They moved at a brisk walk toward a line of store fronts. This was the seedier part of Rossi where drug dealers and gangs members had hung out. All the shops had black iron bars over the windows, but not even that had been enough to stop the Russians. Glass had been shot out of just about every window. Most of the doors hung from their hinges. The Soviets had been nothing if not thorough.
“Look over there.” Tate nudged him.
Anton followed his gaze. At the end of the shop row was a dead mutant. The distended muscles of his arms and shoulders made him unmistakeable.
“I hope we don’t run into any more of those bastards,” Anton murmured. They’d barely survived the last encounter.
Tate pursed his lips. “We stick to the shadows and stay quiet. If we see any mutants, we go the other way.”
His friend hustled away, leading the way around the back of the shops. Anton followed, the liquor bottle bouncing against his tailbone with each step.
He reasoned this served as a good recon mission. They would have lots of intel for Leo when they got back to the cabin. Maybe their next Sniper mission would be a strike on Rossi.
Thinking this made Anton feel slightly better about running away from the cabin. If they could deliver a blow with their homemade alcohol bombs, gather valuable intel on the invaders, and rescue the Craigs, no one could berate them when they returned home.
He imagined Leo slapping him on the shoulder and congratulating him for a job well done. Hell, maybe he’d join Leo in leading the Snipers. A team captain always needed a second in command, right?
It took them nearly two hours to thread their way through the city. The Russians had been busy. Other than a few stray dead here and there, the streets were clear of bodies. They saw a few mutants roaming the streets, all of which they avoided. They also had to dodge a few patrol cars and foot patrols.
They finally reached the downtown area near the junior college. This was the same area where Dal had worked his nighttime janitorial job at the radio station. It was where Lena had come for the anti-nuke rallies.
It was where his father had been killed.
As a general rule of thumb, Anton tried not to think about his dad. It felt like poking an open wound with a fork. Anton avoided it most of the time, but as Tate led them through downtown Rossi, he found his thoughts continuously straying to his father.
What had his final moments been like? Had his death been quick? What would have happened if he’d never left the farm that day? Would he still be alive? Would Lena and Dal have made it home without his sacrifice?
The sound of car engines reached his ears. He and Tate crouched in the shadow of an alleyway beside a dumpster. A minute later, three open-topped jeeps rumbled past. They were packed with armed Russians.
This was perhaps the first time they had seen vehicles clumped together. What did that mean?
“We’re close to their home base,” Tate murmured after the jeeps had passed.
“Maybe that’s why there’s so many of them together,” Anton replied.
They waited, crouched beside the dumpster. Anton followed the sound of the vehicles with his ears. They were so clear, he could tell when they stopped and switched off their engines. He even heard the distant voices of the soldiers. They weren’t far away, and based on the sound of things, they were near the jail.
“We were right.” Tate’s face was set. “They have a base near the jail.”
“Come on. We have to keep moving.” As Anton rose, voices reached his ears.
Two soldiers appeared in the mouth of the alley.
There was no place to hide. Anton had just enough time to drive a sneaker into Tate’s stomach as the soldiers raised their voices, calling in his direction.
5
Trap Run
Fear made it difficult to breathe. Anton wished for the hundredth time that he’d spent time with their mother’s Russian language tapes. Who would have thought his sister was onto something with her weird obsession? It didn’t seem weird at all now, though a mere two weeks ago he’d made fun of her for it.
Not knowing what else to do, Anton unzipped his fly. He waved a vague hand at the two Soviets, pretending to be engrossed in his task.
In truth, it was nearly impossible to pee when all he wanted to do was bolt. But if he didn’t actually piss, the Soviets might get suspicious. Sweat broke out along his neck and face as he threw all his attention at his dick.
He was so intent on his mission that he ended up pissing all over Tate’s left shoe. His friend scrunched up as Anton readjusted his aim.
The Russians called to him a second time. Apparently, they didn’t believe in giving a guy privacy when he was taking a piss.
Anton ignored them, hoping he looked engrossed in his task. Every nerve in his body stood on end. If they insisted on speaking to him, they were fucked.
His eyes shifted to the machine gun that hung around his neck. If he made a distraction, maybe Tate could get away.
Without warning, the Russians laughed and sauntered off. Anton stayed where he was, every muscle primed to fight. He zipped up his fly, half expecting the silhouettes of the Soviets to return to the mouth of the alleyway.
“Are they gone?” Tate whispered.
“Yeah. I think so. That was close.” Fucking understatement of the year. Anton’s sense of dread rapidly grew to monstrous proportions. He did not have a good feeling about any of this.
“Let’s get a bird’s eye view.” Tate scrambled to his feet, heading for a fire escape ladder Anton hadn’t noticed.
Even though it was a good eight feet off the ground, it was within reach for the tall boys. With a running head start, they jumped and grabbed the lowest rung. Minutes later, the two of them crouched on the rooftop of the two-story downtown building.
They crept to the edge of the roof and peered out over the city. Anton saw the big antennas from Dal’s radio station and the tall brick buildings of the junior college.
The police station and county jail were no more than half a mile west of them.
A mere two blocks from where they were hiding, chain-link construction site fencing had been erected. It stretched for blocks. Big portable lights had been set up, which blared up into the night. Based on the lights, they could see the zone took up twenty city blocks. They’d nearly blundered right into the heart of the Soviet occupation zone.
It was a good location. They had the police station with the weapons, communication systems, and jail cells. The surrounding downtown buildings had plenty of housing for the soldiers—especially now that the locals had been zombified and cleared out.
The police station was near the center of the compound, which meant they had to get past a whole pile of Russians just to get to the jail. After that, they had to break into the jail, break the Craigs out of jail, then get back out of the compound.
“What if your parents aren’t in there?” he whispered.
Tate didn’t look at him. “They are.”
“But what if they aren’t?”
Tate turned a narrow-eyed gaze on him. Anton almost didn’t recognize his friend.
“If they aren’t in the jail, then we keep looking until we find them.”
Anton studied the scene. What would Leo do?
His brother had called this a suicide mission. There was a reason he wasn’t here.
Screw that, Anton chided himself. He and Tate could figure this out. They’d helped Leo take on the Russians in Hillsberg. They could do this. They—
“Oh, shit,” he breathed.
“What?” Tate demanded.
Anton grabbed his rifle. Resting the butt on his shoulder, he peered through the scope for a better view. He scanned the nearest section of the perimeter, following the flood of lights.
There. On the edge of the fencing was a hydraulic lift, the platform raised above the lights. The top of of the lift was smudged with shadow, but Anton had keen vision.
He’d always taken pride in his eyesight. Tonight was the fi
rst time he’d ever wished he was as blind as a bat.
“What is it?” Tate hissed beside him.
Anton didn’t answer. His mouth was too dry. He couldn’t take his eyes off the two figures who had been lashed to the top of the lift.
It was Mr. and Mrs. Craig. Their legs splayed out in front of them, their arms secured to the back of the lift. Even half obscured by darkness, Anton recognized them. It was impossible to tell if they were dead or alive.
He heard Tate shift as he raised his own machine gun to look down the scope. Anton knew the moment his friend spotted his parents. Tate jerked, nearly dropping his gun. Breath rasped in and out of his nose.
“No fucking way.” Tate’s voice was strained.
Anton heard the tears that threatened to explode. Emotions raged within his own chest.
“No fucking way,” Tate said again. “We have to get them down. We—” He started back toward the ladder.
Anton’s stomach flip-flopped. He grabbed Tate by the shoulder and spun him around. “We can’t go down there, man.”
Tate blinked at him in confusion. “What are you talking about? Mom and Dad are—”
Anton felt like the biggest asshole on the planet. “It’s a trap run.”
“What the fuck, man? This isn’t a football game,” Tate said, referring to Anton’s use to the phrase trap run. “Those are my parents down there—”
“Tate, we can’t go down there.” Was this how Leo felt when they watched the KGB drive off with the Craigs? When he’d faced Tate and told him they could do nothing for them?
For the first time, Anton had an inkling of what it must have been like for Leo. Maybe his brother wasn’t such an asshole after all.
“Are you saying we should leave them?” Tate’s incredulous expression morphed into one of rage.
“It’s a trap, man,” Anton said. If Tate wasn’t such a wreck, he would see that. Anton was no genius, not by a long shot, but even he could see it was a trap. “Why else would they put them up there? It’s a trap to catch the Snipers. They probably have their own snipers in the buildings nearby.”
As soon as the words were out of is mouth, he dropped into a crouch and peered around. Were they being watched right now? What the fuck had they been thinking?
Surely if they were in the crosshairs of a Soviet sniper, they’d already be dead. Dread filled Anton’s stomach as he scanned the nearby buildings.
As though to prove a point, Tate remained standing. “You’re being paranoid. They don’t even know we’re here—”
“Get down,” Anton hissed.
Tate glared at him, but dropped into a crouch.
“The KGB suspected your parents had a connection to the Snipers,” Anton said. “Your parents are bait. For us.”
It was the only explanation. Why else would Mr. and Mrs. Craig be on display for all to see on the edge of the Soviet compound? They should be locked up in a KGB prison cell.
“We have the uniforms.” Tate tugged on his Soviet fatigues for emphasis. Even in the darkness, the star, sickle, and hammer were bright. “The whole point of getting these was so we could infiltrate.”
“The whole point in getting them was for camouflage,” Anton argued. “They aren’t going to save us if we walk straight into their trap. We’ll be made in seconds if anyone tries to speak to us.”
“You’re saying we should just leave my parents up there to be eaten by crows?” Tate stabbed a finger in the direction of the lift.
“I’m saying …” Anton’s throat went dry as emotion threatened to overcome him. “I’m saying we’re going to end up dead or in a KGB cell if we go down there.”
The look Tate gave him was like nothing Anton had ever seen. He’d been by Tate’s side when Jim had been killed in battle against the Soviets. This was different. There was no grief, only rage. Tate’s eyes burned with fevered fury. He looked ready to dismantle the Russian occupation zone with his bare hands.
“Fine. We’ll just turn our backs and abandon my parents.” Tate stormed over to the ladder and disappeared over the side.
They didn’t even know if Tate’s parents were still alive. For all they knew, it could be two dead bodies on top of that lift.
Anton kept his mouth shut. Pointing that out would help nothing.
As he dropped back to the ground in the alleyway, Anton laid a hand on Tate’s shoulder. “Look man, I’m sorry. I really am. I know—”
Tate’s fist came out of nowhere, striking Anton hard in the side of the jaw. He reeled backward, trying to make sense of the attack when Tate punched him a second time. This time, the blow landed near his temple.
Anton staggered and fell to his knees. The world dipped and swayed. “Tate, what—?”
“Go home, man.” Tate loomed in front of him.
The world still spun. Anton raised his hands in feeble defense. When Tate hit him a third time, he dropped to the ground, struggling to stay conscious.
Tate stretched his backpack and took off at a run, sprinting for the far end of the alley. He disappeared out of sight as Anton struggled to his hands and knees.
Fuck. This was worse than getting sacked by a three-hundred pound linebacker. At least in football, he had a helmet. Had Tate been trying to give him a concussion?
Anton stifled a groan, pressing a hand to his forehead. He had to find Tate and make him see reason. They had to get the fuck out of Rossi before they got themselves killed.
A soft sound caught his attention—the sound of a shoe crunching against the pavement.
Tate. Thank God, he’d come to his senses and come back.
Still on all fours, Anton lifted his head—and came face to face with two Soviet patrollers.
They called out a question, scanning the alley as though looking for a threat. They thought Anton was one of them, and that someone had attacked him.
He stared up at them, knowing he was about to be made. The first word he uttered would condemn him. If he fired, he’d bring the whole goddamn Russian compound down on his head. The result was the same no matter what he did.
Fuck it. If he had to go down, the least he could do was try and warn Tate.
“Tate, if you can hear me, run,” Anton screamed.
The eyes of the Soviets widened in realization. They charged, shouting in alarm.
Anton fumbled for his gun, but his head was still woozy.
The butt of a rifle smashed into the side of his face.
6
Bars
Anton woke to a throbbing head and a queasy stomach. Disorientated, he raised his chin and looked around. Where was he? Where was Tate?
The world slid in and out of focus. He squinted and blinked, waiting for his vision to solidify.
The first thing that leapt into view was a beige cinderblock wall. He continued to blink, trying to make sense of it. He couldn’t move. Something confined his wrists and ankles.
He was tied to a chair, he realized. He’d been stripped to the waist. Cold fluorescent light flickered intermittently above him.
Memory crashed back in.
Downtown Rossi. The Craigs.
Tate.
Someone groaned. Anton turned toward the sound. Tied to a chair beside him was Tate, also stripped to the waist. Dried blood stuck to the side of friend’s face.
The beige cinderblock wall before him took on new meaning. His head swiveled as he took in their surroundings. They were in a prison cell. The only way in or out was through a steel door with bars set into the upper half.
The cell had a single cot and a stainless steel toilet. The room smelled like piss and fear. There was dried blood on one wall. More dried blood was on the floor.
“Anton?” Tate’s voice came out raspy. He gagged, his stomach heaving from the blow he’d taken to the head. “Where are we?”
“Jail cell.” Anton gave his bonds an experimental yank. They didn’t budge. The ropes were so tight his right arm tingled with numbness. The ropes on his ankles were just as tight.
That’s when Anton realized his boots were gone. His feet were cold against the cement floor.
“I fucked up.” Tate gave him an anguished look. “You were right. It was a trap. I thought I could set a fire and create a distraction, but they were waiting. As soon as I lit the fuses on the first bottle of bourbon, they were on me.” His voice dripped with shame. “How—how did they find you?”
They’d found him down in the alley like a kicked dog. There was no way to sugarcoat it. “I was still on the ground in the alleyway when they found me.”
“I’m sorry, man. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Anton didn’t know what to say. He didn’t blame Tate. It had been his decision to come to Rossi. They’d both been idiots.
“You okay, man?” The question seemed asinine in light of their situation, but Anton asked it anyway.
“I’m okay. Do you hate me?”
“Nah, man. I don’t hate you.”
Tate dry heaved one last time before at last raising his head.
Anton exchanged a long look with his old friend. Unspoken words hung between them: they were well and truly fucked.
They were prisoners of the KGB. No one was coming for them. No one even knew where they were.
Don’t think like that, Anton admonished himself. They just had to wait for their opening. It had to come. Right?
“Do you know how long we’ve been here?” Tate asked.
“Don’t know.” With no windows into the cell, it was impossible to know if it was day or night.
“We have to get out of here and rescue Mom and Dad.” Tate’s words were hollow. He sounded as scared as Anton felt.
Scanning the room, Anton looked for anything that might be useable as a weapon. He then realized how stupid that was. Even if there was a pile of grenades in front of them, what the hell could they do tied to chairs?
“Tate, man, we gotta get out of these chairs.” Anton pressed his feet to the floor. The legs of his chairs grated loudly against the cement as he attempted to move it. “Can you untie me?” He angled his chair, trying to back it up against Tate’s.
Zommunist Invasion | Book 3 | Scattered Page 3