Zommunist Invasion Box Set | Books 1-3

by Picott, Camille

  Nonna stood nearby with a small tray. On it were eight shot glasses and a bottle of grappa. Surrounding the ladder were Dal, Lena, Anton, Bruce, Jennifer, Jim, and Tate.

  Everyone had made it back from Bastopol in one piece. Tate had taken a bullet in the leg, but Nonna had stitched him up. The rest all had their fair share of cuts, scrapes, and bruises, but considering what they’d been through, Leo considered them lucky.

  “You’re off center,” Anton said. “Lean a little to your left.”

  Leo leaned to the left, sinking his knife into the wood. As everyone watched, he carved three names into the wall.

  Giuseppe Cecchino

  Adam McCarthy

  Lars Guerra

  Beneath the names were the words, Not Forgotten.

  It wasn’t a statue or a monument in a town square, but it would do. It would keep the memories of their friends and family alive.

  Leo hoped to God he wouldn’t have to add any more names to this list.

  When he finished carving, he dropped to the ground and stood beneath the memorial. Everyone else spread around him in a semi-circle.

  “Tonight, we gather to remember our fallen,” he said. “We didn’t ask for this war, but it came to our doorstep. Every single one of us has faced this invasion head-on. Some of us have lived to fight another day. Others will live on in our memories.”

  “Never forgotten,” Anton said.

  “Never forgotten,” Leo agreed. “The names of our fallen will be honored here.” He looked up at the list of names carved into the wood. “Let’s go around and share a memory of everyone who’s given their life for this fight. I’ll never forget the first time I bit off the head of a worm in an apple. I was eight. Dad laughed so hard he snorted soup out of his nose.”

  Smiles went up around the group, but no one laughed. Leo understood. After everything they’d seen and done in the last few days, life didn’t seem to have any humor left. He was glad he shared the story anyway. It was cherished memory.

  Dal spoke up next, his arm around Lena. “Mr. Cecchino took me to the Goodwill to buy a dresser and bookshelf when I moved in with you guys. We stopped at Foster’s Freeze and had soft serve before coming home.” Dal’s voice grew raspy with emotion. “He was the kindest man I ever met.”

  They went around the circle. Dal and Bruce shared stories about their fallen varsity football brothers. Everyone else shared stories of Mr. Cecchino.

  When they finished, Nonna lifted the bottle of grappa from her tray. “To our fallen,” she said solemnly. Nonna filled the shot glasses and passed around the the tray, letting everyone take a glass.

  “To our fallen.” Leo raised his glass to the sky, picturing his father’s face.

  Goodbye, Dad, he said silently. I promise to make you proud.

  Around him was coughing and sputtering as the shots were downed. Leo hissed between his teeth as fiery liquid burned its way down his esophagus.

  He surveyed his companions as shot glasses were returned to the tray. They’d delivered a blow to the invaders they would not soon forget. They’d taken out a contingent of enemy soldiers and gotten valuable information out to the people. They were a strong team. A unit. They were the Snipers.

  “What’s next?” Tate asked. His leg had been stitched and bandaged by Nonna. There was a long, gruesome tale about how Nonna had removed the bullet using a knife, grappa, and kitchen tongs. There were bloodstains on the kitchen table from the ordeal, but Tate was alive and moving around with the help of a walking stick. “Last I checked, there were still Russians out there. They all need to die.”

  “You need to let your leg heal,” Jim informed his brother.

  “I can defend my country with a bad leg,” Tate said, eyes fierce. “Just let me ride one of the horses.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” Nonna’s hand twitched, but she refrained from whacking him in the back of the head. “I just finished stitching you up.”

  Leo held up a hand. To his surprise, everyone turned to him expectantly. Even Nonna.

  “I have the next mission for the Snipers.” His gaze flicked to Jennifer. He had a promise to keep. “We’re going to get Jennifer’s little sister in Westville.”

  “What the hell?” Bruce frowned. “We need to defend our country, not go off to find a teenager who’s probably just fine where she is.”

  “She’s my sister.” Jennifer glared at Bruce. “You can stay behind if you don’t want to help.”

  “We should be plotting our next big strike,” Bruce argued. “We—”

  “We’re going to Westville,” Leo cut in firmly. “And if we happen to see any Russians on the way, we can take care of them. Zombies, too.”

  Jim gave a curt nod. “That’s more like it.”

  “Team Sniper.” Bruce smacked a fist against his chest.

  “We need to make more bombs. I’ll get the aprons.” Nonna slid the cork into the grappa bottle. “I want Deejay Sniper to send more broadcasts. The people need a voice in the dark. Someone to give them hope. Leo, Dal needs to get the antenna hooked up.”

  “Everyone inside.” Leo herded his team around the cabin. “Time to plan. We’ll make more bombs while we talk about the antenna and our mission to Westville. Anton, there’s a stack of maps in the glove compartment of Dad’s truck. Grab them.”

  Anton peeled away without a word of complaint, heading to the truck. Everyone else made their way up the stairs and into the cabin. Jim had one arm around his brother, supporting him up the stairs.

  Jennifer caught up with Leo. “Thanks.”

  “I made you a promise.”

  “Thanks for keeping your promise.”

  “I’d want the same if Anton or Lena was stuck somewhere.” On impulse, Leo put a brotherly arm around Jennifer’s shoulders and squeezed. Together, they ascended the stairs.

  It was a surprise to realize he was no longer pissed off at the world. Hell, he might go so far as to say that he was happy he hadn’t gone off to play ball at Cal Berkley. If he had, he wouldn’t be right here, right now, defending his home and his family.

  Leo couldn’t think of any place in the world he’d rather be. He had a team and a purpose.

  Life didn’t happen on a field under the lights. Life happened when you weren’t looking. The plays that counted were the ones you never saw coming, the ones you never expected to make.

  And Leo was ready for whatever came next. He wouldn’t stop until his home was free.

  Author’s Note

  Thanks so much for picking up a copy of this book! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Please consider leaving an honest online review at your favorite book retailer. Reviews help independent authors spread the word about our stories. I sincerely appreciate every one.

  Thanks for being part of the journey!

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  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to the experts who helped bring this book to life! I couldn’t have done it without your knowledge and wisdom.

  Chris Picott

  Linda Bellmore

  Mike Crowley

  Lise Asimont

  Lorraine Summers

  Lisa Lewis

  Jon Theisen

  Doc Fried

&n
bsp; Sam Stokes

  David Taylor

  Debra Schwitzer

  Thanks to all the members of the Zombie Recon Team on Patreon! I am deeply grateful for your support. You guys help bring these stories to life. (Literally, since many of you are characters in this series!)

  Linda Huggins

  Amanda Pratt

  Larry Guerra

  Jenn Miola

  Julie Wyatt

  Jessica Stephenson

  Tanya Griggs

  Lisa Unciano

  Brian Spillane

  Nanciann Lamontange

  Vanessa Marquand

  Snipers

  Book 2 of Zommunist Invasion

  Copyright © 2020 by Camille Picott

  www.camillepicott.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  1

  Options

  Cassie knew exactly what was going to happen.

  a) Mrs. Nielson was going to die. The poison from the zombie bite on her shoulder had infiltrated her body. Her arms, neck, and face were criss-crossed with dark, infected veins.

  b) When Mrs. Nielson died, she was going to turn in a homicidal killer. As evidenced by the six homicidal killers currently ringing the Nielson home.

  When Mrs. Nielson died, Cassie had four options.

  a) She could make a run for it. See how far she could get down the road before an infected caught her. Cassie was the antithesis of athletic, which made this the worst of her options.

  b) She could attempt to lock herself in the bathroom with her friends and hope to God someone would eventually show up and rescue them.

  This wasn’t much better than option A. They might be able to survive a few weeks on water, but the Nielson bathroom was tiny. Really tiny. Technically, it wasn’t designed for more than one person at a time. Sitting on the toilet meant you were close enough to turn on the shower. If Cassie called the toilet, Amanda would call the shower. They might be able to cram Stephenson between the toilet and the wall, but he’d complain until their ears bled.

  c) She could attempt to barricade Mrs. Nielson in the master bedroom. That could work if she could get her friends and Mr. Nielson on board. The problem was they really needed to barricade the room before she died, and Cassie knew there was no chance of anyone buying off on that.

  d) She could overdose on the Vicodin pills she noticed near the toaster on the kitchen counter. That was preferable to being bitten and turned into a monster. Or killed by a Russian.

  At the moment, Cassie was vacillating between option C and D. Each had its pros and cons. She was leaning toward C, but only because she was notoriously bad at swallowing pills. Mrs. Nielson might get to her before she had a chance to down a sufficient number of Vicodins.

  Unless the Neilsons had a mortar somewhere in the kitchen. In that case, Cassie could grind up the Vicodin, dump it into a glass of milk, and voila—she had a perfect recipe for avoiding her fate as a homicidal maniac.

  “How can you play chess at a time like this?” Stephenson demanded. “Mrs. Nielson is going to die any second now!”

  Cassie didn’t look up. Her eyes were on the chessboard in front of her. “I’m practicing the King’s Indian Defense.” She’d lost a tournament last month to a freshman because she’d failed to deploy a proper King’s Indian Defense. It still rankled.

  “You should be thinking about what we’re going to do when Mrs. Nielson turns.” Stephenson paced back and forth in the tiny living room of the Neilson home. Cassie had always found the knotty pine walls and ceiling cozy, especially in the winter with the wood burning stove.

  “I am thinking about what we should do when Mrs. Neilson turns.” Cassie laid out the scenarios she’d been working out in her brain while she played chess against herself.

  Stephenson gaped at her as she outlined their options. He was skinny with thick glasses and jeans that were always a little too short. The guy played the chess nerd stereotype to a tee.

  Just like Cassie did with her frizzy hair and plain looks. Her parents had shot their entire load of good-looking genes into her older sister, leaving less than nothing for Cassie when it was her turn in the womb. She was taller than most boys in her class and she’d never, ever look good a miniskirt, while Jennifer was practically a poster child for them.

  Their matching nerdy looks was the exact reason Cassie worked up the nerve to ask Stephenson to junior prom last year. In retrospect, she’d just been desperate.

  At least their sloppy kiss at the end of prom hadn’t ruined the friendship. Cassie, for her part, pretended it never happened. Stephenson had spontaneously adopted the same plan, so it all worked out. Cassie wasn’t even sure he liked girls.

  “You think we should grind up Vicodin pills and commit suicide?” Stephenson gawked at her.

  Cassie played both sides of the board, studying it while she talked. She used a black rook to take a white knight, then used a white pawn to take a black knight.

  “It’s not suicide. It’s self preservation. You don’t want to be like those guys, do you?” She jerked a thumb in the direction of the window that overlooked a yard filled with ferns and redwood trees.

  Currently, the serene view was obstructed by a thick blue blanket tacked to the wall. It blocked the sight of the zombies prowling around like a pack of rabid dogs. Every window in the house was covered.

  Cassie kept hoping the zombies would get bored and wander off, but that had yet to happen. Sometimes they got close to the house and sniffed around, but so far they hadn’t been smart enough to smash through the windows. Or open a door. Thank God they weren’t smart enough to open a door.

  “I think we should try option C,” Stephenson said. “That’s our best chance. Which pieces of furniture should we use to barricade the Nielson’s bedroom door?”

  Cassie used a black pawn to take a white pawn on the chessboard. “We can’t barricade the room until Amanda and Mr. Nielson are out.”

  “Then let’s tell them to get out!”

  Cassie finally looked up. “Would you leave the side of your mother or wife if she was dying?”

  “But this is different,” Stephenson said. “Once she turns, they won’t be able to fight her off. We should try to convince them. Actually, you should try to convince them. I’m not very persuasive.”

  That was pretty much the understatement of the year. Stephenson didn’t have any backbone.

  “Okay. I’ll do it.” She’d known three moves ago that it was going to come down to this anyway.

  She moved the black king to the b7 square, then headed out of the living room, through the kitchen, and into the tiny hallway where the home’s two bedrooms were. Stephenson trailed after her.

  She found Amanda and Mr. Nielson in a heated argument at the foot of the queen bed. Amanda was dark-haired and big-boned like both her parents. She had her father by the hand, trying to pull him toward the doorway. Her face was streaked with tears and snot.

  “Dad, we have to get out of here.” Amanda gave his arm another tug.

  Mr. Nielson was a sturdy man and refused to budge. His eyes were wild with grief. “Your mother needs me. I’m not leaving.”

  “It’s not safe, Dad!”

  “You don’t know that!”

  Cassie surveyed poor Mrs. Nielson. All she’d wanted to do was take out the trash.

  Word of the Russian invasion had first come over the radio three days ago from a radio station in Rossi. It had been a broadcast by Dal Granger, a guy who’d been best friends with Leo Cecchino, Jennifer’s ex-boyfriend.

  Mrs. Nielson, something of a neat-freak, had restrained herself from taking out the trash for two whole days. Then, on day three, she’d convinced herself it was safe to dash out to the trashcans. This was after
Dal’s second broadcast, which revealed Russians were turning Americans into zombies.

  That should have been enough to convince everyone that staying inside was the only way to go.

  Should have.

  As luck would have it, there had been a pack of zombies lurking in the trees near the house. Six of them, to be exact, all with black veins and red eyes and gaping mouths. Mrs. Nielson had been bitten three times before Mr. Nielson came out with his shotgun and killed two of them. That had distracted the infected long enough for Mrs. Nielson to get away.

  And now Mrs. Nielson was back in the house, dying and transforming into a zombie right before their eyes. Mr. Nielson was in complete denial.

  “There must be something we can do,” Mr. Nielson was saying. “Maybe we should give her more Tylenol.”

  Tylenol.

  Cassie had no words for this proclamation.

  Someone had to make the tough call. This wasn’t unlike sacrificing the queen for the greater good in a chess game. It sucked big time, but there were those rare instances where it had to be done.

  “Amanda, I need your help.” She gestured to her friend from the doorway of the room, keeping one eye on Mrs. Nielson. She would revert to option B—barricade herself in the bathroom—if all hell broke loose before she could get her friend to safety.

  “Not now, Cassie,” Amanda snapped. “I—”

  A growl rippled through the tiny space. Mrs. Nielson sat up on the bed, narrowing blood-shot eyes in the direction of her husband and daughter.

  Everyone froze. Everyone, except Cassie. She lunged through the doorway, grabbed Amanda by the arm, and yanked her out of the room.

  She pulled so hard that Amanda was pulled off-balance. She crashed into Cassie, sending them both into the hallway wall.

  “Door!” Cassie screamed. “Stephenson, door!”

  Stephenson’s eyes were huge as he backed away from the open door. Dammit. He often caved under pressure. Cassie should have remembered that. She’d seen it happen enough in chess.