Zommunist Invasion Box Set | Books 1-3

by Picott, Camille

  He yanked open the passenger-side door of the Beetle. “Get in,” he screamed at Lena.

  She dove past him into the car. Dal slammed the door after her, relief washing over him.

  Now what? The question pulsed in his brain as Dal jumped into the driver’s seat and locked the door. Now what? After leaving the coffee shop, he hadn’t thought past getting Lena safely back to his car.

  Home. Somehow, he had to get her home.

  But how? He stared at the anarchy around him. Soviets were everywhere. The streets were in uproar. Dead bodies were piling up. Cars had smashed into one another, clogging up the road.

  “The Beetle is small.” Lena’s eyes flicked up and down the street. “We can get through.”

  She was right. The Beetle was small. If there was any car that could maneuver the tight streets, it was this one.

  Lena surprised him by leaning over and hefting the machine gun that lay across Dal’s lap.

  He grabbed her hand to stop her from taking the weapon. “What are you doing?” It was impossible not to imagine Mr. Cecchino’s face if he saw his daughter wielding a Soviet machine gun.

  Lena gave Dal a look before yanking the gun out of his hands. “I’m going to shoot any Russian that tries to stand in our way.”

  “You don’t know how to use a machine gun,” he protested.

  Her gaze was scathing. “You never used one until a few minutes ago, but you did alright.”

  Lena knew her way around guns. Mr. Cecchino had taken her hunting with his sons plenty of times. Still, there was something disturbing about seeing the ex-ballerina hefting the machine gun in her lithe arms.

  “You don’t get to be the knight in shining armor, Dal. It’s going to take two of us to make it out of Rossi.” She rolled down the window, propping the machine on the ledge. “Give me those extra magazines.”

  Dal had swiped two forty-five round mags off the bodies of a Soviet. Lips tight, he passed them to her. “Put your seat belt on.”

  She huffed. “Okay, Dad.” She buckled the belt. “Drive. Get us out of here.”

  “Fuck me,” Dal growled. Worry for Lena made him sick, but he fired up the blue Beetle and rolled forward.

  The freeway onramp. That’s where they had to go. From there, it was a straight shot to the country road that led to the farm. The onramp was no more than eight blocks away.

  They just had to get there.

  He weaved through the traffic. There were plenty of people still trying to drive, which made the road even more hazardous.

  Ahead of them, two Russians chased several teenage kids down the sidewalk, firing darts at them.

  “Lena—”

  She fired. The recoil of the machine gun punched her back into the chair. The bullets went wide and shattered an office window. “Dammit,” she muttered.

  Dal swerved around two cars that had crashed into a telephone pole. Lena adjusted her stance, waited for Dal to clear the wrecked cars, then fired again. Her bullets ripped into the men, felling them like rag dolls. The kids fled, racing away down the street.

  Dal knew Lena was a good shot. But it was one thing to see her shoot a deer and another thing to see her gun down Soviet invaders. What would Mr. Cecchino say when he found out?

  Lena leaned back, satisfaction on her face. Until she caught Dal looking at her.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t tell dad.”

  This statement didn’t make Dal feel any better. But it wasn’t just the mental image of Mr. Cecchino’s horror when he learned his daughter had gunned down Russians that made him uncomfortable. It was the realization that Lena looked pretty damn beautiful gunning down enemy soldiers.

  It wasn’t that he was blind. He knew Lena was a beauty. Dal just didn’t allow himself to look at her that way. He would never disrespect the family that had taken him in by doing that. She was practically his little sister.

  Mouth dry, he refocused on the road. A bullet glanced across the roof of the bug. A Russian ran through a drug store parking lot on Dal’s side of the street, firing at the Beetle.

  Lena didn’t hesitate. She ejected the seat belt buckle and hopped up, sticking her torso out the open widow. She rotated in the direction of the Russian and delivered a string of answering bullets. The man fell.

  “I wish Mom was here to see this.” Lena dropped back into the car, dark hair in disarray around her face. “She always knew this day would come.”

  Dal had no words. He swallowed and kept driving.

  They made it a few more blocks, moving away from downtown. The road had cleared, the concentration of the attack centered in the heart of Rossi. Only another two blocks to the onramp.

  “There’s three more.” Lena settled the machine gun against her shoulder, aiming the barrel out the window. “We can get them. Turn right at the next street.”

  He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Turning right would take them away from the freeway. He ignored her instruction and drove straight through the intersection.

  “Dal!”

  He ignored her.

  “Dal, what the hell? We could have gotten them. Three less Russians on the loose.”

  “I’m not risking your life so you can gun down Russians,” he snapped.

  “But it’s our duty,” she argued. “They’re on American soil.”

  “It’s not your duty,” he replied. “And my duty is to get you home to your dad.” If she wanted to fight Russians, she could clear it with Mr. Cecchino.

  “Chauvinist,” she muttered.

  Dal let the comment slide. He was all for equal rights, but not at the risk of getting Lena killed. She could take up the equal rights debate with Mr. Cecchino after Dal got her home in one piece.

  The freeway onramp finally appeared. They were no more than a hundred yards away when a blue Mustang shot out from an adjoining street. Dal slammed on the breaks to keep from crashing into the side of the car, halting in the middle of the road. He had just enough time to register the military fatigues.

  “Out!” Lena screamed. She threw open her door and rolled out of the car.

  Dal followed suit, punching his seat belt buckle. He hit the asphalt just as machine gun fire ripped into the Beetle.

  He heard Lena screaming from the other side of the car as she returned fire. Was the girl completely out of her mind?

  Bullets sprayed his beloved car. Steam hissed out of the back, telling him the engine had been hit.

  He rolled to a stop, only to find Lena squaring off against the Russians, machine gun on her shoulder. He grabbed her around the waist.

  The Beetle had rolled to a stop in the middle of the road, spewing stream. It wasn’t much in the way of cover, but it was the best to be found. He dragged a protesting Lena behind the back fender.

  “Dal, what the hell?”

  He yanked the gun out of her hands. “Stay down,” he snapped. He made a mental note to make her drive—if they were lucky enough to get a chance to drive out of here. No more guns for Lena.

  He checked the magazine. Two bullets left. “Where are the other magazines?”

  “Here.” Lena passed him one. The remaining one was in the waistline of her stretch pants. He wished she was dressed head to toe in Kevlar. The Russians remained inside their Mustang in the middle of the intersection, guns aimed in at them.

  A car appeared, roaring toward the intersection. It was on a direct intersect course with the Mustang fender.

  Dal recognized it instantly. He would know the beat-up front end of that brown Chevy pickup anywhere.

  It was his father’s car.

  Richard Granger sat behind the wheel, his favorite black hat pulled over shaggy hair. He looked just like he had a year ago when Dal had seen him at the cider mill.

  Mr. Granger drove the truck like an avenging demon. Even though they were separated by more than a hundred yards, Dal felt the moment when his father saw him. The sensation was like a spear going through his body.

  And just like last yea
r at the cider mill, there was a brief moment when father and son looked at each other. It lasted no more than a second, but it felt like centuries.

  Then Mr. Granger jerked the steering wheel. His truck made a hard right. He zoomed past the Mustang and onto the freeway onramp, leaving Dal and Lena in the crosshairs of the Russians.

  Dal felt his breath leave his body.

  His father had left him to fend for himself.

  Just like he always had.

  It hurt. Even after all these years, it still hurt.

  Dal’s mouth tightened. Peering around the side of the Beetle, he spotted one of the Russians. That ’69 Mustang fastback was too fine of a vehicle for Russian scum.

  The one in the back had his gun propped in the open window. Dal took aim, pretending the Russian was nothing more than a big buck.

  He fired. The bullets tore through their attacker. The invader slumped, gun clattering to the pavement just outside the Mustang.

  Dal felt Lena tense beside him. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “That’s a perfectly good weapon.”

  “And that’s a perfectly good Russian in the driver’s seat.” Dal slapped in a new magazine as the Russian in the front seat opened fire. He sprayed bullets all around the Beetle.

  Dal threw himself over Lena, covering her body with his. For once, she didn’t fight him. She was too busy screaming as gunfire rained down on them.

  Dal felt a sting across his shoulder blade. He sucked in a breath at the hot pain that ripped across his back.

  “Dal? Dal, are you okay?”

  He didn’t respond, instead gritting his teeth. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a tiny trickle of blood. A graze, not a gunshot wound.

  “Dal!”

  “I’m okay.”

  The gunfire ceased. He heard the door of the Mustang swing open. Boots crunched on broken glass.

  Dal rolled off Lena and peered beneath the Beetle. The boots of the Russian continued on a trajectory straight for them. Dal fired at the attacker’s feet.

  The invader went down. More gun fire spewed through the air. Dal crawled sideways, poked the gun around the front bumper of the Beetle, and fired in the general direction of the Russian. The machine gun vibrated into his shoulder socket.

  Silence.

  He glanced over his shoulder to check on Lena. She was still flat on the pavement, watching him with wide eyes. Drawing a breath, he peeked over the top of the car.

  The Russian lay dead before him, sprawled in a puddle of his own blood in the middle of the road.

  Their immediate surroundings were eerily quiet. In the distance was the wail of sirens and machine gun chatter.

  Lena was the first to move. She darted to the Mustang, snatched up a second machine gun, and slung it around her neck.

  “I should have grabbed one of these earlier.” She opened driver’s side door and popped the seat forward. Grabbing the dead Russian’s belt, she dragged the body out of the car. “Come on, let’s go.” She jerked a thumb at the Mustang and simultaneously grabbed the extra magazines off the dead Russian.

  Dal took one last look at his smoking Beetle. The Mustang was a superb car in all arenas. Still, he loved his beat-up blue bug.

  “Dal.” Lena was by his side, squeezing his arm.

  She knew what the car meant to him. He felt it in the gentle pressure of his fingers.

  He turned his back on the Beetle. Taking a page out of Lena’s book, he grabbed the machine gun and magazines from the Russian he’d killed. He paused, observing the dart gun strapped to the man’s waist. Dozens of tiny red darts lined the magazine.

  “What do you think those are for?” he asked.

  Lena shook her head. “Soviet poison. Don’t touch them.” She tugged on his sleeve. “Let’s get out of here, Dal.”

  He spun on his heel, running for the car.

  Lena beat him to the driver’s seat. He expected her to move over and let him drive, but she slammed the door and buckled herself in.

  Shit. Apparently, she planned to drive. Dal didn’t like it, but arguing would only cost them time. They had to get back to the farm.

  He barely got the door closed when Lena floored it. He was slammed backward into the seat as she peeled up the onramp

  They hit the freeway just as a Volvo station wagon sped past with three Russians inside. Two invaders hung out the windows, spraying bullets across traffic.

  Lena screamed, but her grip on the steering wheel never wavered. Not even when a bullet pinged off the front hood. She downshifted and slowed down, letting the Russians get ahead of them.

  “What the hell?” Dal watched the Russians weave in and out of traffic. One car spun off the road; another barreled across the margin and smashed into oncoming traffic. “They’re everywhere.” How were they going to get home?

  “Mayhem and death,” Lena replied, swerving around a car that was going even slower than they were.

  “What?”

  “I heard the Russians say it. Reap death and mayhem. Those are their orders.”

  “You heard them say that?”

  “Yeah. They’re using the machine guns for death and—”

  “—and the darts for mayhem.” Dal ground his teeth. “They’re doing a damn fine job on both accounts.”

  Dal took in Lena’s profile. All he wanted to do was shield her from whatever was going to come. Thank God she hadn’t been hit with one of those darts.

  Ahead of them, the Russians in the station wagon had disappeared around a bend of trees. Not good. The last thing they needed was to drive into an ambush.

  “Take the next exit,” he said. “We can take frontage roads—”

  He broke off at the sight of a familiar blue pickup that zoomed past them on the southbound lane. The vehicle was moving so fast that it was no more than a blur in his periphery. Even so, Dal would know the truck anywhere. After all, Leo had driven him to school in their junior and senior years.

  Just as the realization hit him, Lena screamed, “Dad!”

  Dal turned in the seat, staring in horror. There was a long moment when time slowed. Mr. Cecchino and Leo’s blue pickup were suspended in a droplet of time, perfectly framed between a wrecked Datsun and a speeding Corvette. A mere one hundred yards separated them from him.

  And then he was gone, the blue bumper disappearing down an offramp.

  What were the odds that both fathers would pass them by in a matter of minutes? One left them to die while the other drove into the eye of the storm.

  “What’s he doing?” Lena gasped. “What—”

  “He’s looking for you,” Dal said. Mr. Cecchino had come all the way to Rossi to find Lena. Of course he had. Dal cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. He should have tried to call. If he had just thought to find a pay phone, he could have called the Cecchino house—

  Lena made a hard left, the Mustang veering off the road and into the middle divide.

  “Lena—”

  “Shut up, Dal. We’re going after him.” The Mustang bumped over the dried, rutted grass of the margin before hitting the road on the other side. A car honked as it flew by, narrowly missing the front end.

  Dal knew without a doubt that Mr. Cecchino would want him to get Lena to safety. He would not want his daughter coming after him. He searched for words to convince Lena to turn around. He opened his mouth.

  “Save it, Dal,” Lena ground out. “I’m not losing Dad.”

  He heard what was left unsaid. Lena had already lost her mom. She was hell bent on saving her dad.

  Lena tore toward the offramp her father had taken, swerving around cars in her haste. More cars honked as Lena cut them off.

  Dal resolved to do everything within his power to protect Lena, even if that meant jumping in front of a machine gun to do it. He’d help her find Mr. Cecchino, and he’d keep Lena alive.

  Whatever it took.

  9

  Streets of Rossi

  Lena increased pressure on the accelerator, sp
eeding through the streets. There were so many people fleeing town that quite a few cars had moved into the oncoming lane—her lane.

  Dal gripped the seat as she laid into the horn and swerved around a car. “Stay in your own lane, asshole,” she yelled out the open window.

  “Dammit, Lena, save your energy for driving.”

  “Like you didn’t think he was an asshole,” she shot back.

  “I—shit!” Dal leaned out his window, nestling the machine gun against his shoulder.

  There were three Soviets perched on top of a convenience store, firing into the traffic of an oncoming intersection. Brakes squealed. Horns blared. Several cars had already crashed.

  Dal would never brag, but he was a damn good shot. He’d taken down wild pigs running downhill through the forest on Cecchino land.

  He sighted down the barrel at the closest of the invaders. Two shots. The Russian fell. He sighted a second time.

  Another two shots. Another Russian fell.

  “Nice,” Lena breathed.

  As she tore through the intersection, Dal got off one last shot. He missed the chest of the Soviet, but his bullet hit the guy in the leg. That would do. With any luck, he’d bleed out.

  The Mustang rumbled loudly down the road. Dal felt like it was a giant beacon alerting everyone to their presence. He wished the could have stolen a quieter car. Not that VW Beetles were known for quiet engines.

  They neared the building of the local radio station where Dal worked as a janitor at nights. As Lena raced toward the buildings, he felt as though he were moving through two realities.

  There was the reality of this morning, where he’d been focused on his studies and determined to figure out a way to leverage his janitorial position into an internship at the radio station.

  Then there was the reality of now, in which he was driving through a war zone. The sidewalks and road were littered with bodies and wrecked cars.

  The two worlds meshed in his brain in a swirl of color. He suddenly found it hard to breathe.

  Or maybe it was the sight of Leo’s blue truck lying on its side in the middle of the road that stole his breath away.

  Lena slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the Mustang. Dal was right on her heels.