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

He eyed the canteen, thinking of all the bigger, older boys who lived in the cabin. “Do you think I should?”

Nonna squinted at him before shaking her head. “Maybe later. When you aren’t practicing with a gun.”

After that, they practiced loading and unloading magazines with bullets. They practiced racking and clicking the safety on and off. This was followed by yet more target practice.

Finally, when Stephenson thought he might faint from exhaustion, Nonna called an end to the practice.

They had been out here for no less than six hours. Stephenson had the beginnings of a blister on his index finger. It was a long slog back to the cabin.

He fully expected Amanda and the others to be home when they got there. She would not believe that he, Jeff Stephenson, had spent the entire day shooting a gun. He couldn’t wait to tell her about the whiskey. He was pretty sure Amanda had never tasted alcohol before.

To his surprise, the hard-packed clearing in front of the cabin was empty.

He and Nonna stopped on the edge of the clearing, both of them staring at the space where Mr. Cecchino’s beat-up brown pick-up should have been. Anxiety knotted in Stephenson’s gut. Amanda, Dal, and Lena should have been back hours ago.

“Something happened,” Stephenson whispered. His mind spun with all the horrible scenarios that could have befallen Amanda and the others. Zombies, Russians, rabid dogs, flat tire—

Nonna’s mouth tightened. Without a word, she marched toward the cabin.

“Nonna?” Stephenson hurried after her. “Where do you think they are?”

She kept walking, her steps light on the wooden stairs leading up to the porch.

“Nonna? Nonna, where—”

She stopped in the doorway. Stephenson almost crashed into her. Nonna turned around to face him, whiskey canteen in one hand.

“I don’t know where they are, Stephenson.” Her lips were in a hard line. “Something happened or they would have been home by now.” She poked him in the chest with an index finger. “We do not cry over possibility in this house. We are going to go inside and make dinner. No tears. Understand?”

Stephenson, pinned by her dark eyes, nodded.

“Good.” She opened the canteen and took a long drink. “Put a little fire in your belly, boy.” She shoved the canteen into his hands before spinning on her heel and disappearing into the house.

31

The Boy with the Painted Face

She dreamed of Nazis chasing her through Mr. Spada’s orchard. Just as the Nazis cornered her at the back of Mr. Spada’s barn, fourteen-year-old Valentina bolted upright in her bed.

“Luca?” she whispered.

Silence greeted her. “Luca?” She squinted as her eyes adjusted, searching for her brother. A lumpy wad of yellow-flowered quilt was the only thing that greeted her.

Her heart still pounded with fear in her chest. Where was Luca?

Valentina wrapped her blanket around her shoulders, licking dry lips as fear shivered through her. She ran her fingers over the canvas backpack she kept under her bed.

The entire family had a backpack, each one filled with supplies in case they needed to make a run for it. Partisan sentiment was strong among the villagers; everyone knew Mussolini and his Nazi friends could sweep through here with soldiers at any time.

Her backpack had one change of clothes, a canteen of water, a small package of nuts, dried meat, and cheese. She always kept her shoes right next to the backpack, just in case she needed to flee in the middle of the night.

Where was Luca?

She crept out of the bedroom she shared with her big brother, holding the blanket around her shoulders like a cape. The yellow-flowered quilt was an exact match to the one on Luca’s bed. Their grandmother had made the blankets for them.

The house was silent. The door to her parent’s bedroom was closed. The gap between the door and the floor was dark, telling Valentina they were indeed asleep.

She heard a soft sound in the living room. Poking her head around the corner, she spotted the dark hair of her brother. A single oil lamp burned on the end table next to the sofa.

Luca knelt on the floor in front of the lamp. He was hunched over, his back to Valentina.

The sight of him filled her with relief. He was probably up reading. He did that sometimes when he couldn’t sleep. Their father prided himself in the family’s collection of books, which sat in a proud row on top of the fireplace hearth.

She padded over the cold wooden floor, beelining in his direction. Maybe he would read to her. She loved it when he did that, even though he was just as apt to tell her to go back to bed. “Luca, will you—”

He jumped in surprise at her approach, spinning around.

Valentina froze. Even though the light in the room was dim, her eyes were well-adjusted. Not even the gloom could hide her brother’s face.

His lips were painted a bright red. Pink rogue colored his cheeks. Dark kohl lined his eyes. Resting in his fingertips were their mother’s brushes and rouge pots.

Shock reverberated between brother and sister. Valentina’s mouth hung open, words clogging up her throat. The horrified look on Luca’s face said more than words ever could.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly. It filled the silence between Valentina and Luca like bolts of thunder.

He moved first. Fists closing around the brushes and tiny rouge jars, he turned his back on her.

“Go back to bed, Valé. You shouldn’t be up at this hour.”

“I—I had a bad dream,” she sputtered.

“Isn’t Mama always telling you not to be afraid? You can’t jump at every little sound like a scaredy mouse. The adults will tell us if we need to be afraid.”

“I—I thought maybe you would read to me—”

“Does it look like I’m reading, Valé?”

He most definitely wasn’t reading. Her mind struggled to reconcile what she had seen him doing. It was a new world view she could hardly comprehend.

“Go back to bed.”

“But what are you doing—”

“I said, go back to bed!”

At the severity in