It was like being five-years-old and staring up at his father as he swung a punch.
Dal’s hackles went up. He wasn’t a kid anymore.
He reacted on instinct. Just as the man brought up his gun, Dal swung the garbage can lid. It smacked into the man’s nose. Bone crunched. The Russian screamed.
Dal kicked him in the balls and kept running. He dodged through the chaos and cut left around Sixth Street.
Lena was on Fourth Street. Two blocks to go. He didn’t let himself consider the possibility that she might not be at the coffee shop.
A bullet tore right through the side of the trash can lid. Shit. The thing was useless against bullets. He held onto it anyway and poured on another burst of speed.
A group of people scattered in front of him. Poster board signs were trampled underfoot.
Wage Peace
Nuclear War: Just Say No
Take the Toys Away From the Boys
Nuclear Weapons: May They Rust in Peace
These were people from the rally. Was Lena among them?
Dal barely registered that he was running into the crowd. He was too busy scanning their clothing, looking for Lena’s fluorescent pink shirt and side ponytail.
A woman ran smack into his chest, almost knocking him over. He spun sideways, only to find another Russian.
The man had a long mustache and was ten yards away. He sprayed red darts into the crowd, a wicked grin on his face.
With a roar, Dal rushed the man, holding the trashcan lid in front of him like a battering ram. Darts plinked into the metal. He banged the front of the trashcan lid right into the man’s face. The Russian staggered.
Dal didn’t let up. He swung the lid, smashing the side of the man’s face. His cheekbone crumbled. Blood spurted everywhere.
Dal was sucked back to a time when he was nine years old. It was the first time he threw a punch at his old man. His dad had his mom to the floor, kicking her in the ribs.
Nine-year-old Dal decked him in the side of the face. Even then, his upper body strength had been primed from years of climbing apple trees. He’d hit his dad so hard he’d broken his nose. Blood had sprayed everywhere.
Just like it sprayed out of the Soviet’s smashed cheekbone.
That was the first time his mother had ever turned on him. The first time she had defended his father instead of Dal.
Leave him alone, Dallas, do you hear me?
Dal ran. Just like he had when he’d been nine years old, he turned tail and ran.
Another two blocks of dodging and weaving and pure luck had him at the alleyway behind Fourth Street.
And there she was. Lena.
Her pink shirt was torn. Blood spattered her face and clothing. She had a broken chair leg in her hand, fending off two leering Russians with the tenacity of a bobcat.
She squared off in the alleyway against them. They called to her in cajoling tones. Dal didn’t need to understand Russian to know what they were saying.
Rage boiled up in him. It was white-hot. His vision tunneled. All he could see was Lena and the invaders.
He charged down the back alley like a kamikaze pilot. Just as the Russians registered him, he threw the garbage can lid like an over-sized frisbee.
It spun through the air and clocked the foremost of the Russians in the face. The man reflexively fired his weapon, but bullets sprayed harmlessly into the sky as he toppled backward.
Lena took advantage of the momentary distraction to attack the second Russian. Her chair leg smacked him in the temple. The man dropped.
Dal didn’t have time to contemplate his next move. All he knew was that Lena was in danger and he had to protect her. As the man dropped from the blow to the temple, Dal struck.
His Converse came down on the man’s neck. He stomped. Hard. It wasn’t so different from crushing a spider.
Lena darted past him toward the man who had been struck with the garbage can lid. She swung the chair leg down like an axe. She hit him over and over again until blood coated the pavement. She screamed wordlessly, tears streaming down her face.
“Lena.” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Lena, he’s dead.”
“Dal!” She dropped the chair leg and threw her arms around him. Her chest heaved as sobs overtook her.
He held her close, crushing her against him. Relief at finding her alive washed over him like a balm.
“You came.” Her voice came out ragged. “I was so scared …”
Of course he came. She didn’t really think he’d have left her, did she? “Are you okay?” He gently gripped either side of her face, forcing her to look up at him.
“Yeah.” Her eyes were wild, but he saw Cecchino grit in them. “I’m okay.”
“We have to get out of here. My car is a few blocks away. Can you run?”
She nodded, mouth set in a firm line. She pulled a hand gun from the belt of one of the dead Russians, knuckles white around the handle. “I’ll kill any of those asshole who tries to hurt us.”
He flashed her a grin, liking her train of thought. He kicked aside his trash can lid and grabbed a weapon of his own from a dead Russian: a machine gun. He’d never used a machine gun before, but he’d used plenty of rifles throughout his life.
He’d never shot a Russian before, either, but he’d shot plenty of wild pigs. Killing Russians couldn’t be that different.
Grabbing Lena’s hand, he let her out of the alleyway at a dead run.
7
Pole Mountain
Adjoining the Cecchino apple farm were two hundred acres of wilderness. Grandpa Cecchino had believed in investing in land, even if said land had been too steep and hilly to convert into apple orchards. “Land is the only thing you can’t make more of,” he used to say.
The steep, forested hillsides were covered with oak, manzanita, madrone, and bay leaf trees. Between the trees were clearings of yellow grass and late-summer wildflowers.
Leo had grown up hunting in these woods with his family. Between deer and wild pigs, they kept the family freezers stocked with meat.
That’s where Leo had gotten the idea to start offering guided hunts on the family land. After he lost the football scholarship senior year—which had been the same time apple prices took a hit in the market—he started running ads in newspapers up and down Northern California. They’d only done a dozen or so guided trips every year, but every one of them had been successful and lucrative.
The “cabin,” as the family called it, was an old converted lookout station built in the early nineteen hundreds. Its original function had been a wildfire lookout tower. It sat on the tallest hill in the county, known as Pole Mountain, and was in the heart of the Cecchino property.
The cabin sat on stilts. It had been a single room that Grandpa Cecchino had expanded over the years. It now boasted two bedrooms, a bathroom, a small kitchen, and sitting room. Each of the bedrooms had three bunk beds, meaning they had enough beds for twelve people. A lot of their hunting customers preferred camping and would pitch tents outside, but plenty of them used the bunk rooms, too.
The road to the cabin wasn’t easy to find. It was at the very back of the apple orchard, the entrance hidden behind several large bay trees that had fallen down a hillside in a heavy rain a few years ago. Even if a person knew where to look, the living trees shielded the rest of the road from sight.
Leo switched into four-wheel drive as he steered the truck up the twenty-percent grade. The road up to Pole Mountain was seven miles long and uphill almost the entire way.
The land fell away around them as he navigated the dirt road, doing his best to avoid the potholes and long channels made by rain water. The sun was low in the horizon, bathing the land in lavender and yellow light. Frogs and other evening insects were already out, filling the air with forest sounds.
It was odd to think that less than fifteen miles away, a different world existed. A world under attack by Russians. What was going on in the rest of the country? How big was the attack? Was the
US Army on its way?
“Those fuckers,” Lars said, voice drifting on through the open window of the back cab. “They can’t get away with this.”
Leo slid a glance over at his grandmother. She didn’t tolerate bad language. Her mouth tightened, but to his surprise, she didn’t reprimand Lars. Leo took this as a bad sign.
“They won’t get away with this,” Anton said. “This is America. People don’t get away with attacking us.”
“Did Bruce manage to get in touch with any of your parents?” Leo called. There had been so much commotion that he’d lost track of the kid’s attempts to make phone calls.
“No one answered,” Bruce said. “Every line was busy. It was like the phones were disconnected or something.”
Leo didn’t say anything. Bruce, Lars, and Adam all lived in town, within walking distance of Bastopol High.
“Do you think I should have tried to get back to my house?” Lars asked.
“It was war zone in town.” Leo didn’t say that Lars likely wouldn’t have survived a trip back into town. “Your parents would want you to be safe.”
No one said anything after that, a subdued air settling over them. Leo thought of Lena and Dal in Rossi. And his dad, driving into the city to find them both.
“We need a radio.” Anton banged on the cab with his fist. “Leo! Turn on the radio. See if you can find out what’s going on.”
Nonna, who hadn’t said a word since they left the farm, leaned forward and flicked on the radio. She turned up the volume so Anton and the boys in the back could hear. The monotone blare of the emergency broadcast system washed over them.
“This is a message from the emergency broadcast system. All systems are down. This is a message from the emergency broadcast system. All systems are down.”
Nonna spent the next five minutes turning the dial, trying to find a live station.
Nothing. It was either static or the emergency broadcast message on repeat.
Leo exchanged a tight look with his grandmother as she switched off the radio. This wasn’t good.
The boys in the back must have been thinking the same thing.
“Shit,” Lars breathed. “We are so fucked.”
Anton socked him in the shoulder. “Don’t say that. We’re the fucking United States. Those Soviet rat bastards can’t get the better of us.”
“Language!” Nonna snapped.
“Sorry,” Anton said. “We are the darn United States. No one can mess with us.”
It was big talk. Leo wished he felt it. Inside, all he felt was dread.
He thought back to the last few years when their mom had been alive. She went through the newspaper every day, combing it for anything that had to do with Russia and the Cold War. She kept an envelope full of clippings.
Shortly before she was diagnosed with cancer, she’d purchased the Russian language tapes. “If the Russians make a move, this family will be ready,” their mom had said. “At least one person in this household will know how to speak Russian.” They were the same tapes Lena now carried everywhere.
He remembered how sick the chemo had made his mom. How all her hair had fallen out and how she’d been reduced to skin and bones. Near the end, she almost stopped eating entirely. Nonna’s pureed chicken noodle soup was the only thing she could keep down.
“My baby boy.” It was one of the last things she’d ever said to him. “I hope they don’t institute the draft again.” She had grabbed his hand. It was frail and thin and bony.
Leo would never forget the way her hand felt in his. That had been two weeks before she died. It had been like holding a pile of sticks.
My baby boy. I hope they don’t institute the draft again.
Despite the illness that devastated her body, her mind remained sharp until the end. She read those damn newspapers every day. She never stopped adding clippings to her envelope.
He missed his mom. Most days, he avoided thinking about her altogether. That was easier than remembering how much he missed her.
Today, for the first time since she'd died, he felt relief—relief that she hadn’t lived to see her worst fear become a reality. No nukes had been launched yet, but an invasion on American soil was just as bad.
The cabin came into view. Leo pulled the truck to a stop in front of the dark brown wood building. He felt a sense of finality as he set the break and switched off the car. He jumped out of the truck in time to see Anton prodding Lars.
“Lars?” Anton patted his friend’s shoulder. “How you doing, man?”
Lars turned his head to look at Anton. Shit. In the twenty minute drive, Lars had become worse. His pupils were dilated, the irises streaked with red. The front his shirt was dark with sweat.
“Nonna,” Anton called, “Lars is sick.”
Nonna hustled around the side of the pickup. She took one look at Lars and pursed her lips. Her hand touched his forehead and the back of his neck. “He’s burning with fever.”
“He was hit with Russian darts,” Anton explained. “Some of the Russians had machine guns, but lots of them had these dart guns—”
“Russian poison,” Nonna spat. “Get him inside. I’ll do what I can for him.”
Anton jumped off the truck to help Adam. With Bruce’s help, the two boys half dragged, half carried Adam up the stairs that led into the cabin.
“Both linebackers down,” Leo murmured. He helped Lars off the back of the truck, slinging an arm around his neck to keep him upright.
Lars doubled over coughing. His legs nearly collapsed when he slid off the back of the truck. He was looking worse by the second.
Leo tightened his grip on Lars. They were both over six-feet tall, but Lars had an extra seventy-five pounds on him. They made a slow trek across the hand-packed dirt and paused below the dozen steps leading up the cabin. Lars looked at the steps like they were a sick joke.
“Remember that workout Coach Brown made you guys do on Labor Day?” Leo asked. He’d heard all about it from Anton. He’d pretended not to listen even though he’d filed away every detail.
Lars tried to laugh. The sound turned into a wheeze. “The one where we all almost died of heatstroke?”
“Yeah. I know you feel bad right now. But you can’t feel any worse than you did after that Labor Day workout.” Anton had puked his guts out when he got home.
Lars wheezed again. A trace of a smile pulled at his mouth. Leo saw determination crease his brow. Good. There was still fight in him.
One step, then another. Leo grabbed the railing as Lars swayed. He kept them both from tumbling down the stairs. He hunched forward, dragging Lars up another few steps.
“Six more, man,” Leo murmured. “There’s the end zone. Time to clear the way.”
Lars turned his head, coughing. He surged forward, taking the last six steps in a rush. He nearly collapsed at the top. Leo locked his knees, keeping him upright.
“Sick kids in the south room.” Nonna had the first aid kid open on the long kitchen table.
Leo obeyed, dragging Lars into the south bunk room. Adam was already there, flopped on his back and sound asleep. Anton was in the tiny closet, pulling out extra blankets.
Leo eased Lars into the second bottom bunk. He ripped off the boy’s dirty shoes while Anton heaped blankets onto his shivering form.
“He needs a doctor,” Anton said.
“I know.” Leo shook his head. “But we can’t risk taking him into a war zone in this state.”
“Sit him up.” Nonna bustled into the room with two Aspirin and a glass of water. Anton helped her administer the medicine. Lars let out a soft growling sound as he swallowed the pills.
Leo, who stood behind Lars while he downed the Aspirin, felt his chest constrict as he got a good look at the back of Lars’s neck. “Nonna.”
Nonna took one look at his face and shifted to stand beside him. Leo pointed to the back of Lars’s neck. The black welts from the dart wound had grown to the size of a large coin. Several veins around the wound had
also turned black, snaking up into his hairline and across the back of his neck.
Nonna shook her head, lips pursed. “We watch him. It’s all we can do now.”
She moved away and roused Adam. The other boy was drunk from the grappa and the pain, but Nonna managed to get two Aspirin down his throat.
She hustled Leo, Anton, and Bruce out into the main room, quietly closing the bedroom door behind them.
“Lars looks bad,” Leo said.
“Rest is the best medicine for the two of them,” Nonna replied. “We’ve done as much as we can.”
Anton and Bruce flopped into a worn leather sofa, looking like they’d been run over by a truck.
Leo didn’t feel any of his normal animosity toward this little brother. The poor kid had gone from a routine football practice to a Soviet invasion. Lars was sick and Adam had been shot. How many of his friends on the team had been killed?
Leo gripped his shoulder. “You okay?”
Under normal circumstances, Anton would have bristled at this. But today wasn’t a normal day.
“I’m worried about Dad and Lena,” he said. “And Dal.”
Leo flopped into the chair across from him. “I’m worried about them, too.”
There wasn’t anything else to say. Leo wanted to say his family would make it back from Rossi; that they were strong and capable. And they were, but this was a Russian invasion. Nothing was a guarantee. As evidenced by all that had happened to Lars and Adam
“You think it’s time to put your feet up?” Nonna marched over to them. “There’s a truck to be unloaded, boys. Move.”
Leo flashed a wry grin at Anton and Bruce before levering himself up. He led the boys outside to unload all the gear from the truck.
8
Two Trucks
Dal had done it. He’d found Lena and gotten her back to the Beetle.
It had been a terrifying sprint through the chaos of downtown. He’d had to shoot two Russians with his stolen machine gun. They’d almost been hit by those red darts more times than he could count. But they’d made it.
Zommunist Invasion Box Set | Books 1-3 Page 5
