“The First Offensive?” Leo frowned. “What’s that?”
“From what I gathered, that’s the name of this attack. It’s only the first wave of their invasion. There are more troops coming.”
Leo thought his eyes might pop from his head. Equivalent expressions were on the faces of Jennifer, Anton, and Bruce.
“When?” Jennifer asked.
“Don’t know. My guess would be soon,” Tate said.
“We gotta get out of here.” Leo needed time to process this new information and what it might mean.
In the back of his mind, he’d assumed the American military would beat the Russians back in a week or less. But with the zombies and more Soviets on their way ... “Guys, can we take the truck with the dead cow? We could use the meat.”
“Only if you take us with you,” Jim said.
“We want to go with you guys and fight Russians,” Tate added.
Anton’s brows shot up. He gave Leo a look, but said nothing.
Leo had to admit, he liked the idea of fighting Russians and defending his home. A lot. He felt more alive than he’d felt in years. Like he had a purpose beyond mere physical survival. And they had been a pretty good team. As evidenced by the fact that they were alive and the Russians were all dead.
He and Anton were the sharp shooters. Quarterbacks, if he were using a football comparison. Bruce wasn’t a great shot, but the teenage tight end was two-hundred pounds of muscle. And Jennifer was the stealth gunner no one saw coming.
And now they had Jim and Tate. The right guard and the running back. Leo could work with this. He’d designed plenty of plays with Coach Brown in high school.
Of course, he’d have to clear all this with his dad when he got back to the cabin. But he was pretty sure his father wouldn’t want to sit and hide with this new information on the First Offensive.
“We need to get your parents,” Leo said. “It’s not safe for them here.”
“They won’t leave the farm,” Tate said.
Leo frowned. “But you said the Russians—”
“The cows have to be milked every day,” Jim explained. “If not, they risk getting mastitis or some other disease. At the very least, their milk will dry up. Dad will never leave, even if that means he has to give most of his production away.”
Leo turned this over in his mind, wondering if there were a way to talk Mr. and Mrs. Craig into leaving. He realized Jim and Tate were right. If he were the one who owned a dairy farm, he wouldn’t leave, either.
He didn’t like leaving the Craigs behind, but there was no way around it.
“If your parents won’t come, we need to make sure they aren’t blamed for what happened here tonight,” Leo said. “Release the cow. We’ll put all the bodies in one truck and set it on fire. That way they won’t know if you guys are dead or alive. We’ll take the truck with the dead cow. Make it look like an ambush.” Which it had been, technically.
No one argued with his plan. It was like being captain of the football team. These guys were his players. Only, this wasn’t a game. It was a fight for the fate of their country.
Soon, the cow was freed and the dead Russians were heaped into the back of the pickup.
“Leo, remember those post-game parties in the Goldschmidt orchard?” Jim asked.
“When you and your brother used to light a match and spit vodka fireballs?"
“Dude, those are legendary.” Bruce’s eyes were wide.
“Time to recreate our childhood glory,” Jim said grimly.
To Leo’s surprise, the guys pulled a short hose out of a glove compartment and began siphoning gas from the truck. After sucking up a mouthful, they spit it out all over the truck, then repeated the process.
“Is that sanitary?” Jennifer leaned close to Leo, keeping her voice low as she watched the operation.
Leo was pretty sure it wasn’t, but he would never disrespect his friends by saying so. “It’s not like they’re swallowing it.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think it’s sanitary.”
“Don’t worry,” Tate said. “We’re not swallowing it.”
Leo couldn’t stop the chuckle that rose in his throat. He couldn’t believe how alive he felt.
Anton cocked a head to him. “I haven’t heard you laugh in ... well, not in a long time. It’s sort of creepy.”
Leo just shrugged.
Tate and Jim continued covering the truck with gasoline. When they were finished, Jim fished a Zippo lighter out of his pocket. “You guys ready to send a big fuck you to these Soviet assholes?”
“Wait. I want to leave a message for mom and dad. So they know we’re okay.” Tate retrieved a can of orange spray paint from the back of one truck. It was the sort of thing farmers kept around to mark areas of a field for various treatments.
“What sort of message?” Leo asked. “You said one of these guys spoke English.” He gestured to the dead Russians. “We can’t leave anything that might give us away.
“And we’re setting the truck on fire,” Jim added. “Where are we going to spray a message if we plan to burn up the truck?”
“Duh. The ground, guys,” Tate said. “We spray the ground all the time.”
“But what message are you going to leave?” Leo asked.
Tate didn’t answer. He bent over the ground and sprawled a single word in orange. Leo and the others crowded in to get a good look. When he read what Tate wrote, pride surged through him.
Tate had spray painted a single word: SNIPER.
Sniper was the direct translation of Cecchino.
“My parents will get the message, but it will confuse the hell out of the Russians,” Tate said. “Take that, communist bastards.”
“Good idea.” Jim nodded his approval. “Mom and Dad will know we’re with the Cecchinos. They know the family story about the great-great so-and-so who fought against Napoleon.”
Leo liked it. A lot. “Save that spray paint,” he told Tate. “We might be able to use that in the future.”
“You guys ready
