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

where she could escape the memories of Luca’s murder was stronger than the need for love.

Giuseppe had been a good man. She’d been lucky in that respect. He’d been good to her all her life and she’d grown to love him deeply over the years.

But not even a gentle life with a kind man could erase the shame of her childhood.

“Nonna?” Stephenson sniffled, head resting on her shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Was your brother killed for being like me?”

His words tapped into a long-buried well of emotion. “Yes.”

“He wasn’t really killed by fascists, was he?”

Nonna felt her eyes grow wet. They kept doing that around Stephenson. “He was killed by our cousin. I helped him cover it up.”

It was the first time she had ever uttered those words out loud. It felt like a great, heavy darkness leaving her body. Her body shuddered from the exodus.

“We told everyone a fascist had done it.” She didn’t make excuses. There was no excuse for what she had done.

“How old were you when it happened?” Stephenson asked.

“Fourteen.”

“Just a kid.”

Nonna sighed. “Just a kid. My brother was barely eighteen. Same for my cousin.”

“What happened to him? Your cousin, I mean?”

“He joined the partisans shortly after Luca died. Came back a war hero.” The entire village regaled in tales of Marcello’s heroics in the war against the fascists and their Nazi allies. She supposed they could be true.

Could a thousand shiny deeds against the Nazis erase the darkest treachery? She’d long ago given up trying to answer that question.

“What do you think would have happened if Luca had shown up one day dressed like a girl?” Stephenson asked.

Nonna had asked herself this question a million times. There was only one answer. “He would have been disowned by the family and condemned by the church if he didn’t change his ways.”

“You still think God didn’t make a mistake? When he made me and your brother, he didn’t mess up?”

Nonna shook her head emphatically. “Hate didn’t end with World War II. It just mutated. People all over use hatred for a weapon. Maybe it’s not Jews being killed, but people are still dying for no good reason. People are killed over religion, skin color, or just for being different like you.” She gave him a squeeze, needing to hold him as much as Stephenson needed to be held.

“I believe God makes people like you and my Luca on purpose,” she said, voice scratchy from a lifetime of buried sorrow. “You are here to help us all change. We can lay down arms and find a new way to live together, or we can stay at war.”

“I—it never occurred to me that I might be part of God’s plan.” He licked his lips. “You really think my existence is part of something bigger?”

She could hear how much this idea impacted him. “Of course. We are all part of God’s plan. Some of us just have bigger roles to play than others.”

The trick, of course, was embracing your role in the divine plan.

God did not always make things easy on his children. Luca never had a chance.

Stephenson didn’t ask any more questions after that. He remained with his head on Nonna’s shoulder. She kept her arm around him, the stars growing blurry as she fought back tears.

Caught up in her memories, she didn’t see the first mutant until it smacked into the rain gutter on the side of the house.

40

Apocalyptic Princess of Power

Stephenson jumped as the mutant slammed into the side of the Cecchino cabin. The monster latched onto the rain gutter, his roar vibrating across Stephenson’s body. He froze in shock.

Nonna bolted into action. Rolling onto her knees, she snatched the machine gun that rested on the rooftop beside her. As the mutant scrambled into view, she fired.

The mutant’s head exploded. Nonna was a killer shot, even in the dark.

Stephenson recovered from his shock. “Move your butt, Princess of Power,” he muttered. Scooping up his machine gun, he jumped to his feet.

Growls materialized out of the darkness, drifting up around the cabin. With a sick sense of dread, Stephenson realized they were surrounded.

They’d only seen four mutants on the road with the cyclists. “Does it sound like there are more than four down there?” he hissed.

“Yes,” Nonna said.

Oh, God. Stephenson gritted his teeth, hands tightening on his gun. He’d been an idiot to assume there had only been four mutants. Just because he had only seen four didn’t mean there weren’t more—as evidenced by the growling around them.

If ever there was a time to transform into a Princess of Power, it was now. No more shrinking. If he wanted to live, it was time to fight. The Soviet machine gun in his arms might not be She-Ra’s Sword of Protection, but it would do.

“If I don’t make it through the night, make sure my real name is carved onto the wall of Not Forgotten,” he whispered.

Nonna’s nostrils flared. Her eyes narrowed. “There will be no need to carve any name on the wall of Not Forgotten. You’re going to survive.”

He sure as hell hoped so.

A mutant pounded loudly up the steps to the cabin porch and slammed into the cabin. Nonna and Stephenson turned at the same time to see a pair of bloody hands curl around the edge of the roof.

Defying every survival instinct, Stephenson shimmied down the sloped roof. He headed straight toward the emerging mutant as he fired. He kept his knees bent to counterbalance the angle of the shingles.

The monster’s head was out of site, but one leg had found purchase on the ledge.

Stephenson marched right to the edge and fired ruthlessly into the leg. Simultaneously, he stomped on the fingers of the mutant hand, daring to lean over the side of the roof. A snarling mutant zombie growled up at him, the face crisscrossed with infected veins.

The mutant swiped, free hand closing around his ankle. Stephenson fired into his face.

The mutant dropped, but the hand was still around his ankle.

Stephenson went down, landing hard on