Zommunist Invasion by Picott, Camille (ebook reader ink TXT) 📗

Tate landed next to Anton on the floor, coughing and hacking. His shaggy hair was plastered to his face. Tate wasn’t treated to another cigarette burn, but he did get half a dozen kicks in the ribs from the Soviet fucker who’d had the pleasure of nearly drowning him.

“You can put a stop to this anytime.” The KGB agent knelt in front of them, puffing away at his fucking cigarette. “Just tell me where the Sniper base is. I can make all this pain stop with the snap of my fingers.”

Anton wanted nothing more than to grab that cigarette and burn out the man’s eyeballs. He was too busy coughing to come up with a witty retort.

Tate didn’t have the same problem. “Fuck you, you Soviet fuck. Rot in hell with your zombies.”

The agent shrugged, taking another long drag. Anton’s first stable breath was tainted by the nicotine smoke.

“Suit yourself.” The agent flicked his hand at the two soldiers. Both lackeys looked like they’d gotten in fist fights, their faces and hands covered with grayish bruises. Hell, maybe they’d beat the shit out of each other.

Anton was hauled up by his hair and dragged back to the bucket. Dread shot through his limbs. He fought hard, swinging his fists at his captor’s stomach.

He got a boot in the crotch for his efforts. As he gagged on the agony, his head was shoved back into the bucket.

Water flooded his body. He bucked against the pain in his crotch even as he fought the water filling his lungs. Darkness ringed the edge of his vision.

Was this it? Was he going to die?

His body twitched. His chest seized. He was dying. Anton knew it as surely as he knew his shoe size.

He was hauled out of the bucket. Barely conscious, he was thrown back to the floor. When a boot laid into his ribs, he could do nothing more than choke up water.

The agent strolled over to Anton. To the lackeys, he said, “They all break. You just need to know how to apply the right pressure.” He punched Anton in the stomach.

When Anton cried out in response, he did it again. And again.

Anton flopped over onto his back. The agent knelt on top of him, pressing a knee into his solar plexus. He twirled a knife between his fingers, smiling down at Anton in cold anticipation.

“You love the uniform of Mother Russia so much,” the agent purred. “Let’s make it permanent.”

He pressed the knife into his flesh, slicing the blade against his upper left chest. Anton smelled the tang of his own blood. He bucked, bellowing, but the agent ground his knee harder into him.

The agent hummed at he worked, puffing on his cigarette as he carved into Anton’s skin. What the fuck was he doing, trying to turn him into a Picasso?

“What the fuck?” Anton screamed. “What the fuck!”

“You know what I want,” the agent purred. “You’d better hurry up before I finish. I’m not sure you’ll like my picture.”

Anton craned his neck. It took him a moment to make sense of what he was seeing through all the blood.

Then he saw it: the distinct star and the curve of the sickle. With a smile, the agent pressed the knife into him as he began to draw the line of the Soviet hammer with into his skin.

It was worse than everything else he’d endured so far. What were two dozen cigarette burns compared to being vandalized? He didn’t have to fake the bulging of his eyes or the frantic thrash of his body.

This was it. He had to send these fuckers on a wild good chase. If he waited any longer, they would kill him. Of that, he had no doubt. As it was, he would wear the symbol of Mother Russia for the rest of his short life.

Anton wanted to go out on his terms. He wanted the satisfaction of knowing they would never, ever find his family. If he had to die, it would be by his choosing.

It wasn’t hard to start crying. He hurt so badly, the tears flowed easily.

He gave himself over to the show. Sobs wracked his body as he sagged onto the stinking floor. He was pretty sure his head was in the damp remains of his urine.

Did he look appropriately broken? He felt broken, at least in his body. Clinging to the mental images of his family kept him strong inside. He had to make these fuckers believe. They had to see a boy truly wrecked.

“Stop!” Anton screamed. “Stop it, I’ll tell you. Goddammit, I’ll tell you!”

Tate played his part to a tee. “Don’t do it, Anton. Don’t you dare—”

A soldier grabbed Tate by the hair and hauled him back to the bucket. His protests were lost in a splash of water.

“Talk.” A new cigarette dangled from the agent’s mouth.

Anton talked. His words came out weak and blubbery. It wasn’t an act. “There’s an old cement cistern at the dam. That’s where they are.”

A plume of smoke hit him in the face. Anton was too weak to cough. It stung his bleary eyes. He tamped down the glare that tried to rise. Broken. He had to look broken in both body and spirit. It was the only way to sell their story.

“The dam, you say?”

“Yes.” Anton tried to nod, but his body hurt too much.

The KGB fuckhead remained crouched on top of him, sucking on his cigarette as he studied Anton. “Young man, I think you may be telling the truth.”

A shudder ran through Anton’s body. This was it. He was going to be executed.

The knowledge dried his tears. He may go out beaten within an inch of his life, but he wasn’t going to go out like a blubbering coward.

He might not want to die, but he was ready for death. It was a welcome trade for the lives of Lena, Nonna, Leo, and Dal. He’d make the trade a thousand times.

“Yes, I do think you might be telling the