Zommunist Invasion | Book 1 | Red Virus

by Picott, Camille

  Chapter 45

  Not Special

  IT WAS ALMOST DAWN when the Cecchino farm came into view. Dal was so tired he could hardly see straight. Had it really only been forty-eight hours since the first Russians attacked? It felt like forty-eight years. He was used to functioning on little sleep, but this went beyond anything he’d ever experienced before.

  He focused on his bunk bed back at the cabin, and what it would feel like to lay down. He might sleep for three days if Nonna allowed it.

  The sky was a dark gray, the stars on the eastern horizon beginning to fade. The bike tires crunched on the gravel road that led to the Cecchino farmhouse.

  Dal struggled to keep his eyes open. It was too dark to see clearly. It was cold, too. His breath fogged the air. The apple trees were wet with dew.

  He jerked as a long, low growl rolled through the darkness.

  “Zombies,” Lena whispered. She still had the antenna balanced across her bike.

  They both stopped and looked toward the Cecchino barn. The sound had come from that direction.

  “Don’t they know it’s time for bed?” Dal let his bike drop softly to the ground.

  “I don’t think they sleep.” Lena shouldered her rifle, jaw set. She left the antenna on the ground next to her bike.

  “Come on, let’s get this over with,” Dal said. “It doesn’t sound like there’s more than one or two of them.” The sooner they got rid of the zombies, the sooner they could get back to the cabin.

  “I hope we don’t know them,” Lena muttered. “I didn’t like shooting Mrs. Caster.”

  Mrs. Caster had been the second grade teacher at the elementary school. She’d come after them when they fled Bastopol.

  Dal locked away that memory. It was too much to deal with on top of everything else.

  The Cecchino farm looked untouched. Jennifer’s white car still sat in the driveway. Everything else was quiet and undisturbed.

  They went around the far side of the barn in the direction of the growling. As they rounded the corner, Dal felt his breath leave his lungs. He was abruptly wide awake.

  There were only two zombies in front of them. Separating them from the infected was a chain-link fence, the boundary between the Cecchino and Granger farms.

  At the sight of Dal and Lena, the zombies let loose that strange barking sound. They attacked the fence with gusto, throwing their full body weight at the metal. The fence rattled under the attack, but held.

  It wasn’t the two crazed zombies and their dirty clothing that disturbed Dal. What froze his insides was the fact that his parents didn’t look much different than they had before the virus took them.

  Get out, Dallas! Get out and don’t ever come back!

  His mother’s face was twisted into a snarl of rage as she threw herself over and over at the fence. She looked just like she had the day she kicked Dal out of the house when he was fourteen.

  There was blood all over her shoulder. It soaked the front of her shirt. His father had once thrown her into the family curio cabinet. She hit so hard the glass broke. She looked then just as she looked now—ravaged and covered in blood.

  Even then, she had defended her husband. Dal tried to come between her and his dad—tried to kick his dad in the shin, even though he was only ten years old and his dad was twice his size and ten times scarier.

  Leave him alone, Dallas, you hear me?

  “You want me to take care of them for you?” Lena’s voice cut through Dal’s stupor. She checked the remaining bullets in her magazine. “I have three shots left.”

  Dal drew in a ragged breath. “No. I’ll do it.” Why had he just said that? He could hardly bear to look at his parents, let alone fire a gun at them. He needed to get away. He needed not to look at his parents.

  But he couldn’t help it. They kept growling, kept throwing themselves at the fence in dogged determination. The infection spread all across their bodies from the inside out.

  Lena reached across the distance and squeezed Dal’s hand. He squeezed back. Never before had he been so grateful for her presence. She understood him.

  His dad’s mouth was covered with blood. No doubt from biting his mother.

  It was the first time Dal had ever seen him with a bloody mouth. Dal had always been the one with a bloody lip, or his mom.

  Dal flashed back to that moment in Rossi when he’d made eye contact with his father as he drove by. He thought that had been the lowest point of his life, even worse than all that had come before. In some ways, to be completely disregarded was worse than being a personal punching bag. The fence that separated him from his father was more defense than he’d ever had as a kid.

  He tried to think back to the non-shitty days with his parents. There had been some of those. Like the time he’d gotten an A on a math test and his mom took him to the store to buy him a Snicker’s. Or the time his dad bought him his very first package of condoms “just in case.” Dal had been only thirteen.

  There were a few days like that. Dal kept those memories in a box in his mind, taking them out to sort through them on occasion. Looking at them hurt more than the bad memories. They were a tease, a taste of something he could never truly have.

  Dal dropped back behind the barn, out of sight of his parents. His legs were wobbly with fatigue. He sank to the ground, letting his head thunk back against the wood. He closed his eyes, letting the persistent growls of his parents wash over him.

  Lena sat down next to him. Without saying a word, she laced her fingers with his.

  “I’m like him, you know,” Dal said without opening his eyes.

  “What?”

  “I’m like my dad.” She had to know that already. She’d seen him loose control. She’d seen the beast that lurked under the surface, but saying it aloud felt like a confession.

  Lena didn’t respond, only applied more pressure to the hand she held.

  “Do you know the last thing your dad said to me?” He forced himself to open his eyes and look at her.

  Lena shook her head, gaze steady on him. “No.”

  “He told me to take care of his little girl.” Dal drew in a shaky breath and forced himself to release her hand. “You shouldn’t be with someone like me, Lena.”

  She didn’t immediately respond. Dal closed his eyes again, struggling to accept a reality where Lena wasn’t his.

  She stirred beside him. A soft sound filled the space between them. Dal opened his eyes to find her sawing with a pocket knife at the multi-colored bracelets that adorned her wrist. They were woven from embroidery thread. Lena spent many night weaving bracelets on the living room floor in front the television with the family.

  The many colored threads fell away. Lena held her bare wrist out for him to see.

  Dal’s chest seized. Marching up and down Lena’s slender wrist were parallel white scars. They were thin and white and unmistakeable.

  Sorrow filled him. He cradled her arm and pressed a kiss to the scars.

  “You’re not the only one with darkness inside you, Dal.”

  He pressed her wrist against his forehead, wishing he could absorb all her pain. “Why?” he asked.

  “I was so lost when Mom died. Everything just ... hurt.”

  He gathered her close and held her. She rested her cheek against him.

  “You should have told me.”

  “You couldn’t help me. No one could. I had to figure things out on my own. That’s why I started listening to the Russian language tapes. They helped me find Mom. I know that sounds weird, but sometimes when I had my headphones on, I swear I could feel Mom sitting beside me.” Her chest rattled with a shaky inhale. “Going to the anti-nuke rallies and protests ... that was just a nice distraction, you know? It gave me something to focus on that was bigger than myself. I mean, what was the loss of one person in comparison to an entire country being nuked?” Her laugh was bitter. “Who would have thought they’d come up with a virus that turned us all into zombies?”

  “How long
has it been?” he asked.

  “I haven’t cut myself in almost two years. Things got better when I found the tapes. Life had a purpose when I joined the rallies and the marches.”

  Dal held her tight, never wanting to let her go. How had he missed this? How had any of them missed it? They’d all been sad, sure, but there was no excuse for missing Lena’s pain.

  “We all have parts of ourselves we’re not proud of, Dal. You’re not special that way.”

  “But you saw me. I beat that zombie girl to a pulp in the Goodwill even after she was dead.”

  “Better than beating her like that when she was alive.”

  “But I would have. You saw me, Lena. I was out of control in Bastopol and Rossi.” It had been the same when he punched that goat as a kid. “I’m like my dad.”

  “You’re nothing like your dad.” She leaned back to look at him, a dent marring her brow. “You don’t hurt the ones you love. You protect us. That’s the exact opposite of your dad.”

  He wasn’t sure how, but somehow, Lena had just flipped all his self perceptions upside down. It was confusing.

  “You make me out to be better than I am.”

  “You know what Dad said to me before he died?”

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘Take care of Dallas, Lena. He needs you.’ Dad wouldn’t have said that if he thought you were a monster.”

  Dal absorbed her words. Had Mr. Cecchino really said that?

  “I think that was Dad’s way of giving us his blessing. He had to know how we felt about each other.”

  “What if I hurt you someday?” he whispered. “What if I lose my temper and turn into my dad?”

  Lena snorted. “You’d never hurt me, Dallas Granger. But you might beat the shit out anyone who does. Even if it is just a goat.” She snuggled up against him. “I kind of like that.”

  God, he loved this girl. If he lived long enough, he was going to marry her. He knew that as surely as he knew his shoe size.

  She kissed him. It was a long, soft kiss mixed with the salt of tears. Dal wasn’t sure if the tears belonged to him, to Lena, or to them both.

  He grieved for the remembered pain she wore in her scars. He grieved for the loss of Mr. Cecchino. He even grieved for his own parents, whom he’d never had a chance to love.

  “There were times when I wanted to kill my dad.” How ironic he was now being given the chance to do just that. “Even when I was little. I’d get so mad I’d go outside and throw rocks or kick trees. I’d plot ways to fight back. But he was always bigger and stronger than me.”

  “It’s time to let him go, Dal. It’s time to let both of them go.”

  Dal kissed her one last time before getting to his feet. Resolute, he grabbed his Soviet-issued machine gun and strode around the corner of the barn. Lena was by his side.

  His parents went nuts at the sight of them, redoubling their efforts to break through the fence. He walked straight toward them, no hesitation in his steps.

  Younger versions of himself walked beside him. The eight-year-old with the black eye. The eleven-year-old with the dislocated shoulder. The fourteen-year-old with the cracked ribs.

  They fanned out around Dal like an army. They wanted revenge. They wanted retribution.

  All Dal wanted was peace. Peace for himself, peace for estranged parents, and peace for the fucked-up little kid who still lived inside him.

  He went right up to the fence and pointed his gun at his father’s face. The feral rictus of his mouth was the same one that had raged over him as a kid. Some people were monsters before the Russians got here.

  Dal pulled the trigger. The shot echoed through the night. It rippled through time, back through the younger versions of himself. It sent a shockwave through his body.

  His dad dropped to the ground, dead.

  Unlike the night when Dal first dared to throw a return punch, his mother only blinked. She barely spared a glance for the dead man beside her before once again attacking the fence. She was as singleminded in her devotion as she had always been.

  Dal shifted the barrel of the gun and fired a second time.

  His mother fell across the body of his father.

  For the first time in his life, Dal’s parents were quiet and at peace with one another.

  Chapter 46

  Not Forgotten

  THE DAY AFTER THEIR mission into Bastopol, Leo found himself on a ladder at the back of the cabin. Behind him were the breathtaking views south of Pole Mountain.

  It was early evening. The fog crept in, steeping the land below them with fluffy white. It was almost easy to imagine the world wasn’t a horror show beneath those clouds.

  Nonna stood nearby with a small tray. On it were eight shot glasses and a bottle of grappa. Surrounding the ladder were Dal, Lena, Anton, Bruce, Jennifer, Jim, and Tate.

  Everyone had made it back from Bastopol in one piece. Tate had taken a bullet in the leg, but Nonna had stitched him up. The rest all had their fair share of cuts, scrapes, and bruises, but considering what they’d been through, Leo considered them lucky.

  “You’re off center,” Anton said. “Lean a little to your left.”

  Leo leaned to the left, sinking his knife into the wood. As everyone watched, he carved three names into the wall.

  Giuseppe Cecchino

  Adam McCarthy

  Lars Guerra

  Beneath the names were the words, Not Forgotten.

  It wasn’t a statue or a monument in a town square, but it would do. It would keep the memories of their friends and family alive.

  Leo hoped to God he wouldn’t have to add any more names to this list.

  When he finished carving, he dropped to the ground and stood beneath the memorial. Everyone else spread around him in a semi-circle.

  “Tonight, we gather to remember our fallen,” he said. “We didn’t ask for this war, but it came to our doorstep. Every single one of us has faced this invasion head-on. Some of us have lived to fight another day. Others will live on in our memories.”

  “Never forgotten,” Anton said.

  “Never forgotten,” Leo agreed. “The names of our fallen will be honored here.” He looked up at the list of names carved into the wood. “Let’s go around and share a memory of everyone who’s given their life for this fight. I’ll never forget the first time I bit off the head of a worm in an apple. I was eight. Dad laughed so hard he snorted soup out of his nose.”

  Smiles went up around the group, but no one laughed. Leo understood. After everything they’d seen and done in the last few days, life didn’t seem to have any humor left. He was glad he shared the story anyway. It was cherished memory.

  Dal spoke up next, his arm around Lena. “Mr. Cecchino took me to the Goodwill to buy a dresser and bookshelf when I moved in with you guys. We stopped at Foster’s Freeze and had soft serve before coming home.” Dal’s voice grew raspy with emotion. “He was the kindest man I ever met.”

  They went around the circle. Dal and Bruce shared stories about their fallen varsity football brothers. Everyone else shared stories of Mr. Cecchino.

  When they finished, Nonna lifted the bottle of grappa from her tray. “To our fallen,” she said solemnly. Nonna filled the shot glasses and passed around the the tray, letting everyone take a glass.

  “To our fallen.” Leo raised his glass to the sky, picturing his father’s face.

  Goodbye, Dad, he said silently. I promise to make you proud.

  Around him was coughing and sputtering as the shots were downed. Leo hissed between his teeth as fiery liquid burned its way down his esophagus.

  He surveyed his companions as shot glasses were returned to the tray. They’d delivered a blow to the invaders they would not soon forget. They’d taken out a contingent of enemy soldiers and gotten valuable information out to the people. They were a strong team. A unit. They were the Snipers.

  “What’s next?” Tate asked. His leg had been stitched and bandaged by Nonna. There was a long, gruesome tale
about how Nonna had removed the bullet using a knife, grappa, and kitchen tongs. There were bloodstains on the kitchen table from the ordeal, but Tate was alive and moving around with the help of a walking stick. “Last I checked, there were still Russians out there. They all need to die.”

  “You need to let your leg heal,” Jim informed his brother.

  “I can defend my country with a bad leg,” Tate said, eyes fierce. “Just let me ride one of the horses.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” Nonna’s hand twitched, but she refrained from whacking him in the back of the head. “I just finished stitching you up.”

  Leo held up a hand. To his surprise, everyone turned to him expectantly. Even Nonna.

  “I have the next mission for the Snipers.” His gaze flicked to Jennifer. He had a promise to keep. “We’re going to get Jennifer’s little sister in Westville.”

  “What the hell?” Bruce frowned. “We need to defend our country, not go off to find a teenager who’s probably just fine where she is.”

  “She’s my sister.” Jennifer glared at Bruce. “You can stay behind if you don’t want to help.”

  “We should be plotting our next big strike,” Bruce argued. “We—”

  “We’re going to Westville,” Leo cut in firmly. “And if we happen to see any Russians on the way, we can take care of them. Zombies, too.”

  Jim gave a curt nod. “That’s more like it.”

  “Team Sniper.” Bruce smacked a fist against his chest.

  “We need to make more bombs. I’ll get the aprons.” Nonna slid the cork into the grappa bottle. “I want Deejay Sniper to send more broadcasts. The people need a voice in the dark. Someone to give them hope. Leo, Dal needs to get the antenna hooked up.”

  “Everyone inside.” Leo herded his team around the cabin. “Time to plan. We’ll make more bombs while we talk about the antenna and our mission to Westville. Anton, there’s a stack of maps in the glove compartment of Dad’s truck. Grab them.”

  Anton peeled away without a word of complaint, heading to the truck. Everyone else made their way up the stairs and into the cabin. Jim had one arm around his brother, supporting him up the stairs.