Nonna dumped grappa onto her hands before taking the needle and thread from Anton.
“Have you done this before?” Leo asked.
Nonna never looked up as she threaded her needle. “I survived the Nazis in Italy, Leonardo. You didn’t do that without learning a few things along the way. Antony, hold his shoulders while I work.”
No one said a word as Anton moved into place.
Leo watched his grandmother in awe. Nonna had cleaned up plenty of family cuts and scrapes over the years, but he’d never seen her like this before. She was perfectly focused, her hands rock steady and sure in their work. If the massive amount of blood and twitching, moaning teenage boy bothered her, she didn’t let it show.
“Now flip him over.” She snipped the thread and she finished the first set of stitches.
Adam groaned as Anton and Leo flipped him over. His limbs were loose from the grappa.
“This is just a scrape,” Nonna told him. “You’ll be fine. I’ve seen much worse.”
Nonna never spoke about her childhood in Italy during World War II. Leo resolved to ask her about it. Someday. When he wasn’t busy holding down the ankles of a teenage boy on the kitchen table.
“There. He’ll be fine.” Nonna made the last snip of her scissors. Across the front and back of Adam’s shoulder were neat lines of stitches. Nonna poured the grappa over the skin, washing away the last of the blood. Then she grabbed a roll of gauze out of the first aid kit. “Help him sit up, boys.”
Leo and Anton could do very few things without arguing. This moment turned out to be no exception.
“Leave his feet on the table,” Leo snapped as Anton attempted to rotate the teenage linebacker.
“It will be easier for him to sit if his legs are over the side.”
“Don’t you know anything? You have to keep legs elevated when someone is hurt.”
“What are you talking about? His—”
“Boys.” Nonna’s voice cracked. “Sit him up. Now.”
Anton grudgingly moved beside Leo. They levered Adam into a sitting position.
Nonna wrapped the wound in gauze. When she finished, Leo and Anton moved Adam to the sofa in the living room.
There was a brief moment of silence. Anton and Leo stared at one another. The weight of the Soviet attack hung between them.
“Dad said to get to the cabin,” Leo said at last. “Pack a bag. We leave in twenty.”
Anton nodded. “I’ll tell Nonna.” He paused, halfway back to the kitchen. “What about Adam, Lars, and Bruce?”
Leo hesitated. “We take them with us.”
Twenty minutes later, they loaded a half-conscious Adam into the cab of the pickup truck. Nonna sat in the front with him, a small suitcase between her feet.
Anton, Bruce, and Lars headed into the back with all the gear. It was packed full of supplies for the hunt: plenty of guns, ammo, food, and camping supplies.
Lars’s foot slipped on his first attempt to climb up the back. Leo grabbed the back of his shirt to keep him from landing on his ass.
“You okay, man?”
Lars blinked. His eyes were red. His skin was pale and damp with perspiration. “I feel like shit,” he muttered.
That’s when Leo noticed the puckering welts along the back of Lars’s neck. It’s where the Russian darts had hit him. The edges of the wound were black with the beginning of an infection.
Leo weighed the wisdom of telling Lars what he saw. He decided to keep the information to himself until they reached the cabin. They couldn’t do anything for him until they got there anyway.
Anton sprang into the back of the truck, holding out a hand to Lars. “Come on, man.”
Lars grasped his hand and let Anton help him up. He sprawled on top of the gear bags, groaning.
“What’s wrong with him?” Bruce asked, frowning as he settled into place.
“He’ll be fine.” Leo hopped into the cab and fired up the truck. “You guys ready back there?”
Anton slapped his hand on the top of the cab. “We’re good. Roll out, man.”
Chapter 6
Invasion
DAL WAS JUST ENTERING the Rossi junior college campus when he saw the first armed soldier. Dressed in military fatigues, the man stepped out of a sleek Greyhound bus at the front of campus. He moved onto the vast lawn area between the street and the classrooms, a weapon in either hand. The students lounging on the grass didn’t give him a second thought.
Dal was the only one who stopped dead at the sight of him. Unease hit him, a persistent tug deep in his belly. The same feeling overcame him throughout his childhood. It was a sensation that preceded one of his father’s violent rages. Dal had long ago learned not to question the feeling.
Once, in his senior year, he’d woken in the middle of the night bathed in a cold sweat. Dread had settled in the pit of his stomach. Unable to sleep, he’d crept through the apple orchards back to his parents’ house.
He’d found his mom asleep on the porch, locked out of the house. She was curled up in the thin blanket his father gave her when she was “bad.”
He’d wanted to go to her, to help her. To get her the hell away from his father.
But she didn’t want his help. Leave him alone, Dallas, do you hear me?
She’d been the one who’d kicked him out of the house for trying to protect her. How dare you hit your father. Get out, Dallas! Get out and don’t ever come back!
A second armed soldier stepped out of the Greyhound. Then another, and another, and another.
Logic told Dal they were probably just regular US Army guys. Everyone knew President Reagan was beefing up the military in case they went to war against Russia. Maybe these guys were here to recruit kids from the campus. Maybe.
Whatever the case, the physical sensation in the pit of his stomach told him something was off. He didn’t know what it meant, just that something was wrong.
The protective instincts of his childhood kicked in. He turned on his heel and hurried back the way he had come. His only thought was to get back to his car.
When he heard the first gunshot, he flattened himself to the ground. Screams assaulted his ears. A glance over his shoulder showed him students streaming away from the lawn area. The soldiers moved into their midst, opening fire.
Dal didn’t wait to see more. He crawled around the corner of a building. Out of sight of the soldiers, he jumped to his feet and sprinted toward the parking lot.
Lena. Her name flashed through his brain. Lena.
He had to get to her. She was at the rally, exposed in the open with no one to watch her back.
Green flashed in his periphery. He looked up to see a soldier running between two buildings—right toward Dal.
He spun around, sprinting back the way he’d come. A clatter of red darts followed him across the pavement.
What the hell? He risked a look over his shoulder. The soldier held two large weapons. The first was a machine gun; the second held a large cartridge that was loaded with the small red darts.
Dal tore back around the corner. “Don’t go that way!” he shouted at a group of students rushing past him.
No one listened. They streaked past him in a big clump.
He heard their screams as they ran into the soldier. Dal didn’t turn back around.
Lena. He had to get to Lena. If anything happened to her, it would break Mr. Cecchino.
He vaulted over a hedge, cut around the cafeteria, past the science building, and bolted into the parking lot.
Soldiers were everywhere. Dal dropped to his knees and rolled beneath a car. Right before his head disappeared beneath the Chevy, he saw the large red star, sickle, and hammer emblazoned on the back of a soldier’s fatigues.
Russians. Soviets. We’re under attack.
His panic ratcheted up several more notches. Lena.
Everyone had been so focused on nukes. Yet here were Soviets on American soil, launching a ground assault.
His car was three rows awa
y. There was screaming and gunfire. Several bodies were on the ground, bleeding all over the blacktop. Dal army-crawled his way through the parking lot, staying beneath cars when he could.
Two pairs of Vans-clad feet raced by in front of his face. Seconds later, dark military boots raced past. Dal poked his head out in time to see the Soviet fire red darts at the fleeing students. He dove beneath the next car, continuing his way across the parking lot.
Russians attacked with both regular guns and dart guns. There didn’t seem to be any method to the attack, except to sow fear and chaos. He wasn’t sure which fate was worse: being gunned down or being hit with a Russian dart that contained who-the-hell-knew-what.
His elbows were bleeding by the time he reached his blue Beetle. The knees of his jeans were ripped. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost his backpack. Thank God he always kept his keys in his pocket. Crouching beside the car, he fumbled them into his hands.
Once inside, he bent below the steering wheel and assessed the parking lot. It was pandemonium. Soviets were everywhere. Students raced every which way in a blind panic, many of them plucking red darts out of their bodies. There were dead everywhere. The campus parking lot was a slaughter house.
He shifted his gaze away from the junior college. He looked in the direction of the downtown plaza, where he’d left Lena. It was no more than ten blocks away, but soldiers were everywhere.
He swallowed. He might not make it. He was going into the lion’s den.
Dal pursed his lips. It didn’t matter if he died. If anything happened to Lena, he couldn’t live with himself. And what about Mr. Cecchino? Dal didn’t think he’d survive the loss of his daughter.
He was going to find her. Whatever it took. He would find her, protect her, and get her back to the farm.
Mind made up, he jammed the keys into the ignition. He threw the car into reverse and zipped out of his parking space.
Two Soviets stood in the aisle. They turned at the sound of Dal’s Beetle. He shifted into drive, ducked low, and floored it. He drove straight toward the invaders.
Bullets ripped into his windshield. Glass flew everywhere. Dal didn’t take his foot off the accelerator.
He crashed right through the invaders. The fatigue-clad bodies flew up into the air.
Dal didn’t look to see where the Russians landed as he hazarded a look over the steering wheel.
The rest of the aisle was clear. The Beetle continued to rumble forward.
As soon as he reached the end of the row, Dal drove right over the grass and sidewalk that bordered the parking lot. Glass shook free of the broken windshield as the Beetle bumped over the curb. Dal noticed his hands were bleeding, but he felt no pain. All he felt was the adrenaline firing through his veins.
He aimed for the road. The Beetle rumbled over the sidewalk and thunked onto the street. Someone laid into their horn as Dal cut into on-coming traffic.
Bullets rained down on the cars. Dal realized there were Russians on the buildings. They fired directly into the traffic.
Shit! He swerved as the car in front of him veered to the right, cutting him off. His tiny car zipped past the vehicle as it crashed into a light post. He had just enough time to absorb the dead driver before his car shot past.
His panic mounted. They’re gunning us down like cattle.
He’d gone no more than two blocks when a nearby minivan hit the curb and flipped. Breaks squealed all around him.
Dammit. He threw the Beetle into reverse. To his left was a narrow alleyway. It was empty, too narrow for most cars. He wasn’t even sure his Beetle would fit.
Screw it. He had to try.
Horns blared as he made a hard left, sending the Beetle careening through on-coming traffic. A Datsun clipped his fender. The Beetle fishtailed. Dal yanked on the steering wheel to straighten it out, then floored it.
The little car zipped into the alleyway. The sideview mirror on the passenger’s side snapped off. Sparks popped from the mirror on the right side.
Bullets sprayed into the alleyway from the rooftops. Dal jerked his body sideways, attempting to steer and keep one foot on the accelerator at the same time. Several bullets punched into his seat, mere inches from his left ass cheek.
The Beetle burst from the alleyway and onto a downtown street. It was chaos to the power of ten. Invaders were in the streets and on the rooftops, shooting at anything that moved. The road was clogged with cars and pedestrians, traffic at a standstill. Dal searched the scene, looking for a way through.
It was no use. Unless he wanted to kill a bunch of Americans by running them over, the only way through was on foot. It was mayhem out there.
There was no choice. He had to find Lena. He had to run straight into the maelstrom.
He jumped out of the Beetle and snatched up the metal lid to a garbage can.
He hadn’t competed in high schools sports like Leo and Anton, but that wasn’t because he wasn’t athletic. On the contrary, a lifetime of hard work in the apple orchards—first, on his parents’ farm, then on the Cecchinos’—had left him in good shape.
Positioning the garbage can in front of him like a shield, Dal plunged into the chaos.
He cut around a clump of people—and found himself face to face with a Russian.
It was like being five-years-old and staring up at his father as he swung a punch.
Dal’s hackles went up. He wasn’t a kid anymore.
He reacted on instinct. Just as the man brought up his gun, Dal swung the garbage can lid. It smacked into the man’s nose. Bone crunched. The Russian screamed.
Dal kicked him in the balls and kept running. He dodged through the chaos and cut left around Sixth Street.
Lena was on Fourth Street. Two blocks to go. He didn’t let himself consider the possibility that she might not be at the coffee shop.
A bullet tore right through the side of the trash can lid. Shit. The thing was useless against bullets. He held onto it anyway and poured on another burst of speed.
A group of people scattered in front of him. Poster board signs were trampled underfoot.
Wage Peace
Nuclear War: Just Say No
Take the Toys Away From the Boys
Nuclear Weapons: May They Rust in Peace
These were people from the rally. Was Lena among them?
Dal barely registered that he was running into the crowd. He was too busy scanning their clothing, looking for Lena’s fluorescent pink shirt and side ponytail.
A woman ran smack into his chest, almost knocking him over. He spun sideways, only to find another Russian.
The man had a long mustache and was ten yards away. He sprayed red darts into the crowd, a wicked grin on his face.
With a roar, Dal rushed the man, holding the trashcan lid in front of him like a battering ram. Darts plinked into the metal. He banged the front of the trashcan lid right into the man’s face. The Russian staggered.
Dal didn’t let up. He swung the lid, smashing the side of the man’s face. His cheekbone crumbled. Blood spurted everywhere.
Dal was sucked back to a time when he was nine years old. It was the first time he threw a punch at his old man. His dad had his mom to the floor, kicking her in the ribs.
Nine-year-old Dal decked him in the side of the face. Even then, his upper body strength had been primed from years of climbing apple trees. He’d hit his dad so hard he’d broken his nose. Blood had sprayed everywhere.
Just like it sprayed out of the Soviet’s smashed cheekbone.
That was the first time his mother had ever turned on him. The first time she had defended his father instead of Dal.
Leave him alone, Dallas, do you hear me?
Dal ran. Just like he had when he’d been nine years old, he turned tail and ran.
Another two blocks of dodging and weaving and pure luck had him at the alleyway behind Fourth Street.
And there she was. Lena.
Her pink shirt was torn. Blood spattered her face and clothing. She ha
d a broken chair leg in her hand, fending off two leering Russians with the tenacity of a bobcat.
She squared off in the alleyway against them. They called to her in cajoling tones. Dal didn’t need to understand Russian to know what they were saying.
Rage boiled up in him. It was white-hot. His vision tunneled. All he could see was Lena and the invaders.
He charged down the back alley like a kamikaze pilot. Just as the Russians registered him, he threw the garbage can lid like an over-sized frisbee.
It spun through the air and clocked the foremost of the Russians in the face. The man reflexively fired his weapon, but bullets sprayed harmlessly into the sky as he toppled backward.
Lena took advantage of the momentary distraction to attack the second Russian. Her chair leg smacked him in the temple. The man dropped.
Dal didn’t have time to contemplate his next move. All he knew was that Lena was in danger and he had to protect her. As the man dropped from the blow to the temple, Dal struck.
His Converse came down on the man’s neck. He stomped. Hard. It wasn’t so different from crushing a spider.
Lena darted past him toward the man who had been struck with the garbage can lid. She swung the chair leg down like an axe. She hit him over and over again until blood coated the pavement. She screamed wordlessly, tears streaming down her face.
“Lena.” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Lena, he’s dead.”
“Dal!” She dropped the chair leg and threw her arms around him. Her chest heaved as sobs overtook her.
He held her close, crushing her against him. Relief at finding her alive washed over him like a balm.
“You came.” Her voice came out ragged. “I was so scared ...”
Of course he came. She didn’t really think he’d have left her, did she? “Are you okay?” He gently gripped either side of her face, forcing her to look up at him.
“Yeah.” Her eyes were wild, but he saw Cecchino grit in them. “I’m okay.”
“We have to get out of here. My car is a few blocks away. Can you run?”
She nodded, mouth set in a firm line. She pulled a hand gun from the belt of one of the dead Russians, knuckles white around the handle. “I’ll kill any of those asshole who tries to hurt us.”
Zommunist Invasion | Book 1 | Red Virus Page 4