Zommunist Invasion | Book 3 | Scattered

by Picott, Camille

  It was clear from the look on Nonna’s face that she meant what she said: they were going to stay here until he learned how to shoot.

  Stephenson closed his eyes, taking a moment to gather his resolve. He wasn’t cut out for this stuff. Nonna was in denial, thinking she could mould him into a real Sniper.

  Still, he’d spent enough time with her in the past week to know she didn’t mince words. If she said they were going to stay out here until he learned how to shoot, he would be old and gray by the time she allowed him to go back to the cabin—unless he could suck it up and actually start hitting the target.

  Licking his lips in concentration, he raised the gun and fired a few more times. All he managed to do was make the bushes rattle. He still missed the damn tree every time.

  The image of his little sister, Gabby, flashed through his mind. He had a clear memory of her jumping out of a closet with her cape and plastic sword, ambushing him with a triumphant cry.

  “Got you,” she had screamed, pointing her plastic sword at his heart. “I am She-Ra, the Princess of Power, and you are the evil Hordak. Die, Hordak!”

  Stephenson had effected a dramatic death while Gabby stood over him like the shining little princess she was. Gosh, he missed her.

  Most days, he tried not to think of her. She’d been on a field trip to San Francisco when the Soviets invaded. It was easier not to think of her. Imagining what might have happened to her and her little classmates made him sick.

  Gabby had a lot of toys, but She-Ra had always been his favorite. Stephenson secretly liked how the imaginary princess could draw a sword and magically transform into a fierce warrior.

  If only it was so easy to transform into an apocalyptic badass.

  “I need a magic sword,” he muttered.

  He thought of the perfect pair of pink Converse back at the house. It was terrible that he wanted to wear them. He knew that. He could only imagine what all the jocks would say if they came home and saw the skinny nerd in pink Converse.

  A bullet flew from the barrel of his gun. Nonna jumped up from her stump, grinning at him.

  “You did it! I knew you had it in you.”

  “I did?” Stephenson gaped at the tree trunk. “Are you sure?” He’d been distracted, thinking about those stupid hot-pink Converse.

  “Come look,” Nonna said.

  Stephenson followed her across the clearing. A rush of pride went through him when she showed him the bullet buried in the rotted wood of the tree stump.

  “I did it.” He could hardly believe it.

  “Whatever you were doing, do it again,” Nonna ordered. “Keep practicing until you can hit the tree every time.”

  Do it again? He’d been too busy thinking about She-Ra, his sister, and the pink Converse. Between all that, he hadn’t been paying attention to what he was doing with the gun.

  He returned to his shooting position. Four more shots and he missed the log every single time. Nonna frowned at him, clearly disapproving.

  Be She-Ra, he told himself. Draw your magic sword.

  Once again, he thought of the pink shoes. Imagining them on his feet in place of his ugly sneakers was a visceral experience. He could practically feel the way they would hug his feet.

  His next shot hit the log.

  Nonna jumped to her feet, clapping her hands. “Now you’re getting the hang of it. Keep going.”

  Oh, God.

  It was the pink Converse. They were his magic sword. His ticket to being She-Ra.

  Before She-Ra had become the Princess of Power, her name had been Aurora. Aurora had been kidnapped and raised by Hordak—the very enemy she later fought to defeat. But as the child Aurora, she’d been brainwashed to think she was a part of Hordak’s evil Horde.

  A shiver traveled down his spine.

  A very deep part of him had always felt like Aurora. Like he didn’t belong in the Horde he had been born into. There was a warrior princess within him, but letting her out was scarier than dying.

  It was a secret he buried so deep it practically suffocated him. He’d carried it for as long as he could remember.

  In the secret space of his heart, he’d often wondered if his true body had been hijacked before he’d been born. Most days, it felt like Jeff Stephenson’s body should have belonged to someone else. There was another body out there that should have been his—a girl’s body.

  “We’re burning daylight,” Nonna said. “Keep practicing.”

  Screw it. No one had to know. He just had to shoot well enough to satisfy Nonna. Then they could go home.

  He imagined burning his God-awful ugly tennis shoes and slipping on those pink Converse. He imagined tying the white laces into perfect bows. They would fit his feet perfectly. Like Cinderella slipping on her glass slippers.

  Another shiver traveled down his spine. He clung to that feeling as he fired again.

  The bullet hit.

  He set his jaw, hanging onto the imagined embrace of those pink shoes.

  The next ten bullets sank into the tree.

  Nonna applauded him. It felt so good to see her beaming.

  What would it be like if he really wore those shoes? Maybe he could be a real Sniper if he was ever brave enough to wear them in real life.

  “Now,” Nonna said, “I want you to practice hitting the inside of the target.”

  “Can we go home if I hit it?”

  “If you can hit it twenty times, yes, we can go home.”

  Twenty times? She really was trying to make him in a Rambo.

  He mentally burned his ugly green polo shirt and put on the hot-pink spaghetti-strap tank. Holding that image of himself—holding how those clothes made him feel—he fired.

  Seven out of the next ten bullets hit Nonna’s target.

  By the time the sun was high in the sky, Stephenson could honestly say he didn’t completely suck at shooting things.

  After Nonna was confident he could hit a target standing still, she made him practice shooting while walking in wide arcs around the target. Once she was confident he could do that, she made him do it at a jog.

  Nonna let him take a short break for lunch. Unbeknownst to him, she had packed little baggies with food. One had dried apple chips. The other had dried venison. He wolfed it all down, barely tasting any of it.

  He looked around for something to drink, wondering if she would make him drink out of the spring on the edge of the clearing. Then he wondered what it would be like if he got dysentery, or some other horrible waterborne bacteria.

  Like a magician, Nonna pulled a wide, flat canteen out of her apron pocket. Wordlessly, she passed it to Stephenson.

  He decided Nonna’s apron was better than Santa Claus’s magic sack of presents. He was parched. Taking the preferred canteen, he tossed back his head.

  What hit his tongue wasn’t water. It was something else. Something that burned the inside of his throat like lava.

  Stephenson gagged, trying to spit it out. Beside him, Nonna wheezed with laughter.

  “What the heck was that?” he demanded.

  “Whiskey.” Nonna gave him a sly smile. “The boys don’t know it, but I keep a bottle stashed under the sink behind the garbage bags. Figured it was high time you learned how to take a little fire in your belly.”

  “What—why?” he sputtered.

  She patted him on the shoulder. “Sometimes in life, you have to swallow a little fire.”

  “That sounds painful.”

  “Well, was it?”

  “Yeah.” Stephenson coughed a few more times to emphasize the point.

  She patted him on the back. Her smile was kind, but she followed it up by saying, “Lunch break is over. Time to get back to practice. Unless you want another swallow of whiskey?”

  He eyed the canteen, thinking of all the bigger, older boys who lived in the cabin. “Do you think I should?”

  Nonna squinted at him before shaking her head. “Maybe later. When you aren’t practicing with a gun.”

 
After that, they practiced loading and unloading magazines with bullets. They practiced racking and clicking the safety on and off. This was followed by yet more target practice.

  Finally, when Stephenson thought he might faint from exhaustion, Nonna called an end to the practice.

  They had been out here for no less than six hours. Stephenson had the beginnings of a blister on his index finger. It was a long slog back to the cabin.

  He fully expected Amanda and the others to be home when they got there. She would not believe that he, Jeff Stephenson, had spent the entire day shooting a gun. He couldn’t wait to tell her about the whiskey. He was pretty sure Amanda had never tasted alcohol before.

  To his surprise, the hard-packed clearing in front of the cabin was empty.

  He and Nonna stopped on the edge of the clearing, both of them staring at the space where Mr. Cecchino’s beat-up brown pick-up should have been. Anxiety knotted in Stephenson’s gut. Amanda, Dal, and Lena should have been back hours ago.

  “Something happened,” Stephenson whispered. His mind spun with all the horrible scenarios that could have befallen Amanda and the others. Zombies, Russians, rabid dogs, flat tire—

  Nonna’s mouth tightened. Without a word, she marched toward the cabin.

  “Nonna?” Stephenson hurried after her. “Where do you think they are?”

  She kept walking, her steps light on the wooden stairs leading up to the porch.

  “Nonna? Nonna, where—”

  She stopped in the doorway. Stephenson almost crashed into her. Nonna turned around to face him, whiskey canteen in one hand.

  “I don’t know where they are, Stephenson.” Her lips were in a hard line. “Something happened or they would have been home by now.” She poked him in the chest with an index finger. “We do not cry over possibility in this house. We are going to go inside and make dinner. No tears. Understand?”

  Stephenson, pinned by her dark eyes, nodded.

  “Good.” She opened the canteen and took a long drink. “Put a little fire in your belly, boy.” She shoved the canteen into his hands before spinning on her heel and disappearing into the house.

  31

  The Boy with the Painted Face

  She dreamed of Nazis chasing her through Mr. Spada’s orchard. Just as the Nazis cornered her at the back of Mr. Spada’s barn, fourteen-year-old Valentina bolted upright in her bed.

  “Luca?” she whispered.

  Silence greeted her. “Luca?” She squinted as her eyes adjusted, searching for her brother. A lumpy wad of yellow-flowered quilt was the only thing that greeted her.

  Her heart still pounded with fear in her chest. Where was Luca?

  Valentina wrapped her blanket around her shoulders, licking dry lips as fear shivered through her. She ran her fingers over the canvas backpack she kept under her bed.

  The entire family had a backpack, each one filled with supplies in case they needed to make a run for it. Partisan sentiment was strong among the villagers; everyone knew Mussolini and his Nazi friends could sweep through here with soldiers at any time.

  Her backpack had one change of clothes, a canteen of water, a small package of nuts, dried meat, and cheese. She always kept her shoes right next to the backpack, just in case she needed to flee in the middle of the night.

  Where was Luca?

  She crept out of the bedroom she shared with her big brother, holding the blanket around her shoulders like a cape. The yellow-flowered quilt was an exact match to the one on Luca’s bed. Their grandmother had made the blankets for them.

  The house was silent. The door to her parent’s bedroom was closed. The gap between the door and the floor was dark, telling Valentina they were indeed asleep.

  She heard a soft sound in the living room. Poking her head around the corner, she spotted the dark hair of her brother. A single oil lamp burned on the end table next to the sofa.

  Luca knelt on the floor in front of the lamp. He was hunched over, his back to Valentina.

  The sight of him filled her with relief. He was probably up reading. He did that sometimes when he couldn’t sleep. Their father prided himself in the family’s collection of books, which sat in a proud row on top of the fireplace hearth.

  She padded over the cold wooden floor, beelining in his direction. Maybe he would read to her. She loved it when he did that, even though he was just as apt to tell her to go back to bed. “Luca, will you—”

  He jumped in surprise at her approach, spinning around.

  Valentina froze. Even though the light in the room was dim, her eyes were well-adjusted. Not even the gloom could hide her brother’s face.

  His lips were painted a bright red. Pink rogue colored his cheeks. Dark kohl lined his eyes. Resting in his fingertips were their mother’s brushes and rouge pots.

  Shock reverberated between brother and sister. Valentina’s mouth hung open, words clogging up her throat. The horrified look on Luca’s face said more than words ever could.

  The clock on the wall ticked loudly. It filled the silence between Valentina and Luca like bolts of thunder.

  He moved first. Fists closing around the brushes and tiny rouge jars, he turned his back on her.

  “Go back to bed, Valé. You shouldn’t be up at this hour.”

  “I—I had a bad dream,” she sputtered.

  “Isn’t Mama always telling you not to be afraid? You can’t jump at every little sound like a scaredy mouse. The adults will tell us if we need to be afraid.”

  “I—I thought maybe you would read to me—”

  “Does it look like I’m reading, Valé?”

  He most definitely wasn’t reading. Her mind struggled to reconcile what she had seen him doing. It was a new world view she could hardly comprehend.

  “Go back to bed.”

  “But what are you doing—”

  “I said, go back to bed!”

  At the severity in his voice, she bolted back into their bedroom and buried herself underneath the covers.

  She couldn’t sleep. Luca’s voice echoed like gunfire in her mind.

  Does it look like I’m reading, Valé? I said, go back to bed!

  She stared into the dark, seeing Luca’s face. The painted red lips. The eyes lined with kohl. The bright pink cheeks.

  None of it matched the boy who had once used her as a human shield against snowballs.

  She heard the sound of water in the splashing in the kitchen. A few minutes later, Luca came back into their bedroom.

  She sat up. “Luca—”

  “You didn’t see anything, Valé. Understand? You didn’t see anything.”

  Eyes wide, she shook her head. It wasn’t the severity of his tone that scared her. It was the fear she saw in his eyes. Even in the muffled darkness of their bedroom, she saw the naked terror in them.

  “I didn’t see anything,” she whispered.

  His shoulders sagged with relief. Up until that moment, she hadn’t detected the tension. He sat next to her on the bed and took her hand.

  “I’m sorry I frightened you.”

  “It’s okay.” She snuggled up next to him, desperate for reassurance.

  He put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. She pressed her face into his side.

  “I had a nightmare. I dreamed the Nazis were chasing me.”

  He stroked her back. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  What really scared her even more than the nightmare was the memory of the boy with the painted face. It had been like looking at a stranger. It wasn’t the Luca she knew. Valentina gripped his shirt and hung on for dear life.

  “Valé.” Luca placed a hand under her chin and forced her to look up.

  His face had been scrubbed clean. The boy she knew and adored looked back at her.

  But did she really know him? She searched his eyes. His eye lashes were still wet. Beyond those long, dark lashes, she saw the scared boy she’d seen in the living room. The boy with the painted face.

  “Valé, you
won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  The question sat between them like a monster. It terrified her.

  Valentina shook her head. “I won’t tell, Luca.”

  Bother and sister clung to each other in the cold darkness.

  “I’m not like other boys in the village, Valé.”

  She didn’t ask him to elaborate. There was no need. She was pretty sure other boys in the village didn’t get into their mother’s rouge and paint their faces in the middle of the night. Boys didn’t paint their faces.

  Even though he spoke no words, she could feel the turmoil roiling off his body. She squeezed him, searching for something comforting to say.

  “I don’t care if you’re like the other boys. I love you no matter what, Luca.”

  A loud exhale rattled through his body. “I’ve always known I was different,” he whispered. “I—I think God put me into the wrong body when I was born. I think I was supposed to be born a girl.”

  Her mouth went dry. Her brain struggled to digest this.

  God didn’t make mistakes. Everyone knew that. How could Luca have been born in the wrong body? What did he mean when he said he was supposed to have been born a girl?

  “I’ve never felt like myself,” he said. “I don’t feel right in a man’s body. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  She had no idea what he was trying to say, but she responded to the desperation in his voice. “Yes, Luca.”

  “I knew you’d understand.” His hug crushed the breath out of her. “I knew my Valé would understand. You don’t know what it’s like to be like me. It’s so lonely. I’m lonely, Valé.”

  She responded to the naked pain in his voice. “You’re not alone, Luca. You have me. You always have me.”

  “I know.” He kissed her head. “God may have messed up when he put me in this body, but he didn’t mess up when he made you my sister.”

  “I don’t think God can make mistakes.” This truth had been drilled into her.

  Luca’s laugh was hollow. “If I’m not a mistake, then God truly is a bastard. I could forgive a mistake. I can’t forgive a cruel joke.”

  He thought his life was a cruel joke? Valentina searched frantically for a response, but she was so confused. Why did Luca think he’d been born into the wrong body? How could God make a mistake?