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

the town jail and hope to God they could find the Craigs.

As he and Tate pulled a rotting corpse out of the pick-up, uneasiness turned in his gut. Anton heard his bother’s voice again.

At best, it will be a suicide mission.

At worst, you’ll get yourself captured.

It was all well and good to say they were going to rescue the Craigs from the Russians, but what, exactly, would that entail? Did the two of them really stand a chance?

He shoved aside the worry, determined to stick by Tate to the end. That’s what friends did. That’s how he had been raised. He would’t turn his back on a friend like Leo had.

Anton drove. Tate sat in the passenger seat with the window down, the barrel of his machine gun resting on the edge as he kept a constant surveillance of their surroundings.

They passed a few mutants on their way to Rossi. Most of them were far away and didn’t present an issue. Any time one came onto the road and charged the truck, Tate gunned him down.

A few miles from Rossi, Anton reluctantly pulled the truck over on the side of the road. “I’d feel better if our escape vehicle were closer to the city limits.”

“We can steal another car from town after we have my parents.”

“I wish we had some of Nonna’s bombs.” Anton and Tate had been forced to sneak away from the cabin; there hadn’t been an opportunity to snatch bombs.

Tate set his jaw. “Bombs would just draw attention.”

“Way to see the glass half full, dude.”

Tate said nothing. He jumped out of the truck, slung his machine gun over one shoulder, and marched down the road in the direction of town. Anton joined him.

It took them an hour to reach the Rossi city limits. By that time, the sun was setting.

“Perfect timing,” Tate grunted. “We can sneak into the city when it’s dark.”

“Are you hungry? I’m starving.” That was another thing they hadn’t brought with them when they fled the cabin: food. “Let’s find a house. We can’t break your parents out of a KGB prison cell on an empty stomach.”

He’d meant it as a joke—sort of—but from the look on Tate’s face, he hadn’t found the comment funny. Anton checked a sigh. He could be a dick sometimes, even when he didn’t mean to.

“Come on, I see a house over there.” Tate pointed past an apple orchard to where several houses clustered in a line on the edge of the road.

They approached the first of the dwellings and went around back. A few knocks on a rear window were met with silence. They decided to chance it and broke inside.

Anton almost gagged as they stepped into the home. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to the smell of dead zombie.

If the smell bothered Tate, he didn’t let it show. He swept through the house with his machine gun, checking all the rooms and closets to make sure they were alone.

Anton went into the kitchen in search of food. He caught a glimpse of himself in a long mirror that hung on the wall near the dining room table.

Pausing before it, his eyes roved up an down the Soviet uniform he now wore. The Soviet star, sickle, and hammer were bright red on the breast of the fatigues. Dried blood flecked the collar parts of the shirt, nearly invisible if you didn’t know where to look. Overall, the uniform was a good fit. He might be able to pass as a Russian asshole. At least, until he opened his mouth and English came out.

The wrongness of it all stole through him. He wanted to tear it off his body and burn it.

This is for the Craigs, he reminded himself.

“Family of five,” Tate reported, coming into the kitchen. “All dead. Nezhit virus killed them.”

“Fucking Russians.” Anton tore himself away from the mirror and turned his mind to more important matters: food. Pulling a few cans of refried beans out of a cupboard, he tossed them onto the counter with a can opener.

He left Tate to dig in while he searched the rest of the cabinets. He paused as he opened the cupboard over the refrigerator and found three bottles of liquor bottles staring back at him. Anton studied to row of golden and clear liquid, his mind working.

“Forget it, man,” Tate said. “No way are we taking any shots before going into Rossi.”

“That’s not what I was thinking.” Anton plucked out a bottle of bourbon. He was tall enough that he could reach the cupboard without a stool.

“What does this look like to you?” He set the bottle onto the counter in front of Tate, who shoved refried beans into his mouth.

“Like a bottle of Jim Beam.”

“Right. But what else?” Anton’s excitement rose as his idea solidified.

“I don’t know.” Tate’s voice was edged with impatience.

“It looks like a bomb in the making.” Anton couldn’t help grinning with pride as he swept his hand in the direction of the liquor cabinet. “We have three large bombs in the making.”

“Dude.” Tate stood up so fast he knocked over the stool he’d been sitting on. “Good idea.”

“I know, right?” Anton returned to the cabinet, pulling out the rest of the bottles. “How about that for improvisation?”

“Better than a quarter back sneak. I was full of shit when I said our mission was better off without bombs.”

“I know, man.” Anton considered the bottles. “They’ll be heavy to carry.” He hadn’t thought about that when he first cooked up this scheme.

“They’re worth their weight.” Tate dug through drawers, pulling out a fistful of towels when he found them. “We’ll wrap them in the towels, then use the towels for the fuses when we get into Rossi.”

They found some backpacks—yet another thing they’d ridden off without—and a lighter. After filling their stomachs, they wrapped the liquor bottles in the towels and shoved them into the backpacks.

Anton felt the heaviness of foreboding as he settled the backpack across his shoulders. He ignored the feeling,