Zommunist Invasion Box Set | Books 1-3

by Picott, Camille

  “But everyone expects me to be like him,” Anton complained. God, she must have gotten sick of him saying that every day.

  “That just means you get to surprise them.”

  Even after all these years, Anton remembered what it felt like when she ruffled his dark blond hair.

  He still hadn’t figured out how to surprise people. Maybe one day he would.

  If he lived long enough.

  “So what’s the plan?” Tate asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who tells the fuckers our base is at the dam cistern?”

  Anton swallowed, feeling the pebbled concrete press into the flesh of his forehead. A few tears leaked out of his eyes. He blinked them away.

  Goddammit, he didn’t want to die. He was barely eighteen. He wanted to live. He should have a whole lifetime in front of him. Was he bat shit crazy to want to live, even if it meant rotting away in this hellhole?

  “I’ll do it.” His throat was thick when he spoke the words. “But we have to make them believe we’re broken.”

  Tate didn’t respond. They both knew what that meant. There was more torture in store for them. The Russians had to believe they were truly broken. Anton shuddered at the thought. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take. He may truly break when the KGB agent returned. Anton had no doubt he would return.

  His knees began to ache from his awkward position on the floor. He decided to make another attempt at righting himself.

  Surprise them, Anton.

  A desperate laugh bubbled up from his throat.

  “Anton? You okay, man?”

  “Not really. I thought I heard my mom talking to me.” He tensed his muscles, shifting his toes to grip the floor. After counting to three in his head, he threw his weight up and back.

  It took two tries, but he finally got the chair upright. A weak laugh of triumph passed his lips. Maybe he did have a surprise or two left in him. Even if it was only figuring out how to right himself in a Russian torture chamber.

  “Anton?” Tate still lay on the floor, tied to his chair.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad I’m not alone in this shithole. I’m sorry I got you into this mess, but I’m glad I’m not alone.”

  Anton tried to come up with a response. He didn’t know what to say. There was no denying their recklessness. They’d handed themselves to the Russians on a platter. He was pretty sure that wasn’t the sort of surprise his mom had been referring to.

  “Mom,” he whispered, “if I ever escape this pit, I promise to do things differently.” He would stop chasing his brother’s golden shadow. He would start living as himself, whatever that meant.

  “Anton?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be tortured to death, but I don’t want to die, either.”

  Anton closed his eyes as Tate’s word washed over him. “I don’t want to die, either, man.”

  But that’s exactly what would happen. When they revealed the cistern location, the KGB agent would murder them. Or at least, that’s what he said he’d do. Anton wasn’t sure if he wanted him to follow through with that threat or not, but he couldn’t see any other way out of their situation.

  “I wish I knew if Mom and Dad were alive,” Tate whispered.

  “I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry we couldn’t rescue them.”

  “When I saw them on that lift, I—I couldn’t tell if they were still alive. I lost it, man. I—”

  “I get it, man.” Anton couldn’t stand the anguish in Tate’s voice. “I get it.”

  A scream filled the prison block. It came from a nearby cell. Someone was shrieking. A woman.

  The sound made Anton’s blood run cold. He stopped breathing as the long cry echoed through the cellblock.

  He’d never heard Mrs. Craig scream before, but a deep part of him recognized her voice in that horrible cry. Did Tate recognize it, too?

  Mrs. Craig was here in this hellhole. So was Mr. Craig. They’d been taken down from the lift and brought here to be tortured, just like Anton and Tate.

  The knowledge was almost too much to bear. It was almost enough to make him wish he was dead.

  Anton said nothing to his friend, hanging his head in silence.

  9

  Broken

  Anton choked on water. He couldn’t breathe. His head was submerged in a bucket of water.

  Hands held him down. One gripped the back of his neck like a pair of pinchers. The other had a fistful of his hair.

  Anton struggled. He fought to live, even though all rational thought said he should just give up. Let the bucket of water carry him into oblivion.

  He held his breath as long as he could, bucking and struggling against the hands that held him. He kept his lips clamped shut, willing himself not breathe.

  His body overpowered him. Instinct shoved aside will. He inhaled without meaning to. Water gushed down his nose and throat. He fought harder against his captor, but the fuckhead had the advantage of leverage. The soldier gripped Anton’s hair with such ferocity, Anton half expected his scalp to be torn away.

  Just when he thought it was over—just when he thought he would drown in a bucket of water like a rat—he was yanked up. The soldier flung him roughly across the cell. His skin tore against the concrete floor.

  Anton rolled onto his side, coughing up water. He was still hacking when cigarette embers scorched his shoulder.

  He couldn’t help it. Even though he’d been determined not to cry out, the combination of not being able to breathe and the pain of the embers tore it from his throat. He collapsed to the ground, still choking on the water that filled his lungs.

  Laughter rang out above him. The KGB agent leered down at him through the curling ends of his mustache. Off to one side stood his soldier lackey, whose sleeves were drenched from holding Anton’s head in the bucket.

  Through a haze of fear, Anton noticed the lackey had grayish bruises on his face and hands. He looked like he’d gotten the shit kicked out of him. Good. The fucker deserved every punch.

  How many times had he been nearly drowned today? How many times had he been burned by a cigarette? Twelve? Twenty? He’d lost count of both.

  There was a second soldier in the room today. At a nod from the agent, the second soldier pulled Tate’s head out of a water bucket.

  Tate landed next to Anton on the floor, coughing and hacking. His shaggy hair was plastered to his face. Tate wasn’t treated to another cigarette burn, but he did get half a dozen kicks in the ribs from the Soviet fucker who’d had the pleasure of nearly drowning him.

  “You can put a stop to this anytime.” The KGB agent knelt in front of them, puffing away at his fucking cigarette. “Just tell me where the Sniper base is. I can make all this pain stop with the snap of my fingers.”

  Anton wanted nothing more than to grab that cigarette and burn out the man’s eyeballs. He was too busy coughing to come up with a witty retort.

  Tate didn’t have the same problem. “Fuck you, you Soviet fuck. Rot in hell with your zombies.”

  The agent shrugged, taking another long drag. Anton’s first stable breath was tainted by the nicotine smoke.

  “Suit yourself.” The agent flicked his hand at the two soldiers. Both lackeys looked like they’d gotten in fist fights, their faces and hands covered with grayish bruises. Hell, maybe they’d beat the shit out of each other.

  Anton was hauled up by his hair and dragged back to the bucket. Dread shot through his limbs. He fought hard, swinging his fists at his captor’s stomach.

  He got a boot in the crotch for his efforts. As he gagged on the agony, his head was shoved back into the bucket.

  Water flooded his body. He bucked against the pain in his crotch even as he fought the water filling his lungs. Darkness ringed the edge of his vision.

  Was this it? Was he going to die?

  His body twitched. His chest seized. He was dying. Anton knew it as surely as he knew his shoe size.<
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  He was hauled out of the bucket. Barely conscious, he was thrown back to the floor. When a boot laid into his ribs, he could do nothing more than choke up water.

  The agent strolled over to Anton. To the lackeys, he said, “They all break. You just need to know how to apply the right pressure.” He punched Anton in the stomach.

  When Anton cried out in response, he did it again. And again.

  Anton flopped over onto his back. The agent knelt on top of him, pressing a knee into his solar plexus. He twirled a knife between his fingers, smiling down at Anton in cold anticipation.

  “You love the uniform of Mother Russia so much,” the agent purred. “Let’s make it permanent.”

  He pressed the knife into his flesh, slicing the blade against his upper left chest. Anton smelled the tang of his own blood. He bucked, bellowing, but the agent ground his knee harder into him.

  The agent hummed at he worked, puffing on his cigarette as he carved into Anton’s skin. What the fuck was he doing, trying to turn him into a Picasso?

  “What the fuck?” Anton screamed. “What the fuck!”

  “You know what I want,” the agent purred. “You’d better hurry up before I finish. I’m not sure you’ll like my picture.”

  Anton craned his neck. It took him a moment to make sense of what he was seeing through all the blood.

  Then he saw it: the distinct star and the curve of the sickle. With a smile, the agent pressed the knife into him as he began to draw the line of the Soviet hammer with into his skin.

  It was worse than everything else he’d endured so far. What were two dozen cigarette burns compared to being vandalized? He didn’t have to fake the bulging of his eyes or the frantic thrash of his body.

  This was it. He had to send these fuckers on a wild good chase. If he waited any longer, they would kill him. Of that, he had no doubt. As it was, he would wear the symbol of Mother Russia for the rest of his short life.

  Anton wanted to go out on his terms. He wanted the satisfaction of knowing they would never, ever find his family. If he had to die, it would be by his choosing.

  It wasn’t hard to start crying. He hurt so badly, the tears flowed easily.

  He gave himself over to the show. Sobs wracked his body as he sagged onto the stinking floor. He was pretty sure his head was in the damp remains of his urine.

  Did he look appropriately broken? He felt broken, at least in his body. Clinging to the mental images of his family kept him strong inside. He had to make these fuckers believe. They had to see a boy truly wrecked.

  “Stop!” Anton screamed. “Stop it, I’ll tell you. Goddammit, I’ll tell you!”

  Tate played his part to a tee. “Don’t do it, Anton. Don’t you dare—”

  A soldier grabbed Tate by the hair and hauled him back to the bucket. His protests were lost in a splash of water.

  “Talk.” A new cigarette dangled from the agent’s mouth.

  Anton talked. His words came out weak and blubbery. It wasn’t an act. “There’s an old cement cistern at the dam. That’s where they are.”

  A plume of smoke hit him in the face. Anton was too weak to cough. It stung his bleary eyes. He tamped down the glare that tried to rise. Broken. He had to look broken in both body and spirit. It was the only way to sell their story.

  “The dam, you say?”

  “Yes.” Anton tried to nod, but his body hurt too much.

  The KGB fuckhead remained crouched on top of him, sucking on his cigarette as he studied Anton. “Young man, I think you may be telling the truth.”

  A shudder ran through Anton’s body. This was it. He was going to be executed.

  The knowledge dried his tears. He may go out beaten within an inch of his life, but he wasn’t going to go out like a blubbering coward.

  He might not want to die, but he was ready for death. It was a welcome trade for the lives of Lena, Nonna, Leo, and Dal. He’d make the trade a thousand times.

  “Yes, I do think you might be telling the truth.” The agent rose to his feet. “But we will make sure. If you’re telling the truth, we will give you a fast death.” A humorless smile curled the corners of his mouth. “If you lie to us, we will hurt you in ways you never thought possible.”

  With this new threat issued, the agent and Soviet lackeys left the cell. Anton felt like he’d been kicked in the face yet again.

  He was still alive. He and Tate.

  And within a few hours, the Soviets would know he’d sold them a sack of bullshit.

  Limp on the floor, he realized just how badly things had gone. Tate lay beside him, panting for breath from his last round with the bucket.

  No words passed between them. As Anton met his friend’s gaze, he saw his own dread reflected back at him.

  All their ruse had bought them was a few hours of fitful sleep on the stinky floor of their dungeon. Anton was cold, hungry, thirsty, and aching in places on his body he’d never known existed.

  But worse than all that was the knowledge of how badly he’d miscalculated the KGB agent. He thought he and Tate had been driving the bus. They’d been idiots.

  Anton would never give up his family. He was destined to die slowly and painfully. He’d tried to circumvent his fate, but it was coming back to get him.

  He made a silent promise: he would endure. The Soviets would not break him.

  I’ll surprise them, Mom. I won’t give them a fucking thing. He would die, but his family would live.

  It would have to be enough.

  10

  Family

  Someone shoved a bowl of water and several slices of bread through a slot in the bottom of the door.

  He and Tate had been left untied after their countless near-drownings. They crawled across the floor to reach it. They inhaled the dry slices of bread and sucked from the water bowl like dogs. The Soviets had well and truly reduced them to animals.

  After that, there was nothing to do but wait for the other shoe to drop. He and Tate were too weak to speak, but Anton didn’t miss the way the other boy looked at the bloody carving on his chest. It made Anton sick. He turned his back on Tate and curled up on his side.

  Anton drifted in and out of sleep. In a half-lucid state, childhood memories surfaced in rapid succession. He clung to them, holding those stupidly blissful moments the way an archeologist might hold a jewel box recovered at a dig site.

  There had been all the times he, Leo, and Dal had spent on their dirt bikes, riding around the cabin until they were delirious with hunger. Nonna and their mother always had hot meals waiting for them when—sweaty and filthy—they returned home.

  “No gorillas at the Cecchino table,” Nonna liked to say. She practically made them strip on the porch before permitting them to trek through the house.

  Once the boys washed up, she always fed them like they might starve to death. Meat balls. Spaghetti pomodoro. Gnocci with cream sauce. Minestrone soup.

  God, what he wouldn’t give for a bowl of her food right now. He was so goddamn hungry.

  His mind flashed back to the age of seven when he caught chicken pox. His mother had quarantined him in the room he shared with Leo, forbidding everyone except herself from going inside. Lena had disobeyed their mother and snuck in with a bowl of Campbell’s chicken soup. She’d been desperate to check on Anton and ended up getting chicken pox along with him.

  Being quarantined in a room with his twin sister hadn’t been so bad. They’d played I Spy and Uno and thrown spitballs at each other for days. It had been a good way to pass the time.

  Thinking of Lena took him back to a time when the whole family had been out in the apple orchard. He couldn’t even remember how old they were. One of Nonna’s grumpy old billy goats had rammed Lena in the butt and knocked her over. Only Anton and Dal had been around.

  Dal had walloped that poor goat with righteous vengeance. Anton secretly felt sorry for the goat; sure, the animal had been obnoxious, but he hadn’t deserved the full force of Dal’s rage.

 
; Anton hadn’t been brave enough to defend the goat. Instead, he’d fetched the hose from behind the barn. When Lena had her back turned, Anton unleashed a stream of cold water on her.

  Anton hadn’t thought about that in years. It occurred to him that Dal may have been in love with his sister since they were kids. No wonder they’d ended up together.

  Anton never told anyone why he’d sprayed Lena; in the water fight that ensued, no one had thought to ask. Even Nonna had partaken in the fun, grabbing a hose from around the back of the house to spray Anton and his siblings.

  He still remembered the way the water had smelled on the dry soil of the orchard. He remembered what it felt like when he stepped on a rotting apple and it squished between his toes. He remembered the sound of his mother’s laughter when their father dumped a bucket of water over her head.

  As he surfaced in and out of pain-hazed sleep, Anton replayed this memory over, and over, and over. He thought it might be the singular best day in his entire life.

  And he hadn’t even known it until now.

  The KGB agent returned several hours later. One look at his thunderous expression said it all.

  Anton and Tate were well and truly fucked. Everything they had endured up until this point had been kitten’s play.

  He couldn’t stop the shudder that ran through his body. He’d never been so fucking scared in his entire life.

  Then again, he’d never been this resolved, either. He was determined to hold. He’d be a fucking fortress. No matter what they threw at him, his walls would hold.

  “Sniper scum,” the KGB agent snarled. He kicked Anton in the ribs. “I suspected the lie when I looked in your eyes. Too bad for you. There is no fast death for you now.” He turned to his lackeys and spat out a string of Russian.

  One solider grabbed Anton by the hair, hauling him toward the open cell door. Anton scrambled to get his feet beneath him, if only to keep the Soviet from ripping his hair out by the roots.

  He and Tate were dragged down the hall, which was lined with other cell doors. The KGB agent strolled along behind them, his head wreathed in a cloud cigarette smoke.