Zommunist Invasion Box Set | Books 1-3

by Picott, Camille

  The scream broke off. The person was babbling now, begging for mercy.

  A door slammed. Boots rang sharply on the cement outside their cell. A second later, Anton saw three men march by.

  His breath froze in his throat as one of the men paused to look through the bars into their cell. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and dark hair. On the breast of his uniform was the KGB patch.

  The man locked eyes with Anton. The edges of his mustache curled as he smiled coldly at him. Anton felt sick with fear.

  “Don’t worry,” the man said in thickly-accented English. “You’re next, little Sniper.”

  He disappeared from sight. Anton struggled to catch his breath as terror hammered in his blood.

  Calm the fuck down, he ordered himself. Suck it up. You got yourself into this mess. You can get through this. He could only imagine what Leo would say if he saw him.

  “Anton.”

  He distantly realized Tate had been calling his name. He shifted his attention, once again focusing on his chair. He inched it across the floor, heading for Tate. He had to focus on getting out of here.

  His left arm pinched between the chairs as he finally got wedged up against Tate.

  “Hold still,” Tate said.

  “What else can I do, man?”

  “You know what I mean. Just hold still so I can untie you.”

  Tate’s fingers slid against his wrists. “Can you get closer?”

  Anton pushed against the floor. The pain in his left arm increased, but he ignored it. “How’s that?”

  “Better.”

  Anton sat quietly while Tate fumbled with his ropes. He sat for so long the pinching in his arm spread numbness all the way down to his fingers and up his shoulder.

  “You almost done, man?”

  Tate swore in response. Anton took that as a no.

  “Should I try you?” he asked.

  Tate grunted. “Fuckers made tight knots.”

  “Let me try you.”

  Tate’s hands fell away. Anton gritted his teeth as he felt for the ropes binding Tate to the chair. Thirty seconds into the endeavor, he began to fervently wish he could go back in time and be a Boy Scout.

  A key rattled in the steel door. Anton’s head jerked up. Adrenaline shot through his body as the KGB agent and one other Soviet entered the tiny cell. The sight of the two men made him start to sweat.

  He put on his best look of insolence, the one he had perfected for Leo over the years. It was the look he donned any time he felt like a cheap knock-off to his perfect older brother.

  At a nod from the KGB agent, the soldier pulled their chairs around, forcing Tate and Anton to face forward. The KGB asshole lit a cigarette and took a long drag. The end glowed bright orange.

  “So.” The KGB exhaled, blowing a lungful of smoke into Anton’s face. “Is it you we have to thank for the attacks on our troops, little Snipers?”

  Anton gave him a flat stare, though inside he quailed with fear. Sweat drenched his armpits, crotch, and back. Tate was equally stoic beside him.

  “So you don’t deny it.” A tiny smile curled one side of the agent’s mouth. “You are both Snipers.”

  Shit. They had walked right into that trap.

  He attempted to back pedal. “We aren’t Snipers,” he scoffed. “I mean, we’re good shots, but we aren’t snipers.”

  The agent moved without warning. Anton screamed as he ground the burning cigarette butt into his chest.

  7

  Cigarettes

  The pain was unlike anything Anton had ever experienced before. He snapped his teeth shut, hissing as the pain went through him like an electrical current.

  “It will be better for you if you don’t lie.” The agent looked at his soldier and flicked his fingers.

  The first punch hit Anton across the jaw. His head rang. The second blow landed before he had a chance to recover. Pain radiated through his face and head. The asshole had a wedding ring on his punching hand. Anton felt his skin split when the fist landed.

  He closed his eyes as the blows rained down, throwing all his concentration into staying silent. He would not cry out. He would not.

  Beside him, Tate let out a long hiss. Anton opened his eyes just long enough to see the KGB agent snubbing out a cigarette on Tate’s chest.

  The solider stepped away from Anton. His head hung limp as he struggled to catch his breath.

  He’d taken plenty of hits on the football field over the years, but nothing prepared him for this. He sucked in great gulps of air as waves of pain rolled through his head and neck.

  Under the direction of the KGB agent, the soldier shifted his attention to Tate and began pummeling the shit out of his face and head.

  “Fuck you guys,” Tate snarled. “I won’t tell you a fucking thing.”

  The KGB agent smiled in amusement as he relit the cigarette. His asshole lackey just kept beating the shit out of Tate.

  “Just tell us where your base is and this will all be over,” the agent said.

  Anton was insanely thankful for all those times Leo had pissed him off. He had distilled defiant glares down to a science. As the agent loomed over him, cigarette smoke fluting out of his nostrils, Anton gave the bastard his most derisive glare.

  The agent shoved the glowing cigarette ember against the side of his neck. The smile behind his mustache was gleeful. Anton couldn’t quite suppress the scream that wanted to burst from his lungs. A groan burbled up from his throat as pain seared through him.

  “We want the location of your base,” the agent said, once again lighting the cigarette. “Give us what we want and we’ll kill you quickly. There is no need for suffering.”

  Anton forced himself to think of his family. Of Nonna, Lena, Leo, Dal, and everyone else who now lived at the cabin with them. He would not give them up. No fucking way. He would die like a broken dog here in this cell before selling out his family.

  The cigarette came down again, this time burning against his ribcage. Anton sucked in great gulps of air. It took all his willpower not to scream.

  Beside him, the soldier took a break from Tate’s face. The KGB agent passed him a lit cigarette. Tate’s eyes narrowed in defiance as the soldier blew smoke into his face.

  “Fuck you,” Tate said.

  The cigarette butt came down.

  “Fuck you,” Tate said again, staring up in defiance at the soldier who grinned at him like a manic devil.

  In almost the same instant, the KGB agent punched Anton in the ribcage. The blow landed right on top of the fresh cigarette burn. Anton clenched his jaw, tamping down the need to bellow in pain. As he leveled his best fuck-you look at the communist bastard, he saw the glee in the other man’s eyes.

  These guys liked hurting people. What sort of sick fuck enjoyed inflicting pain?

  When his dad taught them to hunt, he’d always emphasized the importance of making a clean kill. If you didn’t have a clean shot, you let the animal go. It was a reverence for life these Russian assholes didn’t share.

  As blows rained down on him, Anton dully realized this was his chance. The chance he’d waited for his entire life: a chance to outshine Leo.

  Leo had all the advantages. First, he was the oldest, which meant he literally got to be first at everything. Second, he was so fucking good at everything. Whether is was playing ball, snagging the hottest girl, or—shit—he was even good at apple farming. He made his own compost from turkey shit. In just one year, they’d seen a fifteen percent increase in crop yield from that pile of shit his brother had cooked into fertilizer.

  But Leo had never been to a Russian torture chamber. Nope, that was Anton’s honor.

  Here was his chance to be first.

  Finally.

  A wild laugh broke from his throat. It was a manic realization of just how fucked up his world view had been all these years. Always secretly competing with Leo. It wasn’t Leo’s fault he was so fucking good at anything. It’s not like he ever held it over Anton’s hea
d or rubbed his nose in it.

  Anton loved his brother. He loved him with everything he had. And he would not betray him. No fucking way.

  “You think this is funny?” The KGB agent snubbed out another cigarette on Anton’s neck. “I think this is funny.” He chuckled as he relit the cigarette. “Hurting American scum is a good time. Don’t you think?” He glanced at the soldier who was laying into Tate’s chest and torso with his fists. The agent rattled off a string of Russian.

  The soldier paused, flashing a quick grin at the agent. He said something, then went back to beating Tate.

  “He thinks this is a good time, too,” the agent said to Anton. “And you know what it’s like when you’re having a good time. You never want it to end.”

  The cigarette came down again, this time on the side of Anton’s throbbing jaw.

  “You’re such a pretty boy,” the agent purred. “I’m going to enjoy ruining this pretty face.” The burning butt was relit and reapplied to his jaw.

  Anton nearly choked on the agony. Sweat rolled into his eyes. His body trembled from the stress. He kept his teeth clamped shut as the Soviet fucker lit a new cigarette.

  “You can end the pain anytime. Just tell us the location of your home base.”

  Breath rasped in and out of his nose. He was dimly aware of saliva dripping from his mouth. Even though his head was a throbbing mass of pain, Anton managed to twist his face into a defiant sneer.

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  The agent sighed dramatically, even though his eyes glinted with glee. The accumulated embers on the end of the cigarette crunched against the side of Anton’s face, burning him yet again.

  “There. You’re not so pretty anymore.”

  Another blow came down, hitting him so hard his chair tipped over.

  The agent crouched over him, rolling up the sleeves of his jacket. The cigarette was back in his mouth. He sucked in gulps of smoke, exhaling out of his nose. A smoke wreath crowned his head, backlit by the flickering light bulb.

  Watching the fucker slowly roll up the sleeves of his jacket was like watching an on-coming car in slow motion. Anton tensed, preparing for the blows. He held onto the images of his family members, drawing strength from them. He would not betray them. He might die like a beaten animal, but he would never betray them.

  Nonna—Leo—Dal—Lena—

  Agony rained down on him. More fists. More burning cigarette embers. Even boots were thrown into the mix, kicking Anton over and over in the chest, stomach, and ribs.

  He released himself to the pain, giving himself over to the tide of it.

  Out of the depths of fear and anguish came a long-lost voice. It was the voice of Coach Brown, his dead football coach.

  At the end of the day, no matter the game, your biggest opponent is yourself.

  That’s what Coach Brown said to them at practice nearly every day. He was right.

  Anton was gonna win this. No matter what.

  Even if that meant dying.

  8

  Darkness

  Anton wasn’t sure how long the torture went on. It felt like years.

  When the Russian assholes finally left, they switched off the light. The cell would have been entirely black if not for the faint light drifting in from the hallway outside the cell.

  The taste of blood in his mouth had become a permanent fixture. He thought he might be missing a tooth, but couldn’t be sure; his tongue was too swollen and numb from the beating.

  How many times had he been burned? He’d lost count after twelve.

  He was lying on his side, hands and feet still bound to the chair. His body throbbed and ached everywhere. Until today, he’d never known how much a body could endure.

  Neither he nor Tate had cracked. Not even a little. They’d suffered their torture in defiance, but they hadn’t cracked. They were fucking warriors. Dead warriors most likely, but warriors all the same.

  The concrete floor was cold against his skin. He was pretty sure his head was in the dried urine he’d smelled when he first woke up in this pit. The weight of the chair rested on his right wrist. The pain might have bothered him if there hadn’t been parts of his body that hurt ten times more.

  “Anton?” Tate’s voice was raspy in the dark.

  “Yeah?”

  “I have to piss.”

  For some reason, this struck him as ridiculously funny. “Me, too. We should just piss ourselves.” Why not? Cigarette butts and fists were way worse than a pissed pants. Hell, his head was already in dried piss.

  “Let’s piss at the same time,” Tate said.

  “Okay.” Anton readied his bladder.

  “On the count of three. One, two, three.”

  Anton closed his eyes in relief as the piss ran out of him. He didn’t even care that it soaked his pants and pooled in the crotch of his boxers. This was the best feeling he’d had all day.

  “Fuck, man.” He let out a contented sigh. “That felt good.”

  “Yeah, man. Anton?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re a tough motherfucker. It’s an honor to be in this shithole with you.”

  “You, too, man.”

  “Do you think we’re gonna get out of here?”

  Tate’s question floated in the darkness. Anton could taste the need in it.

  Finally, he said, “Eventually. It will probably be in a body bag, though.” If Russians even used body bags.

  “Yeah.” Tate’s voice was faint. “That’s what I figured. Think we could figure out a way to get them to speed things up?”

  This just might be the best idea either of them had had all day. “We could give them a fake location.”

  “Think they’d buy it?”

  “We have to make it convincing.” Anton considered this. It was nice to have something besides his aching body to focus on. “What about the old cistern near the dam?”

  Twenty-five miles north of Bastopol was a big dam. It was a popular place for hiking, fishing, camping, and boating. The Cecchinos and Craigs had family campouts there a few times when they were kids.

  Tate didn’t answer right away. Anton wondered if he remembered the time they played tag around the old cistern. Jim had accidentally punched Tate in the nose when he was trying to tag base.

  “The old cistern,” Tate said at last. “Good idea. Then maybe they’ll shoot us and get it over with.”

  They lapsed into silence. Anton closed his eyes and dozed fitfully. It was a welcome respite from the agony in his body.

  It was the pain in his wrist that woke him up. The side of the chair, weighed down by his body, made it feel like his entire hand was going to be sawed off. He had to move.

  With a soft groan, he heaved his aching body. After a few attempts, he managed to roll—which just meant he was on his knees, his forehead resting against the concrete.

  “What are you doing, man?” Tate asked.

  “Just getting comfortable, dude.”

  Tate chuckled at this, his voice raspy. “Good luck with that.”

  Anton attempted to shift his weight from his knees to his feet. His bound ankles made it difficult. After several attempts, he let his head sag back to the ground. At least his wrist didn’t feel like it was being gnawed off by a coyote. That counted for something.

  His mind drifted to Leo. Where was his big brother now?

  He didn’t even know what day it was. It felt like they’d been in this hellhole for an eternity. How long had it been? Was it day or night? There was no way to know.

  He decided Leo must be at Luma Bridge by now. He’d blow the thing up soon. Let the Soviet rat bastards chew on that. Anton almost hoped he was still alive when they received the news that their bridge and all their people had been blown to hell.

  Leo was probably making out with Cassie when no one was looking. It didn’t take a genius to know he was totally into the chess nerd. Anton hadn’t seen Leo so crazy about a girl since Jennifer. It didn’t even seem weird that Cassie was Jessic
a’s sister. The two girls were nothing alike.

  “Do you remember that time we had a sleepover on Leo’s tenth birthday?” Tate’s question floated out of the darkness.

  “I remember you guys being punks and locking me out of my own bedroom.”

  Tate chuckled. Anton smiled in spite of himself, recalling his eight-year-old self pounding on the bedroom door while the older boys laughed their asses off inside. The memory was soft at the edges. It was a good one. Jim had still been alive. Anton’s biggest worry in the world had been figuring out how to get on the other side of that bedroom door and making sure the older boys included him in everything.

  “It was Dal who finally let you in,” Tate said. “He was always nicer than the rest of us.”

  “Remember when we tried to make Lena wet the bed?”

  That had been later in the evening, when Leo and the older boys had grown tired of taunting him. They’d hatched a plan to try and make Lena wet the bed. There had been a rumor circulating around the upper grades about sticking a sleeping person’s fingertips into a bowl of warm water while they slept. Supposedly, this would make a person pee while they slept.

  “God, how could I forget?” Tate said. "Leo got a face full of wet water. Nonna was furious at us for waking up everyone in the house.”

  “Mom made us do Lena’s chores for an entire week.” Even that was a happy memory.

  “Wasn’t that her week to turn the compost beds?”

  “Yep. It was her week to scrub toilets, too.” Funny how being tortured made the little shit seem rosy. Anton clung to the feeling, drawing comfort from it in the cold darkness. He missed his family more than anything. Dredging up that old memory made him feel closer to them, most especially his parents.

  He never really talked about how much he missed them, his mother especially. He’d been close to both parents, but even more so to his mom. She got him in ways his father never did.

  “Don’t compare yourself to Leo, sweetie,” she used to say when no one else was around. “You’re each special in your own way.”