Zommunist Invasion | Book 3 | Scattered

by Picott, Camille

  Valentina knelt on the ground and swept the snow away with her fingertips. She didn’t want to let her brother’s murder disappear under the snow. It wasn’t right.

  Her eyes traced the frozen edges of the blood puddle. They traveled to the indentions that had been fresh footprints when she’d first found Luca. Those, too, were obscured by recent snowfall. But there were still spots of Luca’s blood showing through. The bloody rake now lay facedown in the ground, the bloody tines hidden in the snow.

  Someone had turned it over.

  The rake had killed Luca. Before tonight, it had been a benign object. Her family used it to rake the fall leaves and to till the garden bed soil in the spring. It was a tool, nothing else.

  But tonight, it had transformed into something else. She felt like she was seeing it for the first time. How could she ever have mistaken it for a simple household tool?

  The first rays of dawn turned the sky a dark gray, making it easier for her to see. Valentina felt her insides freeze.

  More than anything, she wanted to see three sets of footprints: Luca’s, Marcello’s, and the fascist’s. She had prayed she had been mistaken, that she had been in too much shock to properly register the truth.

  But she hadn’t made a mistake. The truth was plain before her.

  There were only two sets of footprints. They were exactly where she remembered them. One set bloody, one set plain.

  If she hadn’t recalled them so clearly in her mind, it would be easy to imagine away what she was seeing. But the truth sat in front of her like a dagger through the heart.

  And there had been the blood on Marcello’s hands. The blood on Luca’s face when he’d been struck.

  Still kneeling on the ground beside Luca’s frozen blood, Valentina hung her head. She wanted to disappear and cease to exist. Fresh tears gushed out of her eyes. She was helpless to hold them back.

  It wasn’t every day you lost a beloved brother and a beloved cousin.

  Footsteps crunched in the snow behind her. “Valé? What are you doing out here?”

  Nonna was out of breath by the time she and Stephenson made it back to the cabin. A long ache had settled into her back, making her clench her teeth against the discomfort. She was feeling her age.

  Nonna Cecchino was not going to let a little back pain get her killed by mutant zombies. To hell with that. She fully intended to survive the mess she had gotten them into.

  She wasn’t surprised by the empty dirt clearing that greeted them when they got back to the cabin. Dal, Lena, and Amanda had not yet returned.

  Now was not the time to dwell on what that meant. Not now. She could grieve later. But not until she and Stephenson took care of the mutants on their way to the cabin.

  The first thing she did was fetch the old mare Lena and Dal had brought from Rossi. The animal would be zombie food if they left her out. She stashed the animal in the storage room with all the supplies and locked the door.

  “Think she’ll be safe in there?” Stephenson asked. “What if they break down the door.”

  “It’s the best we can do. Come on, we need the high ground.” Nonna marched up the porch steps, her shoes ringing on the wood stairs.

  Stephenson hustled after her. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m old. You’re skinny. Neither of us stands a chance if the mutants catch us on the ground.”

  “Are we going to make our stand on the porch?” Stephenson asked.

  “Nope. Higher.”

  “The trees?”

  “The roof.” She glanced over her shoulder in time to see Stephenson’s nod of understanding. “Grab a backpack. Load it with weapons. I’ll get food and supplies. You have five minutes.”

  “Five minutes. Okay.” Stephenson dashed away.

  Nonna saw determination in every line of his body and nodded to herself in satisfaction. He was transforming before her very eyes. His fear of the world was falling away as he released fear of himself. The sight of those pink shoes on his feet made her heart sing.

  She grabbed a spare backpack that hung on a peg by the door, distantly noting that it belonged to her son. Her mind skittered around the thought, not daring to get close enough to touch it. She missed her sweet Giuseppe every day. It was easier not to think of him, especially in times like this.

  She filled two canteens with water. On reflection, she grabbed a bottle of grappa and tossed it into the backpack. Then she changed her mind and switched out the grappa for the bottle of whiskey she kept hidden under the sink. Today definitely called for a few shots of whiskey.

  There was no telling how long it would take the mutants to find them, but she had no doubt they would come. She and Stephenson had called them as surely as a red cape called a bull. Especially with all that screaming from Stephenson.

  She bustled around the kitchen, gathering up silverware and food. A leftover carton of chili went into the backpack, along with a half-eaten loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and some venison jerky.

  With the bag packed, she ducked into the girls’ bunk room to grab extra clothes. It got cold outside at night. There was no telling how long she and Stephenson would have to wait for the mutants to find them.

  When she came back out, she didn’t see Stephenson. On the floor by the front door was a backpack crammed full of magazines and their homemade bombs. He’d retrieved two additional machine guns from their supply in the basement. Good boy. He was using his head.

  Where was he? She was about to head into the boys’ bunk room in search of him. Just as she did, Stephenson stepped out of the hallway.

  He had completely transformed. He had stripped off his dirty boy clothes. In its place was the woman’s clothing she’d left for him.

  He looked like he’d been born in that pink tank and the black mesh top. The tapered jeans were a perfect fit on his lean frame. He looked better than he ever had in his boy clothes.

  Seeing her, Stephenson let out an unconscious laugh and ran his hands down the woman’s clothing. Only a fool would have missed the reverence in his fingertips.

  “If I’m going to die, I’m going to die as myself.” His eyes were wild, yet there was a determination in the set of his jaw she’d never seen before. “I’m tired of being so fucking scared every day. I don’t want to be scared anymore.”

  The words made Nonna’s heart sing. But it didn’t stop her from delivering a whack to the side of his head. “Language.”

  They looked at each other. A beat passed before they both laughed. Nonna affectionally tousled Stephenson’s hair.

  Everything that had led her to this moment—to being with Stephenson in the middle of the Russian invasion and zombie apocalypse—was worth it. Every. Single. Thing. She’d do it all again just to see that light in his eyes. It was like looking up at her big brother after living a lifetime with the vacuum of his absence. Stephenson would never know how much she wanted to hug him right then.

  She hoped Luca looked down on her from heaven with a smile.

  38

  Waiting

  The surge of recklessness Stephenson had experienced back in the cabin faded. He sat on the roof of the Cecchino cabin with Nonna as the sun set behind the tree-covered hills, fiddling with the hem of the pink tank. What the hell had he been thinking?

  The adrenaline rush of helping those cyclists had made it hard to think straight. He’d felt on top of the world and simultaneously scared out of his mind. Putting on the clothes had felt like putting on armor to go to war, like drawing his Sword of Protection and transforming into a warrior princess who rode a flying unicorn.

  Only now it was getting cold. And fighting mutant zombies dressed like a girl was seeming weirder by the second. He tugged at the mesh top, wondering if he should risk sneaking back down into the cabin to change into sensible boy clothing.

  “I brought you a jacket.” Nonna pulled one from a pile of blankets wadded on top of the roof.

  Stephenson took the heavy canvas jacket from her. “Maybe I should go back down
stairs and change my clothes?”

  Nonna’s answering frown was fierce. “Why would you do that?”

  “It’s not right.” He tugged at the spaghetti strap, twirling it between his fingers. “I’m not right.”

  Nonna’s frown deepened. “Says who?”

  “Um, everyone.”

  “Well, everyone out there is a bunch of idiots.”

  “Not really.” Stephenson sighed. “Thank you for being so nice to me. It means more than you’ll ever know . . . but I’m not normal, Nonna. I wasn’t born right.”

  “You are exactly as God made you.”

  Her words stirred emotions he had spent a lifetime suppressing. “Was your brother really killed by one of Mussolini’s fascists?” He met her gaze, refusing to look away.

  Nonna stared back. She didn’t verbally answer him, but the look in her eyes was terrible.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”

  Her bony shoulders sagged. “The war was hard on everyone.”

  Stephenson shrugged into the big hunting jacket. He pulled his knees up to his chest, watching the first stars come out. “How long are we going to stay up here?”

  “Until the mutants come and we kill them.”

  “Yeah but, how long are we going to wait?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  Jeez. This had seemed like a decent plan as hour ago. Now that he was faced with the coming of the night and sleeping on a roof, Stephenson wasn’t so sure. What if he rolled off in the middle night? Heck, what if Nonna didn’t intend to let him sleep?

  He wasn’t brave enough to voice any of these questions. If Nonna said they had to stay up on the roof for five days, he would do it.

  He decided not to ask how to go to the bathroom until he couldn’t hold it any longer. In Stephenson’s mind, peeing in front of Nonna Cecchino seemed akin to flag burning. Going number two wasn’t even in the realm of possibility. He would hold it for a week if he had to.

  “Are you hungry?” Nonna asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I brought some chili.” She fished around in her backpack, pulling out a carton and some spoons. “Here you go.”

  He took the spoon she held out to him. She popped off the lid and scooped out a mouthful. It wasn’t until she was on her third scoop that he realized she expected him to eat out of the same carton with her.

  “Sort of feels like we’re Lady and the Tramp.” He shoved a spoonful into his mouth.“Only with chili instead of spaghetti. And I suppose we’re both ladies.”

  “And there are zombies and communist bastards.” There was a twinkle in her otherwise serious expression. “It’s been a long time since anyone has called me lady.”

  Stephenson snorted. “Well, no one’s ever called me that.” Gosh, he loved Nonna’s chili. “If we die tonight, at least I’ll have a belly full of your food. I swear you’re the best cook I know.”

  Nonna snorted. “We’re not going to die.”

  “We might.”

  She poked him in the shoulder. “My country would have been strangled by Nazis and Mussolini’s fascists if we’d had that attitude.”

  It struck Stephenson that Nonna had experienced a lot in her lifetime. So much war and death.

  “What’s worse?” he asked. “Soviets, Zombies, or Nazis?”

  “Nazis spent years killing Jews and terrorizing Europe.” Nonna pursed her lips. “The zombies and Soviets haven’t even been at it for two weeks yet.”

  He supposed that had been a dumb question. It was hard to believe it had been less than two weeks since the invasion. It felt like years.

  They ate in silence, watching the stars brighten as the night deepened. When the carton was nearly empty, Nonna pushed it in his direction.

  “You finish it. A growing boy needs energy.”

  He didn’t argue. Using his fingers, he licked the bowl clean, not caring that he looked like a pig. Despite what Nonna said, he knew there was a chance they might die tonight. He wasn’t going to waste an ounce of Nonna’s chili.

  When he was done, he licked his fingers clean and returned the carton lid to the container. He noticed the orange lid belonged to the same Tupperware set his mother used. “My mom once told me that if I’d been born a girl, my name would have been Julie.”

  “That’s a nice name.”

  “Julie Stephenson.” He tasted the five syllables on his tongue. “I always secretly thought that should have been my real name. Only it would be Julie without an ‘e’. J-U-L-I.” He spelled it out for emphasis.

  “That’s what we’ll call you. Juli without an ‘e’.” Nonna held out her hand. “My name is Valentina Julietta Trione Cecchino. It’s nice to meet you, Juli.”

  Being addressed as Juli sent a shockwave through Stephenson’s body. It felt like coming home after a lifetime of not even knowing he was lost. He blinked back tears, not wanting to fall apart on the cabin roof while they waited for mutant zombies to find them.

  Solemnly, he took Nonna’s hand and shook it. “It’s nice to meet you, Valentina Julietta Trione Cecchino.” He swallowed. “Nonna, you said before that you think God made me this way on purpose.”

  “He did.” Her expression was fierce. “God doesn’t make mistakes.”

  “But, why?” He suppressed the urge to cry. “Why would God put a girl in a boy’s body? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Silence stretched. He hunched his shoulders, feeling stupid. He sounded whiny. Nonna’s brother was dead, presumably for being like Stephenson, though Nonna hadn’t said that outright. It was her silence on the subject that made him suspect he’d been killed for being different.

  “Do you want to know what I really think?” she asked.

  “Yes. Tell me, please.” He scrunched his eyes shut, bracing himself for what she might say.

  She shocked him by laying a gentle hand on his cheek. With a soft pressure of her fingers, she forced him to look at her. “I think God sent you here to show the rest of us what it truly means to be brave. If you choose to accept His assignment.”

  Her eyes took in all of him, from head to toe: from his thick glasses, to his black mesh top, to his tapered Jordache jeans, to his pink Converse. She saw it all, and she smiled at him.

  And even though Stephenson was resolved not to fall apart, he burst into tears.

  Nonna, the first person to have ever seen him for the person he was, put an arm around his shoulders and let him cry.

  39

  Attack

  “Valé, what are you doing out here?”

  Marcello came around the side of the shed. He smelled of man sweat, melted snow, and earth. His handsome face was smudged with dirt.

  Uneasiness made her want to bolt like a rabbit. Valentina forced herself to hold her ground. Marcello was nearly twice her size and definitely twice as strong. He could squash her like a bug and blame it on Mussolini’s fascists. No one would know any better.

  “Valé?”

  She stared at him, refusing to be the first to speak. If he tried to grab her, she would scream so loud God and Jesus and all the holy angels in heaven would hear her.

  Silence stretched. Marcello swallowed. A hint of uneasiness crept into his eyes. His mouth hardened as he stared at her.

  “You knew.” The accusation in his voice was like a slap in the face. “You knew what your brother was.”

  What your brother was. Her hackles went up. She glared at him, feeling less afraid with every passing second.

  “I saw it in your face,” Marcello said. “You weren’t surprised when you saw his face painted like a whore’s.”

  She squeezed her hands into fists. “You take that back,” she hissed.

  His eyes narrowed. “Why should I? It’s true.”

  “You take that back, Marcello Trione.”

  “No.” He took a menacing step in her direction.

  Fear beat in her chest. She dug her heels into the earth and refused to budge. “Murderer,” she whispered.


  “I just wanted him to clean his face but he kept telling me to get away. I pushed him and he—he fell on the rake. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “You said one of Mussolini’s fascists killed him.”

  He took another step in her direction. “I saved Luca from the Nazis. Do you have any idea what the Germans do to people like him? I saved him from a fate worse than death. They would have discovered his secret as soon as he stepped on the battlefield.”

  She could hardly believe what she was hearing. “You didn’t save Luca. You killed him!”

  “No, you killed him.”

  Marcello’s words went straight to her heart. Without meaning to, she took a step back. Her elder cousin advanced on her.

  “You kept his secret. You should have told someone. We could have gotten him help.”

  “Help?” She was incredulous. “What sort of help?”

  “Father Esposito would have known what to do. This is all your fault, Valé. It wouldn’t have come to this if you hadn’t kept his secret. What was I supposed to think when I saw him like that? It broke my heart, Valé. All I wanted to do was help him, but Luca—Luca didn’t want my help. You should have helped him. It was your duty as his sister. We could have fixed him if only you’d said something.”

  Valentina’s world tilted dangerously. It was suddenly very hard to breathe. She bent over her knees, sucking in great lungfuls of cold air.

  Was Marcello right? Was Luca’s blood on her hands? Had she really killed him by keeping his secret?

  “He—he said war would make him into a man. He was supposed to go to war.”

  Marcello crouched down in front of her so they were eye level. She wasn’t sure if she was more terrified of her cousin or of the role she’d played in Luca’s death.

  “I’ll keep your secret, Valé, so long as you don’t force my hand. Luca will be remembered as a hero. A village boy killed by one of Mussolini’s fascists. That’s a better fate than he could have hoped for. He was sick, Valé. A sick man. He would have brought shame to himself and the family. I saved our family from the shame that would have been brought to our name.”