twenty.”

  Anton nodded. “I’ll tell Nonna.” He paused, halfway back to the kitchen. “What about Adam, Lars, and Bruce?”

  Leo hesitated. “We take them with us.”

  Twenty minutes later, they loaded a half-conscious Adam into the cab of the pickup truck. Nonna sat in the front with him, a small suitcase between her feet.

  Anton, Bruce, and Lars headed into the back with all the gear. It was packed full of supplies for the hunt: plenty of guns, ammo, food, and camping supplies.

  Lars’s foot slipped on his first attempt to climb up the back. Leo grabbed the back of his shirt to keep him from landing on his ass.

  “You okay, man?”
>
  Lars blinked. His eyes were red. His skin was pale and damp with perspiration. “I feel like shit,” he muttered.

  That’s when Leo noticed the puckering welts along the back of Lars’s neck. It’s where the Russian darts had hit him. The edges of the wound were black with the beginning of an infection.

  Leo weighed the wisdom of telling Lars what he saw. He decided to keep the information to himself until they reached the cabin. They couldn’t do anything for him until they got there anyway.

  Anton sprang into the back of the truck, holding out a hand to Lars. “Come on, man.”

  Lars grasped his hand and let Anton help him up. He sprawled on top of the gear bags, groaning.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Bruce asked, frowning as he settled into place.

  “He’ll be fine.” Leo hopped into the cab and fired up the truck. “You guys ready back there?”

  Anton slapped his hand on the top of the cab. “We’re good. Roll out, man.”

  6

  Invasion

  Dal was just entering the Rossi junior college campus when he saw the first armed soldier. Dressed in military fatigues, the man stepped out of a sleek Greyhound bus at the front of campus. He moved onto the vast lawn area between the street and the classrooms, a weapon in either hand. The students lounging on the grass didn’t give him a second thought.

  Dal was the only one who stopped dead at the sight of him. Unease hit him, a persistent tug deep in his belly. The same feeling overcame him throughout his childhood. It was a sensation that preceded one of his father’s violent rages. Dal had long ago learned not to question the feeling.

  Once, in his senior year, he’d woken in the middle of the night bathed in a cold sweat. Dread had settled in the pit of his stomach. Unable to sleep, he’d crept through the apple orchards back to his parents’ house.

  He’d found his mom asleep on the porch, locked out of the house. She was curled up in the thin blanket his father gave her when she was “bad.”

  He’d wanted to go to her, to help her. To get her the hell away from his father.

  But she didn’t want his help. Leave him alone, Dallas, do you hear me?

  She’d been the one who’d kicked him out of the house for trying to protect her. How dare you hit your father. Get out, Dallas! Get out and don’t ever come back!

  A second armed soldier stepped out of the Greyhound. Then another, and another, and another.

  Logic told Dal they were probably just regular US Army guys. Everyone knew President Reagan was beefing up the military in case they went to war against Russia. Maybe these guys were here to recruit kids from the campus. Maybe.

  Whatever the case, the physical sensation in the pit of his stomach told him something was off. He didn’t know what it meant, just that something was wrong.

  The protective instincts of his childhood kicked in. He turned on his heel and hurried back the way he had come. His only thought was to get back to his car.

  When he heard the first gunshot, he flattened himself to the ground. Screams assaulted his ears. A glance over his shoulder showed him students streaming away from the lawn area. The soldiers moved into their midst, opening fire.

  Dal didn’t wait to see more. He crawled around the corner of a building. Out of sight of the soldiers, he jumped to his feet and sprinted toward the parking lot.

  Lena. Her name flashed through his brain. Lena.

  He had to get to her. She was at the rally, exposed in the open with no one to watch her back.

  Green flashed in his periphery. He looked up to see a soldier running between two buildings—right toward Dal.

  He spun around, sprinting back the way he’d come. A clatter of red darts followed him across the pavement.

  What the hell? He risked a look over his shoulder. The soldier held two large weapons. The first was a machine gun; the second held a large cartridge that was loaded with the small red darts.

  Dal tore back around the corner. “Don’t go that way!” he shouted at a group of students rushing past him.

  No one listened. They streaked past him in a big clump.

  He heard their screams as they ran into the soldier. Dal didn’t turn back around.

  Lena. He had to get to Lena. If anything happened to her, it would break Mr. Cecchino.

  He vaulted over a hedge, cut around the cafeteria, past the science building, and bolted into the parking lot.

  Soldiers were everywhere. Dal dropped to his knees and rolled beneath a car. Right before his head disappeared beneath the Chevy, he saw the large red star, sickle, and hammer emblazoned on the back of a soldier’s fatigues.

  Russians. Soviets. We’re under attack.

  His panic ratcheted up several more notches. Lena.

  Everyone had been so focused on nukes. Yet here were Soviets on American soil, launching a ground assault.

  His car was three rows away. There was screaming and gunfire. Several bodies were on the ground, bleeding all over the blacktop. Dal army-crawled his way through the parking lot, staying beneath cars when he could.

  Two pairs of Vans-clad feet raced by in front of his face. Seconds later, dark military boots raced past. Dal poked his head out in time to see the Soviet fire red darts at the fleeing students. He dove beneath the next car, continuing his way across the parking lot.

  Russians attacked with both regular guns and dart guns. There didn’t seem to be any method to the attack, except to sow fear and chaos. He wasn’t sure which fate was worse: being gunned down or being hit with a Russian dart that contained who-the-hell-knew-what.

  His elbows were bleeding by the time he reached his blue Beetle. The knees of his jeans were ripped. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost his backpack. Thank God he always kept his keys in his pocket. Crouching beside the car, he fumbled them into his hands.

  Once inside, he bent below the steering wheel and assessed the parking lot. It was pandemonium. Soviets were everywhere. Students raced every which way in a blind panic, many of them plucking red darts out of their bodies. There were dead everywhere. The campus parking lot was a slaughter house.

  He shifted his gaze away from the junior college. He looked in the direction of the downtown plaza, where he’d left Lena. It was no more than ten blocks away, but soldiers were everywhere.

  He swallowed. He might not make it. He was going into the lion’s den.

  Dal pursed his lips. It didn’t matter if he died. If anything happened to Lena, he couldn’t live with himself. And what about Mr. Cecchino? Dal didn’t think he’d survive the loss of his daughter.

  He was going to find her. Whatever it took. He would find her, protect her, and get her back to the farm.

  Mind made up, he jammed the keys into the ignition. He threw the car into reverse and zipped out of his parking space.

  Two Soviets stood in the aisle. They turned at the sound of Dal’s Beetle. He shifted into drive, ducked low, and floored it. He drove straight toward the invaders.

  Bullets ripped into his windshield. Glass flew everywhere. Dal didn’t take his foot off the accelerator.

  He crashed right through the invaders. The fatigue-clad bodies flew up into the air.

  Dal didn’t look to see where the Russians landed as he hazarded a look over the steering wheel.

  The rest of the aisle was clear. The Beetle continued to rumble forward.

  As soon as he reached the end of the row, Dal drove right over the grass and sidewalk that bordered the parking lot. Glass shook free of the broken windshield as the Beetle bumped over the curb. Dal noticed his hands were bleeding, but he felt no pain. All he felt was the adrenaline firing through his veins.

  He aimed for the road. The Beetle rumbled over the sidewalk and thunked onto the street. Someone laid into their horn as Dal cut into on-coming traffic.

  Bullets rained down on the cars. Dal realized there were Russians on the buildings. They fired directly into the traffic.

  Shit! He swerved as the car in front of him veered to the ri
ght, cutting him off. His tiny car zipped past the vehicle as it crashed into a light post. He had just enough time to absorb the dead driver before his car shot past.

  His panic mounted. They’re gunning us down like cattle.

  He’d gone no more than two blocks when a nearby minivan hit the curb and flipped. Breaks squealed all around him.

  Dammit. He threw the Beetle into reverse. To his left was a narrow alleyway. It was empty, too narrow for most cars. He wasn’t even sure his Beetle would fit.

  Screw it. He had to try.

  Horns blared as he made a hard left, sending the Beetle careening through on-coming traffic. A Datsun clipped his fender. The Beetle fishtailed. Dal yanked on the steering wheel to straighten it out, then floored it.

  The little car zipped into the alleyway. The sideview mirror on the passenger’s side snapped off. Sparks popped from the mirror on the right side.

  Bullets sprayed into the alleyway from the rooftops. Dal jerked his body sideways, attempting to steer and keep one foot on the accelerator at the same time. Several bullets punched into his seat, mere inches from his left ass cheek.

  The Beetle burst from the alleyway and onto a downtown street. It was chaos to the power of ten. Invaders were in the streets and on the rooftops, shooting at anything that moved. The road was clogged with cars and pedestrians, traffic at a standstill. Dal searched the scene, looking for a way through.

  It was no use. Unless he wanted to kill a bunch of Americans by running them over, the only way through was on foot. It was mayhem out there.

  There was no choice. He had to find Lena. He had to run straight into the maelstrom.

  He jumped out of the Beetle and snatched up the metal lid to a garbage can.

  He hadn’t competed in high schools sports like Leo and Anton, but that wasn’t because he wasn’t athletic. On the contrary, a lifetime of hard work in the apple orchards—first, on his parents’ farm, then on the Cecchinos’—had left him in good shape.

  Positioning the garbage can in front of him like a shield, Dal plunged into the chaos.

  He cut around a clump of people—and found himself face to face with a Russian.