Zommunist Invasion Box Set | Books 1-3

by Picott, Camille

  “Hell, yeah, man. You’re going to have a booming business. I know it.”

  “You should come up to the cabin this weekend. I’m sure there’s a pig up there with your name on it.”

  “Nah.” Dal shook his head. “I’ll stay here with Nonna. I have to study. Besides, someone has to make sure Anton and Lena come out and pick their share of apples.” He flashed an easy grin at Leo through the trees.

  Leo snorted. “Good luck with that. There’s no hope of Anton doing his fair share of anything until after he graduates.”

  “Yeah. He might try to sneak away and go hunting with you if I don’t put a leash on him.”

  Despite the animosity toward his little brother, Leo chuckled at the mental image of Dal putting a leash on him. It would serve the little shit right.

  “Seriously, man,” Dal said. “Word is going to get around. I mean, San Francisco! No one has ever come that far to hunt here. They’ll spread the word. All the hunting circles in the South and East Bay will know about Nonna’s cooking and your tracking skills by the end of summer.”

  Dal’s optimism lightened Leo’s load. He glided down the ladder with a full bag of apples, dumping the fruit into one of the big plastic bins his father had placed up and down the rows.

  As he climbed back up into the tree for the next fifty pounds of apples, he

  couldn’t help but feel optimistic about the upcoming hunt. Maybe Dal was right. Maybe word about his guided hunting trips would get around.

  Maybe he had a real shot at saving the family from bankruptcy.

  3

  Ex-Ballerina

  Despite the fact that he always wore a broad-rimmed hat, the tip of Dal’s nose was sunburned by the time he finished working in the orchard. He’d filled ten bins of apples that day. Each bin held a thousand pounds, meaning he’d single-handedly picked ten thousand pounds of apples.

  “It’s too hot,” Leo said to him as he slid the pallet jack beneath the last bin. “They’re ripening too fast.”

  “I don’t have to work on Saturday,” Dal said. “I’ll pick with Anton and Lena while you guys are with the hunters. We’ll get all the apples in.”

  The resentment that always rode Leo’s shoulders slackened. “Thanks, Dal.” He glanced at his watch. “You’d better go or you’ll be late to class. I’ll get the bins into the barn.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  Dal had just enough time to shower and shovel a few peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches into his mouth, courtesy of Nonna. Then he was back in his car and speeding to Bastopol High.

  Lena stood on the curb, waiting for him. The headphones were on her ears, portable cassette player in hand with its Russian language tape.

  “Hey.” She slid into the front seat. She gave him a smile, but didn’t take off her headphones.

  “Hey.” Dal hustled out of the parking lot.

  Minutes later, he was on the freeway, driving east toward Rossi. He poked Lena in the arm.

  She glanced at him before sliding the headphones around her neck. “Yeah?”

  “Your dad asked me to tell you something. Don’t shoot the messenger, okay?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

  Dal braced himself for the unpleasant task at hand. He’d rather pick another bin of apples. “The dance studio is holding auditions for the Christmas recital.” He picked up the folded newspaper clipping from the dashboard and handed it to her.

  Lena snorted. “The Soviets could attack anytime and all my dad cares about is a stupid dance recital.”

  Dal said nothing. They both knew it was more than a stupid dance recital. Before her mom died, Lena had been one of the best ballerinas in the Rossi Dance Academy. She was more talented than girls who were two and three years older.

  “Mom cared about all the crap happening in the world,” Lena said. “You know the Russians have almost forty thousand nukes? Forty thousand, Dal. Mom got it. She knew how precarious everything is. Dad doesn’t take the Soviet threat seriously. He never took mom seriously when she was alive, either.”

  Lena knew full well her father had nearly been crushed under the pressure of running the farm and taking care of Mrs. Cecchino. Her illness and subsequent death had devastated everyone.

  Dal chose his words carefully. One of the few things he’d learned from his biological father was that, once spoken, wrong words couldn’t be taken back.

  “It’s because he loves your mom so much that he wants you to keep dancing.” That was the truth of it. Everyone knew nothing made Mrs. Cecchino’s eyes light up more than the sight of her daughter on center stage of a ballet recital. “It’s his way of honoring your mom.”

  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.”

  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 from 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.

  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!�
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  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.