Zommunist Invasion | Book 3 | Scattered Picott, Camille (best ereader for pc .TXT) 📖

Juli shook her head, smiling affectionately at Nonna. “Nonna looked after me.”

“We looked after each other,” Nonna corrected.

“Any word from Anton or Leo?” Lena asked.

Juli flicked a glance at Nonna before shaking her head. “No word from either of them.”

Fatigue hit Nonna with the force of a freight train. As she swallowed the last of her chamomile tea, she felt her age.

Ten years ago, she would have bustled everyone into action in the early dawn hours and cleaned the cabin from top to bottom. She always could work harder and longer than everyone else in the family.

But soreness was beginning to set in. Her body ached from the rooftop battle. It was the dive she’d taken across the roof to save Juli. That maneuver was for someone ten years—no, twenty years—younger.

She wasn’t the only one who was exhausted. Lena looked like she was half asleep on Dal’s shoulder. Amanda kept blinking and rubbing her eyes.

The cabin could be cleaned as easily later as it could be now. As much as it irritated her to admit it, sleep was more important now.

“Let’s get some sleep.” She rose from the table, collecting a pile of plates. “Everyone can have a three minute shower.”

Since their water heater was powered by propane, hot showers were highly allocated. But they’d all earned a hot shower today, herself included.

“Really?” Lena sat up, eyes rounding as she looked at Nonna. “I figured you’d want to clean this place till it was spotless.”

“Oh, I do,” Nonna replied. “And we will. After a hot shower and some sleep.”

It was the sound of water hissing in the pipes that woke Nonna from a deep, dreamless sleep. She sat up, listening.

Someone was in the shower. She heard water hitting the tile walls. A glance at the window told her it had to be near noon.

Everyone in the cabin had showered after breakfast. So who was in the shower?

Her heart leaped into her throat. Grabbing her bathrobe, she got out of bed. Her body protested, but she ignored it and rushed into the main room.

Anton stood beside the coffee maker, his back to her. He wore nothing but a pair of bloody, filth-encrusted fatigue pants. Even from across the room, Nonna detected the scent of piss clinging to him.

His feet were bare. He wore no shirt. Nonna froze mid-step, her eyes tracing the wounds on her grandson’s back. Her eyes might not be what they used to be, but she knew cigarette burns when she saw them. Alongside them were bruises, cuts, and scrapes.

She must have made a sound because Anton turned. Her throat constricted at the sight of him.

The boy who stood before her wasn’t Anton. At least, not the Antony Cecchino who had snuck away from the cabin with his friend on an impulsive, pointless mission.

The Anton who stood before her was almost a stranger. It wasn’t the cigarette burns on his face, neck, chest, and ribcage that made her heart nearly stop. It wasn’t the Soviet insignia that had been carved onto his chest with a knife, either. It wasn’t even the bruises that covered every square inch of his body that broke her heart.

It was his eyes. The eyes that stared out at her from her grandson’s face were the eyes of a young man she was meeting for the first time. They were flat, humorless, and vacant.

He looked at her, face as expressionless as his eyes. It took all of Nonna’s willpower not to break down at the sight of him. But she had not survived the World War II because she was weak.

Nonna was strong. She had always prided herself on that. Even when she had buried her brother and covered up the facts around his death, she knew she had the strength to continue living.

She would not cry for her grandson. He deserved better than that. It was clear he had gone through hell to make it back here. His body said he had been captured and tortured. By some miracle of God, he had escaped and survived. She would not disgrace his strength by bursting into tears.

“Surprise.” He made an attempt to smile, failed, and resumed looking at her. “Bet you never thought you’d see me again.”

She didn’t ask about the Craigs. Their absence was enough. If they were still alive, they would be here.

Tate must be in the shower. She could hardly comprehend what she might see when he came out.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Antony. You missed breakfast.”

“Sorry I’m late, Nonna.”

The bloody carving of the Soviet insignia on his chest blared out at her. The sight of it threatened to buckle her knees. The blistered lumps of cigarette burns on his jaw, neck, and body told a story she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear. The rank smell of piss was stronger than ever.

“I’ll make lunch for you boys. A nice venison pasta is just what you need.” She bustled across the room to her pantry.

Looking at the neat row of homemade spaghetti sauce gave her a moment to stuff down the wail of despair that wanted to burst from her throat. She would not cry for her grandson. No matter what, she would not cry.

“You’re going to need me to look at those wounds.” She turned around, jar in hand, and forced herself to survey his body with a critical eye. “Those communist bastards were not kind to you.”

“No, they weren’t.” Anton looked down at himself. “Not nice at all.”

The bathroom door opened. Footsteps sounded in the hall. Nonna turned, bracing herself for the sight of Tate Craig, but Anton moved to block her view.

“Wait a second, Koz,” he called. To Nonna, he said, “There’s someone I need you to meet, Nonna. Where’s your rifle?”

She narrowed her eyes at her grandson. “Right here.” She hefted it from where it rested next to the pantry.

“Give it to me for a sec.”

“No.” If he wanted her to put her rifle aside, it was because