Scattered (Zommunist Invasion Book 3)

by Camille Picott

  Her grip was crushing his windpipe. Anton tried to pry her hands away, but her fingers were too strong. Panic overtook him. He forgot all about the hunting knife strapped to his belt and instead shoved his index finger straight into her eye socket.

  If he hadn’t been on the verge of choking to death, he would have cringed at the slick feeling of the eyeball popping beneath his finger. As it was, he could barely breathe. He was too desperate to do anything more than distantly register the sensation.

  The mutant shrieked. She released his throat and tossed him aside. Air flooded back into his lungs as he smacked painfully into the ground.

  All he wanted to do was lie there and savor the feel of oxygen pouring into his throat. But the mutant was still alive. Even worse, she was alive and pissed.

  Anton just managed to roll to the side when she lunged for him again. Her face was a mess, blackish blood oozing from the ruined socket. His gun was too far away. Tate was still locked in a shootout with the Russians. If Anton was going to survive the next ten seconds, he’d have to pull a rabbit out of the hat.

  His mind flashed briefly to his brother. Leo had been a genius at pulling rabbits out of the hat on the football field. Even as a young kid, Anton had been aware of how all the other kids—even the older ones—looked to Leo for leadership. Everything always came so goddamn easy to his big brother. He’d had the hottest girl in school and a football scholarship to one of the best college teams in the country. He even had decent grades.

  Anton didn’t have the same magic as Leo. He could never throw as far. He could never lead the way Leo did. And he had girls, but it wasn’t the same as having a girlfriend. He never had the knack for turning around a game like Leo could.

  But he wasn’t incompetent, either. Hell, if not for always standing in Leo’s shadow, Anton would have looked pretty damn good.

  Damn good was all he had to work with. It would have to be enough if he didn’t want his brains to end up in the stomach the fucking mutant.

  His world narrowed to a root-ridden strip of earth covered with pungent eucalyptus leaves that separated him from the monster. It was just him and the crazed mutant zombie who was hell-bent on eating his brains.

  This time, he remembered his knife. He snatched it free of his sheath just as she grappled him. She locked both hands around his head, attempting to force him to the ground where she could crack open his head. She screamed into his face, rotted breath scorching his nostrils.

  Anton screamed right back. He brought up the knife and slammed it straight into her temples. The mutant didn’t release him. Her hands tightened reflexively on his skull even as her remaining eyeball rolled back in her head. With a defiant hiss, her knees buckled as she died.

  Anton shoved hard with both hands. The mutant’s hands tore free, scraping out a few chunks of his scalp. Anton kicked her away. He paused only long enough to retrieve his knife, looking up to assess the situation.

  Just as he did, a new mutant attacked Tate. The monster bolted out from between the bumpers of two cars, sprinting straight toward his friend. The mutant’s neck and shoulders were enlarged. He would have looked like a caricature of a professional wrestler if he wasn’t so damn scary.

  “Tate, look out!” Anton raced for his fallen machine gun.

  He wasn’t fast enough. The mutant tackled Tate to the ground and pinned him.

  Anton snatched up his machine gun just as the mutant raised a large rock in his hand.

  Anton flashed back to the moment in Hillsberg when Jim, Tate’s older brother, had been killed by a mutant. No fucking way was he going to lose another Craig brother to a mutant. Not on his watch.

  The rock came down. Tate managed to jerk his head to the side and avoid the worst of the blow. The rock came up a second time.

  Anton fired, bullets hitting the hand that held the rock. The mutant screamed in pain. The distraction was enough for Tate to dislodge him. He shoved the mutant aside, snatched the .22 he wore on his belt, and pointed it at the monster.

  Bullets flew from the .22. The mutant’s head went red. Tate emptied his magazine, roaring in wordless rage.

  The gun clicked empty.

  Silence fell, punctuated only by the whine of insects. No more shots came from the Russians.

  From the other side of the U-Haul came soft slurping sounds. The sound might have made Anton queasy if not for the fact that Russians were being eaten by their own monster.

  Anton knelt on the ground to peer beneath the vehicles. “Only one mutant left,” Anton reports. “The Russians are all dead. We should split up. You go around the back. I’ll go around the front.”

  Tate wordlessly grabbed his machine gun and took off. Anton headed in the opposite direction.

  They attacked simultaneously, opening fire as they each came around the side of the U-Haul. The mutant was so busy eating Soviet brains, he was caught unaware. Anton and Tate took him out with head shots.

  With the enemy down, Anton took a moment to gather himself. His gaze traveled across the field to the carcass of Thunder. The sight of the dead horse hurt. The fucking Russian invaders reaped destruction with every second they remained here on American soil.

  Stealth was still alive. Anton spotted the horse standing in a prune orchard a quarter of a mile away from the fruit stand. They hadn’t lost everything in this battle with the Russians. Mostly everything, but not everything.

  “These assholes got their heads cracked open. Their uniforms are in pretty good shape.” Tate toed one of the dead Soviets at the back of the U-Haul. “You’re a good friend. You should go back to the cabin.”

  Anton shook his head. “You need someone to watch your back.”

  “I’m probably going to die in Rossi,” Tate said flatly. “They’re probably taking Mom and Dad to be interrogated by the KGB. My best guess is that they’ll be held at the Rossi police station in one of the jail cells. The place will be crawling with Soviets.” Tate’s hands bunched into fists. “I’d rather die trying to rescue them than live another eighty years knowing I did nothing to help them. I have to do this. Even if it means I don’t come back.”

  Anton searched for the right words. God, what he wouldn’t give to have Leo’s natural charisma.

  “They’re going to want the Snipers’ location,” Anton said at last. That was the hardest truth to swallow: Mr. and Mrs. Craig would be used against them. “The best way for me to protect my family is to help get your parents out of the hands of the KGB.”

  “You could die.”

  At best, it will be a suicide mission.

  At worst, you’ll get yourself captured.

  He tuned out the memory of Leo’s words. “I could turn around now and get eaten by a mutant on the way home. We’re safer and stronger together.”

  “Thanks, man. I owe you for life.” Tate heaved one of the dead mutants aside. “Come on. Let’s get changed.”

  3

  Into Rossi

  After a short debate, Anton and Tate decided to leave Stealth behind and take a car. The horse was already tired from the hard ride from Pole Mountain. Asking him to carry two full-grown men all the way to Rossi would have been a tall order for a fresh horse.

  Anton hoped the animal survived. He felt bad ditching him, but in truth it may have been the kinder thing to do. They were going into the hornet’s nest, after all.

  Once they had changed into their Soviet disguises. They picked a plain white pick-up to take them to Rossi. The plan was simple: they’d stick to country roads and—hopefully—avoid all patrols. They’d ditch the truck when they were a few miles out of town and go the rest of the way on foot. Once they reached the city limits, they’d make their way to the town jail and hope to God they could find the Craigs.

  As he and Tate pulled a rotting corpse out of the pick-up, uneasiness turned in his gut. Anton heard his bother’s voice again.

  At best, it will be a suicide mission.

  At worst, you’ll get yourself captured.

  It was
all well and good to say they were going to rescue the Craigs from the Russians, but what, exactly, would that entail? Did the two of them really stand a chance?

  He shoved aside the worry, determined to stick by Tate to the end. That’s what friends did. That’s how he had been raised. He would’t turn his back on a friend like Leo had.

  Anton drove. Tate sat in the passenger seat with the window down, the barrel of his machine gun resting on the edge as he kept a constant surveillance of their surroundings.

  They passed a few mutants on their way to Rossi. Most of them were far away and didn’t present an issue. Any time one came onto the road and charged the truck, Tate gunned him down.

  A few miles from Rossi, Anton reluctantly pulled the truck over on the side of the road. “I’d feel better if our escape vehicle were closer to the city limits.”

  “We can steal another car from town after we have my parents.”

  “I wish we had some of Nonna’s bombs.” Anton and Tate had been forced to sneak away from the cabin; there hadn’t been an opportunity to snatch bombs.

  Tate set his jaw. “Bombs would just draw attention.”

  “Way to see the glass half full, dude.”

  Tate said nothing. He jumped out of the truck, slung his machine gun over one shoulder, and marched down the road in the direction of town. Anton joined him.

  It took them an hour to reach the Rossi city limits. By that time, the sun was setting.

  “Perfect timing,” Tate grunted. “We can sneak into the city when it’s dark.”

  “Are you hungry? I’m starving.” That was another thing they hadn’t brought with them when they fled the cabin: food. “Let’s find a house. We can’t break your parents out of a KGB prison cell on an empty stomach.”

  He’d meant it as a joke—sort of—but from the look on Tate’s face, he hadn’t found the comment funny. Anton checked a sigh. He could be a dick sometimes, even when he didn’t mean to.

  “Come on, I see a house over there.” Tate pointed past an apple orchard to where several houses clustered in a line on the edge of the road.

  They approached the first of the dwellings and went around back. A few knocks on a rear window were met with silence. They decided to chance it and broke inside.

  Anton almost gagged as they stepped into the home. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to the smell of dead zombie.

  If the smell bothered Tate, he didn’t let it show. He swept through the house with his machine gun, checking all the rooms and closets to make sure they were alone.

  Anton went into the kitchen in search of food. He caught a glimpse of himself in a long mirror that hung on the wall near the dining room table.

  Pausing before it, his eyes roved up an down the Soviet uniform he now wore. The Soviet star, sickle, and hammer were bright red on the breast of the fatigues. Dried blood flecked the collar parts of the shirt, nearly invisible if you didn’t know where to look. Overall, the uniform was a good fit. He might be able to pass as a Russian asshole. At least, until he opened his mouth and English came out.

  The wrongness of it all stole through him. He wanted to tear it off his body and burn it.

  This is for the Craigs, he reminded himself.

  “Family of five,” Tate reported, coming into the kitchen. “All dead. Nezhit virus killed them.”

  “Fucking Russians.” Anton tore himself away from the mirror and turned his mind to more important matters: food. Pulling a few cans of refried beans out of a cupboard, he tossed them onto the counter with a can opener.

  He left Tate to dig in while he searched the rest of the cabinets. He paused as he opened the cupboard over the refrigerator and found three bottles of liquor bottles staring back at him. Anton studied to row of golden and clear liquid, his mind working.

  “Forget it, man,” Tate said. “No way are we taking any shots before going into Rossi.”

  “That’s not what I was thinking.” Anton plucked out a bottle of bourbon. He was tall enough that he could reach the cupboard without a stool.

  “What does this look like to you?” He set the bottle onto the counter in front of Tate, who shoved refried beans into his mouth.

  “Like a bottle of Jim Beam.”

  “Right. But what else?” Anton’s excitement rose as his idea solidified.

  “I don’t know.” Tate’s voice was edged with impatience.

  “It looks like a bomb in the making.” Anton couldn’t help grinning with pride as he swept his hand in the direction of the liquor cabinet. “We have three large bombs in the making.”

  “Dude.” Tate stood up so fast he knocked over the stool he’d been sitting on. “Good idea.”

  “I know, right?” Anton returned to the cabinet, pulling out the rest of the bottles. “How about that for improvisation?”

  “Better than a quarter back sneak. I was full of shit when I said our mission was better off without bombs.”

  “I know, man.” Anton considered the bottles. “They’ll be heavy to carry.” He hadn’t thought about that when he first cooked up this scheme.

  “They’re worth their weight.” Tate dug through drawers, pulling out a fistful of towels when he found them. “We’ll wrap them in the towels, then use the towels for the fuses when we get into Rossi.”

  They found some backpacks—yet another thing they’d ridden off without—and a lighter. After filling their stomachs, they wrapped the liquor bottles in the towels and shoved them into the backpacks.

  Anton felt the heaviness of foreboding as he settled the backpack across his shoulders. He ignored the feeling, reminding himself that his friends needed him.

  4

  Bodies

  Anton had been experiencing the Russian occupation and the zombie apocalypse for almost two weeks now. Despite this, nothing prepared him for the sight of Rossi.

  It was the pile of bodies mounded in the middle of a dirt lot that said it all. It looked like the dead had been rounded up with a bulldozer.

  Anton was glad it was dark. Even so, the moon was big enough that he could see various body parts. Black veins of infection showed on many of the bodies, indicating death-by-nezhit-virus, but there were plenty that had been straight-out murdered.

  The abandoned dirt lot had been home to a pumpkin patch in the autumn and a Christmas tree lot in the winter. The overlay of his memories against the slaughter was like a punch in the gut.

  He’d seen the slaughter in Bastopol. Hell, if not for Leo, he’d have been infected or gunned down like most of his varsity football friends. Conceptually, he’d known what things must have been like in Rossi, where there were ten times more people.

  But seeing that pile of dead bodies changed something inside of him. He knew he’d carry it with him for the rest of his life.

  That pile was the reason they were fighting so hard against the Russians. It was the reason Leo was leading the mission to Luma Bridge.

  For the first time since running away from Pole Mountain with Tate, Anton felt like a stupid, impulsive teenager. He’d been so caught up in his friend’s pain—in his own grief over being an orphan—he hadn’t been able to see the long game.

  Leo had seen the long game. Leo always saw the long game.

  What the hell are we doing here? Anton thought. We should be with Leo. We should be fighting to stop this war and save our country.

  His mouth was dry. Shame welled up in his throat. He shoved it down. There was no going back in time. He and Tate had made their play. All they could do was run it out.

  “Remember, man,” Tate said. “Our mission is to get Mom and Dad. That’s it. We break them out and get the hell out of Rossi.”

  “What’s our play?” Anton asked. “To get to the jail, I mean.”

  “I delivered pizzas in Rossi when I went to the junior college,” Tate said. “I know every back alley and shortcut in town. Come on.”

  They hustled across the dirt lot, skirting the bodies. The smell was almost enough to make Anton lose his dinner
.

  Past the former Christmas tree lot were several blocks of run-down, two-story apartments with peeling brown paint. Tate led them through the maze of buildings. The parking lots scattered throughout the complex were eerily clear of bodies, though Anton saw plenty of blood stains and more than a few stray body parts that had been missed by the clean-up crew.

  There was an arm that had rolled beneath the back bumper of a car. A little further on, Anton spotted a half-eaten leg sticking out from a bush.

  Lena and Dal had told the story of their narrow escape from Rossi. Seeing the remains of the carnage drove home the fact they’d been damn lucky to get out of here alive.

  He hoped he, Tate, and the Craigs would be able to say the same thing. He wished he could shake the doubt gnawing at him from the inside.

  Go home, a small voice whispered. Get the hell out of here.

  Anton ignored it.

  They reached the far end of the apartment complex and popped out onto a main boulevard. This, too, had been cleared of carnage. All that remained of the invasion were pools of dried blood on the ground.

  What had it been like at the height of the nezhit virus? It wasn’t a stretch for Anton to imagine infected people running through the streets like rabid animals, hunting anything and everything that moved.

  The abandoned and wrecked cars had been pushed to one side of the street. They looked like they’d been shoved aside with a bulldozer. Long scrapes and dents marred the sides of the cars, evidence of the equipment that had been used to move them.

  “The fuckers are getting Rossi ready for the arrival of the Second Offensive and their families,” Tate said. “They think they’re just gonna waltz in here and take over our home. Leo will make sure he blows them to smithereens when they get to Luma Bridge. Fuckers will never know what hit them. Come on.”

  Tate peered left and right before stepping into the open. Just because they had on Russian uniforms didn’t mean they could risk being seen. The uniforms would keep them out of trouble if they were spotted from a distance, but they’d be made in seconds if they came face to face with a patrol; Lena was the only one of them who could speak Russian.