Zommunist Invasion | Book 1 | Red Virus

by Picott, Camille

  All the fight went out of Lena. She put her headphones back on and resumed listening to her language lesson.

  Dal poked her again.

  “What?” She didn’t look at him or take off the headphones.

  “You actually learning anything from those tapes?” He had yet to hear her speak a word of Russian, and she’d been listening to those things for over two years.

  “Zdrastvooyte, dobrit den’,” she replied.

  He was impressed. “What does that mean?”

  “Hello, good afternoon. Satisfied?”

  He didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he just nodded.

  She looked away, staring out the passenger side window. He gave her space, turning up the music on his radio. Music always made everything better. It’s the main reason he wanted to work in radio.

  As he pulled onto the offramp that led into downtown Rossi, Lena took off her headphones.

  “I wish you didn’t always sound like a Chinese sage every time you open your mouth. It’s really annoying. I wish you’d say stupid shit like the rest of us.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “Where I grew up, saying something stupid got you a fist in the face.”

  She knew that. The entire Cecchino family knew it, though most of the time they were kind enough not to bring it up.

  Guilt flashed across Lena’s face. Her eyes widened as she looked at him. “I’m sorry, Dal. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s okay.” He found it impossible to be mad at her most days. Just as he found it impossible not to notice how pretty her eyes were.

  “No, it’s not. It was a shitty thing to say.” She let out a breath and hugged her knees to her chest. “I just can’t do it, you know? All it does is make me think of her.”

  He knew she’d switched topics and was talking about the dancing. “I know, Lena.” He knew the anti-nuke rallies and the Russian language tapes also made her think about her mom, but for some reason, she’d attached a different sentiment to it. “How long does the rally last?”

  “I don’t know. An hour or two.”

  “After class I have to clean the radio station. I should be finished around eight.”

  “Can you pick me up at the coffee shop on Fourth?”

  “Sure.” Dal pulled up a few blocks west of the downtown plaza. The street was already clogged with people heading to the rally. “Did you bring a sign?”

  “Nah. There’s usually extra ones around I can grab. Or maybe today they’ll let me be on megaphone duty.” A brief grin softened her face. “I love shouting in that thing.”

  He chuckled. “Have fun.”

  She jumped out of the car. Before closing the door, she leaned down to look at him. “I’m sorry for being a jerk.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “See you later?”

  “Yep. Eight o’clock. At the coffee shop on Fourth.”

  “Bye, Dal.”

  “Bye, Lena.”

  Chapter 4

  Charter Bus

  LEO LOVED THE SMELL of the fresh cut grass and the feel of the sun-drenched bleachers against his hands. They were reminders of the best days of his life.

  He paced in the shade of the bleachers, eating dried cinnamon apples out of a Ziploc bag. Nonna always turned the ugliest of the fruit into apple chips. Despite the fact that Leo despised apples, Nonna’s chips were to die for.

  Anton and all his varsity friends were out on the field, running plays under Coach Brown’s supervision. The little bastard didn’t know how good he had it.

  Leo would never, ever admit to sneaking away from the farm early to watch Anton play varsity football. He was secretly proud of his little brother; he was a damn good quarterback, even if he couldn’t throw with the same distance and precision as Leo had.

  Watching his brother took Leo back to a time when he was somebody. Varsity quarterback. Team captain. Homecoming king. Scholarship winner. Future UC Berkley student.

  Jennifer’s boyfriend.

  Life had been so damn good—right up until the moment when it wasn’t anymore. He’d gone from being on top of the world to the bottom on the dog pile in the blink of an eye.

  He sighed, chomping on the last of the apple chips and shoving the empty Ziploc into his pocket. He knew he needed to let go and move on. He knew he couldn’t get on with his life if all he did was dwell in the past. It was just so damn hard.

  Anton’s throw sailed forty yards down the field, a perfect arch that landed squarely in the hands of the receiver. Nice.

  A charter bus pulled up on the far end of the football field. The image of a long greyhound was painted on the side.

  What was a charter bus doing at the high school? Tour companies sometimes brought people up this way for an “authentic California experience” in a local apple orchard. Tourists actually paid money to spend the afternoon in an orchard picking apples. It was a big fat joke as far as Leo was concerned. Maybe he’d figure out a way to capitalize on that idea.

  Except there was no apple orchard around here. The tour bus must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. The country roads around Bastopol could get confusing. Coach Brown would set the driver straight.

  The bus door opened. A guy in military fatigues stepped out. That was weird. There wasn’t a military base anywhere around here.

  Coach Brown crossed the field, heading in the direction of the guy in the fatigues. Leo watched him wave a friendly hand.

  Then something strange happened.

  The guy in fatigues raised a weapon.

  The weapon fired.

  Coach Brown staggered back, clutching his chest. The soldier fired a second time. This time, Leo saw blood spurt out of Coach Brown’s body.

  More men in fatigues swarmed out of the bus and poured across the field. They were armed with multiple weapons—and they fired directly at Anton and the rest of the varsity football team.

  “Anton!” Leo’s shout was lost in the chatter of gunfire.

  That’s when he caught sight of the back side of the fatigue uniforms. A bright red star, sickle, and hammer was emblazoned there.

  Leo stood frozen in shock. Russian soldiers? Here? On American soil?

  Several varsity students fell under the onslaught of gunfire. Their screams jarred Leo into action.

  Anton. His brother. His baby brother.

  Leo saw everything in the blink of an eye. It was a a knack he’d developed while playing football. He could assess a scene in less than a second and make snap decisions. Pressure made him thrive.

  He saw everything clearly, and it terrified him. If he ran across the field to help, the most he could do was get his hands on a gun and defend his little brother. But they’d still be outnumbered and outgunned with no way out.

  What they needed was to get the fuck out of here. It was the only way to survive.

  Turning his back on the field was the hardest thing Leo had ever done. But he knew it was the only way.

  He tore out from under the bleachers, sprinting for his truck. Dammit, he hadn’t wanted Anton to see him so he parked it a block away near the front of the high school.

  Leo’s boots pounded on the pavement. He ran hard, ironically grateful to all his years in the apple orchard. They had left him strong and fit.

  He reached the Chevy truck he’d bought his junior year. The blue paint gleamed from the waxing he’d given it just last week.

  As he reached the door, three soldiers boiled out of the school. Half a dozen students ran before them, scattering in all directions as they screamed in terror.

  Leo got his first good look at the Soviet weapons. Every man was armed with two guns. A machine gun was in one hand, but in the other was some type of dart gun. Red darts rested in a long magazine sticking out from the top of the gun. What the hell was in those darts?

  The Soviets alternated between weapons. Sometimes they fired bullets, sometimes they fired darts. If there was a method to what they did, Leo couldn’t see what it was. Several students fell, shot f
rom behind. The remaining ones ran away, two of them with darts in the backs of their necks.

  Leo jumped into his truck, fingers shaking as he jammed the keys into the ignition. He slammed his foot on the accelerator and tore down the street just as one of the Russians opened fire on him. Bullets thudded into the back of his truck.

  He was going away from the Russians, but that also meant he was going away from the football field. Leo reached the front of the school and made a hard left, heading around the block to get to the field from the other direction.

  Hold on, Anton, he thought. Don’t do anything stupid before I get there.

  He tore around the school, dodging teachers, enemy soldiers, and kids. The streets were chaos. His only thought was to reach Anton.

  As soon as the field was in sight, he floored it. He drove onto the sidewalk, past the swimming pool, and over the concrete walkway around the track. He was nearly to the bleachers when a group of kids came running out of the concession stand.

  “Leo!”

  It was Anton. And he was with Bruce, Lars, and Adam, three of his varsity friends. Leo bellowed with wordless relief. He slammed so hard on the brakes, the truck fishtailed. The smell of burned rubber filled the air.

  Adam was leaning heavily on Anton and Lars. He’d been shot in his upper torso. Blood stained the front of his varsity uniform, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

  Two Soviets appeared on the far side of the bleachers. As soon as they saw Leo’s truck, they shouted and ran towards them. Darts flew in their direction. A few of them plinked off the back of the truck.

  Lars barked as he was hit with a dart. “Fuck, I’m hit guys!”

  “Hurry!” Leo shouted.

  The boys heaved Adam into the back, then piled in after him. Lars scratched at the back of his neck, yanking out the dart that had lodged in his flesh.

  “Go!” Anton pounded on the side of the truck. “Go, Leo!”

  Tires squealed as Leo tore away from the bleachers, heading away from Bastopol High and the Soviet invaders.

  Chapter 5

  Triage

  RUSSIANS WERE HERE. Russians were here. On American soil.

  What the fuck?

  Lena would never let them hear the end of it.

  Leo barreled down a country road, the speedometer bouncing at the 100 mark as he sped home.

  The Soviets could attack at any time, his mom used to say. It will be World War III before we know it.

  “I thought it would be nukes,” cried Bruce, an offensive tight end. “Shit man, this is an invasion!”

  His words carried through the small open window at the back of the truck cab. The boys were in a full-scale panic. To be honest, Leo wasn’t doing much better. He held it together because there was no other choice.

  “I got hit by one of those darts! What the fuck is going to happen to me?” said Lars, one of the team linebackers. His voice was shrill with panic. “What do you think is in those things?” He scratched at the back of his neck where the dart had been. “Why the fuck is this happening, man?”

  “It’s the Russians.” Anton sat with Adam’s head on his leg, pressing his hands against the other boy’s wound.

  “I know it’s the Russians!” Lars screamed.

  Anton banged on the top of the cab. “Drive faster,” he hollered. “We’re going to lose Adam!”

  Leo’s mouth tightened. The speedometer only went to 120.

  Screw it. He’d rather blow up the car than risk losing Adam. He pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor. Apple orchards blurred past on either side of them.

  Nonna would know what to do. She’d survived the Nazis in Italy as a kid. She’d know how to help Adam.

  Dirt and grit sprayed up from the tires as Leo hit the dirt road and sped toward the Cecchino farm. “Hold on!” he shouted. From his periphery, he saw Anton bend over Adam in an effort to keep him from bouncing.

  The back end of the truck skidded sideways as Leo slammed on the breaks in front of the house. Lars jumped out of the back, yelling about Russians. Bruce stared, slack-jawed. He looked like shock was setting in.

  “Bruce,” Anton snapped. “Help me!”

  The other boy shook himself, turning to grab Adam’s feet. Leo helped the two of them wrestle the bleeding boy out of the pickup. Adam was a big kid, an offensive lineman. He had to weigh at least two-hundred and fifty pounds.

  They had just gotten him to the ground when Mr. Cecchino appeared.

  His dad absorbed the scene in a single blink: the hysterical Lars, the bleeding Adam, and the disheveled state of Bruce and his sons.

  Rather than panic, a steely look overcame his features. “What happened?” he barked.

  “Russians,” Leo said. “They’re attacking.”

  Mr. Cecchino’s gaze tracked from Adam and back to his sons. “Have Nonna patch him up. My truck is packed for the cabin. Take it and go. Don’t leave until I get there. Leo, keys.”

  Leo obeyed without thought, tossing his keys to his father.

  Mr. Cecchino caught the keys in mid-air. He spun on his boot, hustling toward Leo’s pickup.

  “Where are you going?” Leo shouted.

  “I’m going to find Dal and your sister.”

  Words died on Leo’s tongue. Dal and Lena were in Rossi.

  His father slammed the truck door and sped down the road. He was gone in seconds, a trail of dirt drifting into the sky the only sign of his passing.

  A thousand thoughts swirled through Leo’s head. How did his father intend to find Lena and Dal?

  If things were bad in Bastopol, they had to be ten times worse in Rossi. It was a real city with over fifty thousand people. It was nothing like the tiny town of Bastopol. What if the Soviets had—?

  Leo shook himself. Focus. He had to focus. His father was gone. Lena and Dal were in Rossi. Adam was bleeding out in their driveway. Adam was the priority.

  “Come on.” He hustled the boys into the house, Adam slung between them.

  Anton kicked the door open, calling, “Nonna! Nonna!”

  Their grandmother appeared in the kitchen doorway. Confusion creased her brow as she took in the bleeding teenage boy. Lars’s hysterical shouts of, “The Russians are here!” echoed through the house.

  Nonna’s face set into a hard mask. “Bullet wound?”

  “Yeah,” Leo said. God, Adam was one heavy guy.

  “Where’s your father?”

  “He left for Rossi. To find Lena and Dal.”

  They lugged Adam into the kitchen. Leo swept an arm across the table, sending newspapers and a basket of napkins scattering to the floor. They laid Adam out on the table.

  “First aid kit,” Nonna snapped. She set to work with a pair of scissors, snipping off Adam’s jersey.

  Leo tore through the house and threw open the cupboards in the utility room. He rifled frantically through the contents, flinging things to the floor in his search.

  Anton joined him, the two of them tearing through the cupboards in search of the first aid kit. Where the hell was the thing? It was in here somewhere.

  “Got it!” Leo snatched up a small white metal box with a red cross on the front. He sprinted back into the kitchen with Anton at his heels.

  Lars came into the kitchen, eyes dilated with panic. “The Russians are here,” he shrilled. “They’re attacking. They’re killing us! They—”

  Nonna delivered a stinging slap to his face. She delivered a second one for good measure, the force of each slap leaving a bright red mark on Lars’s cheek.

  “You are among snipers now,” she snarled up at the big teenage linebacker. “Snipers remain cool and calm under pressure. No more screaming. Shut up and act like a man.”

  Sniper. That was the family namesake. Cecchino in Italian translated to sniper. Leo’s great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather had fought in the Napoleonic Wars. He’d been so damn good at shooting enemy soldiers that he’d eventually taken his moniker as a surname.

  Nonna shoved Lars
into a chair. He plunked down without a sound, eyes wide as he stared at her.

  “You.” Nonna stabbed a finger at Bruce. “Call all the parents and let them know you’re safe.” She snatched the first aid box out of Leo’s hands. “Get me the grappa,” she ordered. “And clean towels.”

  Anton went for his father’s liquor cabinet in the living room. Leo dashed back into the utility room for clean towels. Adam’s groaning filled the house.

  By the time he returned to the kitchen, Nonna had finished cutting open Adam’s shirt. Blood gushed out on the table from his shoulder.

  “Leonardo, grab his ankles,” she ordered.

  Nonna grabbed the grappa bottle while Leo obediently grabbed Adam’s ankles. Keeping one hand firmly pressed on Adam’s shoulder, she pulled the cork out with her teeth. She upended the bottle, pouring it over Adam’s shoulder.

  Adam yelped and jerked.

  “Hold him,” Nonna snapped.

  Leo increased his grip on the boy’s ankles. He stared at perfect new yellow Nike shoes that were now marred with blood. He would have killed to have shoes like that back in high school.

  “Bullet went clean through,” Nonna reported. “That’s a good thing. I just have to stitch him up. Antony, get the needle and thread from my sewing machine. Here, son, take a sip of this.” She cradled Adam’s head, lifting the grappa bottle to his lips.

  Leo watched his grandmother coax the boy into drinking several long swallows from the bottle. He remembered the time she’d caught him trying to sneak a sip out of father’s glass. She’d delivered a stinging slap to his bottom he’d never forget.

  “That’s not for you, Leonardo. Grappa is for men, not boys.”

  And here she was, pouring it down Adam’s throat like it was cough syrup. Leo took that as a bad sign. Nonna clearly wanted Adam drunk.

  Lars had slid from the chair to the floor, thick legs sprawled out in front of him. His eyes glazed as he watched Nonna work. Sweat dripped down his temples and his skin was pale. He looked sick, but Leo chalked it up to shock.

  Bruce was glued to the wall, attempting to get in touch with his and Lars’s parents. No one was picking up on the other line, but he kept dialing.