Zommunist Invasion | Book 1 | Red Virus

by Picott, Camille

  Steady noise vibrated the doors that led to the broadcasting room. Dal recognized the sound immediately. It was the blare of the emergency broadcast system. The sound sent a shiver through him.

  Machine gun ready, he eased the door open. The sound drilled into his ears.

  There was no message playing, just the unending whine that indicated an emergency. He supposed they didn’t have a pre-recorded message for a Russian invasion.

  Everyone had left in the middle of work. Like the office cubicles, there were signs of a hasty exit. Car keys on the floor. A half-eaten sandwich.

  An idea formed in his mind. People needed to know what was happening. He glanced over his shoulder at Lena and flicked his eyes at the studio. She nodded in understanding.

  He led the way into the room, locking the door behind them. He made his way to the wide bank of buttons and switches, his fingers caressing the microphone that dangled from a thick cable down from the ceiling.

  Sometimes, when he picked apples under the sweltering sun, he escaped the discomfort by imagining himself as a radio deejay. He’d play good music and help people escape this tree of their day. He’d make sure to play every request phoned in. And he’d find local, uplifting stories to share on the airwaves.

  Amidst the abandoned studio, this dream seemed a million miles away. Dal let the machine gun dangle from its strap around his shoulder. His fingers flipped the various switches and buttons while Lena stood guard behind him. Thank God he’d taken a radio communications class at the junior college. Otherwise, he’d have no idea how to use the equipment.

  He leaned into the microphone. Making a snap decision, he didn’t use his name in case the Soviets had a way to track him.

  “I’m broadcasting live from KZSQ in Rossi, California. West County is under attack by Soviet forces. Repeat, West County, California, is under attack by Soviet forces.” He licked his lips and glanced at Lena. At her encouraging nod, he turned back to the microphone. “Russians arrived in Greyhound busses barely an hour ago. They’re dressed in fatigues with the Soviet star, sickle, and hammer on the back. Many of them have machine guns, but they’re also armed with dart guns. They’re shooting people with darts. At this time it is unknown what substance is in the darts. Avoid the Russians at all costs. Use extreme caution if leaving the area. If you have the means, board up your doors and windows. Keep your guns loaded. Protect your families.”

  And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he decided to end on a positive note. “America isn’t going to stand for this shit. Kill any communist bastard you see.” His finger slammed down, looping the recording to play over and over.

  A grin split Lena’s face. She gave him the thumbs up.

  “Take that, fuckers,” Dal mumbled.

  Something loud banged nearby. It sounded like a door.

  Fear spiked through Dal. He grabbed Lena’s hand and yanked her out of the recording studio.

  Another door slammed, then another. Through the open door of the executive wing, he saw a flash of camouflage green.

  Soviets. They’d heard his broadcast.

  They had to get out of here.

  Chapter 10

  Radio Station

  DAL SHOVED LENA IN front of him. “Run,” he hissed. She broke into a blind run, sprinting as fast as she could out the door and into the adjoining hall. Dal was on her heels.

  He counted the bangs as the Russians checked each of the executive offices. They didn’t know where the studio was and weren’t taking any chances. Four doors. Five. Six.

  He spun around and raised his Russian-issued machine gun.

  The corridor door flew open. Dal opened fire, spraying bullets down the hall, then turned and ran. Shouts and Russian gibberish followed him.

  “Right,” he hissed at Lena as they approached a fork in the corridor.

  She tore right. Dal followed.

  Behind them came shouting and more gunfire. Shit. He was going to get Lena killed if he didn’t think of something.

  “Left,” he whisper-shouted. Lena made the turn without question.

  The janitorial closet appeared up ahead on their right. An idea formed in Dal’s mind. His left hand reached out to snag Lena’s shirt. His right hand plunged into the pocket of his jeans.

  He pulled out his keys to the KZSQ janitorial supply closet. Just as he shoved the key into the lock, a Russian burst around the corner. At the sight of them, the soldier shouted in alarm.

  Lena was ready for him. She let loose a burst of bullets just as Dal yanked open the door. The soldier fell as Dal hauled her inside and quietly closed the door.

  Their harsh breathing filled the large closet. He didn’t dare turn on the lights. He closed his eyes, imagining the closet he knew so well. The toilet paper and paper towels were stacked on the right-hand side. The bleach and disinfectant were stored on the left. At the back of the room were miscellaneous supplies like Kleenex and toilet seat covers.

  And in the back left-hand corner was Dal’s cleaning cart. He snagged at Lena, his hand catching the sleeve of her shirt. He pulled the cart out of the corner, thankful he’d gone to the trouble of oiling the wheels last week.

  He felt around on the floor until he found what he was looking for: the sub-floor access panel.

  Dal had used the access panel several times. The studio had intermittent rodent problems and Dal was the one drafted to set up the traps underneath the building. He was the same one who cleaned them up, too.

  On the side of the cleaning cart was the apron he wore. Inside was a slender MagLite. He grabbed it and switched it on as he opened the access panel.

  He gestured to the black hole in the floor. Lena set her lips and dropped through the opening.

  Dal had to hand it to her. She didn’t balk or flutter like most girls would. She went right in and disappeared from sight.

  Shouting sounded from the hall, followed by footsteps. Dal jumped into the hole and pulled the cart back to block it from sight. He dropped the panel into place just as the door to the closet burst open.

  The flashlight illuminated Lena’s wide eyes. Her hands shook. The sight made his stomach clench. Here he had set out to protect her, then he’d gone and made that broadcast. He’d pretty much let all the invaders know where they were. He’d put her smack in the middle of danger. Stupid, stupid.

  Now he had to get her the hell out of here. He shifted the flashlight, aiming it toward the east side of the building. The plaza was east. That’s where they’d find Mr. Cecchino.

  A loud bang sounded above him, followed by Russian cursing. Someone had overturned one of the supply racks.

  He started to crawl when Lena gripped his shoulder. Her eyes were fixed on the floor above them.

  Two or more Russians spoke rapidly. Lena cocked her head. It took Dal a moment to realize she was listening to them.

  No, it was more than that. She was translating them.

  The Russians left, the janitorial closet banging shut behind them.

  “Could you understand what they were saying?” Dal was doubtful as to how much Russian military jargon Lena might have picked up on her mom’s tapes.

  She pursed her lips. “They said they’re taking over all communication buildings. They plan to control all TV and radio channels.”

  “Really?” He was impressed despite himself. “You really heard that?”

  She poked him in the ribs. “Duh. You see me listening to those tapes. Did you think I was zoning out when I had my headphones on?”

  He thought she was hanging on to the memory of her mom, though he didn’t say that. “What else did they say?”

  She shook her head. “That’s all I heard.”

  They army crawled their way through the subfloor. It was dry and musty. Occasionally, dust and grit showered down anytime someone above them moved. Cobwebs clung to the wood support beams.

  Lena wasn’t a fan of spiders, but she showed no sign of distress as they crawled past them. Maybe coming face to face with Russian inv
aders was enough to cure a person of spider phobia. Maybe—

  Snap.

  Dal bit down on a howl of pain. He writhed on the ground, the flashlight rolling from his hand.

  A mousetrap. He’s put his hand in a fucking mousetrap. A mousetrap he had set.

  Lena scrambled toward his flopping hand. Relief flooded his body as she pulled it free. He lay limp on the ground, panting from the pain.

  “Are you okay?” Lena’s words were the softest whisper.

  He nodded, taking in big gulps of air. He was wasting time. They had to keep moving. They had to find Mr. Cecchino.

  They resumed their crawl. Lena carried the flashlight this time. She swept it back and forth over the ground, the narrow beam picking out the mousetraps. A few of them had carcasses in them. It had been Dal’s plan to clean the traps next week.

  They reached the end of the studio building. All told, the studio itself was two blocks long. The meant the plaza was only one block away.

  He and Lena lay side by side, staring through the small grill that led out into an alleyway. It was a small opening. Lena would be able to shimmy through it, but Dal wasn’t sure he could.

  “Look over there.” She pointed.

  On the other side of the alleyway was the Cantina, a Mexican restaurant that bordered the plaza. His eyes picked out the grate that led to the subfloor of the restaurant.

  “If we can get under the Cantina, we’ll have a clear view of the plaza,” Lena whispered.

  Dal wasn’t sure he’d fit through the grate under the radio station, let alone the one under the Cantina.

  As he lay there, considering their options, a flood of black boots and fatigues streamed past them. All headed in the direction of the plaza. Dal and Lena instinctively backed away from the grill. There were dozens upon dozens of Russians.

  And they weren’t alone. They herded dozens and dozens of Americans along at gunpoint, shouting at them in their rough language.

  Dal angled his head, trying to get a better look at the people who were forced by them. He recognized a few kids he’d seen around the junior college. He even spotted Sue, the executive assistant to the KZSQ studio president. She limped along with only one heeled shoe, her other foot bare on the pavement. And there was the station president, dragging an injured leg as the Russians prodded him forward.

  Lena sucked in a breath. He knew from the sound what she had seen. Or rather, who she had seen.

  His eyes sorted through the many feet streaming past the grill, searching for the familiar pair of brown leather work boots. He knew those shoes as well as he knew his own.

  There. The worn leather boots with a piece of rotted apple clinging to the side of the sole.

  Mr. Cecchino.

  Under Soviet gunpoint, he disappeared around the corner into the plaza.

  Chapter 11

  Inoculation

  “DAD.” LENA’S AGONIZED whisper washed over him.

  Dal felt panic overtake him. He waited for the flood of footsteps to pass. As soon as the Russians and their captives disappeared around the street corner, he counted to twenty. When no one else appeared in the alley, he yanked off the grate.

  Lena tried to wriggle past him, but he refused to let her pass. He attempted to angle his body into the opening, but it was no use. His shoulders were too wide.

  He checked the street again. There was no one in sight. The noise coming from the plaza was loud; there was shouting in both English and Russian, as well as gunfire.

  It was the gunfire that made him reckless. He spun around on his back and braced his hands against a support beam. Then he rammed the heels of his Converse into the wood directly next to the opening.

  It took five good kicks before the wood splintered. Dal cleared away the debris with his foot. When he was finished, there was a jagged gash next to the grate opening.

  It was now wide enough for him.

  He flipped over and crawled out head-first. He crouched in the street, scanning the area as Lena wriggled out beside him. More gunfire ripped up from the plaza.

  Blood beat in his temples. Worry made it hard to breathe. He couldn’t get Mr. Cecchino’s face out of his head.

  Lena grabbed his hand. They crept to the far end of the alleyway and peered around the corner. They had a clear view of Rossi’s downtown plaza.

  It was the size of a city block. In the center was a large fountain with benches interspersed around it. A series of sidewalks stretched out from the fountain like the arms of a star. Triangle wedges of grass filled the area between the walkways.

  The plaza was used for many things. Fourth of July celebrations. Multicultural events, like Chinese New Year and Cinco de Mayo. Music festivals. Even anti-nuke rallies.

  Today, it was surrounded by a solid wall of fatigues emblazoned with the red star, sickle, and hammer. The Russians hemmed in several hundred people.

  Dal expected to see them firing their guns into the innocent crowd. He expected to see a slaughter house.

  Instead, the Soviets discharged their weapons into the open air, laughing and shouting as they did so. It was hard to see past the thick ring of invaders, but Dal was tall enough to glimpse inside. He saw the bodies of Americans crushed together in fear. Mr. Cecchino was in there somewhere, but it was impossible to pick him out.

  “They keep shouting death and mayhem,” Lena whispered. “Can you see what they’re doing?”

  Dal shook his head, feeling helpless. He wanted to charge in there and find Mr. Cecchino, but that would only get him shot—either with a bullet, or a red dart.

  “Let’s try and get a better look.” Lena jerked her thumb at the Cantina.

  They backed away from the street corner. Like the news station, many of the windows had been shot out of the Mexican restaurant. A large window that led into the bar lay open to the street.

  Lena was tall and lean. She slipped easily through the jagged opening. Dal sucked in his ribcage before following her. He knocked a few shards of glass free with his chest, but the sound was lost in the roar of the machine gun fire.

  They crept through the bar, making their way to the east side of the restaurant for a better look into the plaza. Margarita glasses were smashed on the floor. Someone had dropped a burrito and stepped on it.

  They paused at the host stand. Dal strained his ears.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked in a soft voice.

  Lena nodded. She heard it too: Russian voices, coming from somewhere above them.

  “The owners live on top of the restaurant,” Lena said. “The Russians must have found a way up there.”

  Dal’s first instinct was to get Lena the hell out of the Cantina. But they’d have no chance of finding Mr. Cecchino if they ran now.

  He peeked around the corner into the main dining room, where there was a wall of solid glass that gave them a clear view of the plaza. Only two of the large windows had been shot out. The rest stood intact. An abandoned plate of enchiladas sat untouched on a table.

  “Over there.” He pointed to the stage at the back of the room. Live bands performed there on the weekends. The stage was stacked with several large speakers, all of them big enough to hide behind.

  Lena nodded. Crouching low, they scurried through the dining room, hopped onto the stage, and hid behind the speakers.

  They now had a front row seat to everything happening in the plaza. The gunfire had died in the last thirty seconds. Frightened murmuring had fallen over the gathered prisoners.

  Dal spotted dead bodies on the ground outside, along with a great deal of blood. The sight made his stomach clench. There were overturned tables from the anti-nuke rally and poster boards trampled underfoot. No doubt the Soviets had swept through here in the initial attack.

  The fact that Lena had escaped seemed like a miracle. She could have easily been one of the dead out there. As the thought came to him, he realized he had his arm around her. He tightened his grip protectively, relieved when she didn’t pull away.

  “A
merican swine.” A thickly accented voice projected across the crowd. Someone spoke through a megaphone—possibly one of the megaphones that had been used in the anti-nuke rally. “This is now Russian soil. You are guests in a foreign nation. All guests must be inoculated.”

  At the word inoculated, the Russian soldiers lifted their dart guns. The sight of red darts resting in large cartridges filled Dal with dread. They had to find out what the hell was in those things.

  The people screamed as the Russians began firing darts into the mass. Lena’s hands latched around Dal’s upper arm, gripping him so fiercely he knew she’d leave bruises.

  The shooting lasted for what seemed like hours. In truth, it was no more than five minutes.

  “Return to your homes,” boomed the voice through the megaphone. “Tell your family and your neighbors that you all now reside on Russian soil. Spread the word, comrades.”

  In a synchronized movement, the Soviets dispersed, breaking the solid wall they’d made with their bodies. They moved into the crowd, firing their darts as people fled.

  “They’re letting them go?” A dent marred Lena’s brow. “That’s doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It does if they want to spread mayhem,” Dal replied. “Or disease.”

  Booming laughter drifted through the dining room. Dal’s muscles went rigid with fear. The voice came from inside the Cantina. The distinct thud of boots on wooden stairs accompanied the laughter.

  The Russians on the second floor. They were coming downstairs.

  His eyes darted, gauging their chances of making it across the dining room and out one of the busted windows. They might be able to make it, but there were Soviets just outside. He didn’t want to risk getting shot with the darts.

  Lena, still with a death grip on his arm, yanked him sideways. They sank up against the wall in the shadow of the speakers.

  Boots crunched on broken glass. Dal glimpsed the flash of several uniforms as Russians entered the dining room. His hands flexed around his stolen machine gun. He didn’t like the odds of trying to shoot their way free, but if that was their only option he wouldn’t hesitate.