He tore out from under the bleachers, sprinting for his truck. Dammit, he hadn’t wanted Anton to see him so he parked it a block away near the front of the high school.
Leo’s boots pounded on the pavement. He ran hard, ironically grateful to all his years in the apple orchard. They had left him strong and fit.
He reached the Chevy truck he’d bought his junior year. The blue paint gleamed from the waxing he’d given it just last week.
As he reached the door, three soldiers boiled out of the school. Half a dozen students ran before them, scattering in all directions as they screamed in terror.
Leo got his first good look at the Soviet weapons. Every man was armed with two guns. A machine gun was in one hand, but in the other was some type of dart gun. Red darts rested in a long magazine sticking out from the top of the gun. What the hell was in those darts?
The Soviets alternated between weapons. Sometimes they fired bullets, sometimes they fired darts. If there was a method to what they did, Leo couldn’t see what it was. Several students fell, shot from behind. The remaining ones ran away, two of them with darts in the backs of their necks.
Leo jumped into his truck, fingers shaking as he jammed the keys into the ignition. He slammed his foot on the accelerator and tore down the street just as one of the Russians opened fire on him. Bullets thudded into the back of his truck.
He was going away from the Russians, but that also meant he was going away from the football field. Leo reached the front of the school and made a hard left, heading around the block to get to the field from the other direction.
Hold on, Anton, he thought. Don’t do anything stupid before I get there.
He tore around the school, dodging teachers, enemy soldiers, and kids. The streets were chaos. His only thought was to reach Anton.
As soon as the field was in sight, he floored it. He drove onto the sidewalk, past the swimming pool, and over the concrete walkway around the track. He was nearly to the bleachers when a group of kids came running out of the concession stand.
“Leo!”
It was Anton. And he was with Bruce, Lars, and Adam, three of his varsity friends. Leo bellowed with wordless relief. He slammed so hard on the brakes, the truck fishtailed. The smell of burned rubber filled the air.
Adam was leaning heavily on Anton and Lars. He’d been shot in his upper torso. Blood stained the front of his varsity uniform, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
Two Soviets appeared on the far side of the bleachers. As soon as they saw Leo’s truck, they shouted and ran towards them. Darts flew in their direction. A few of them plinked off the back of the truck.
Lars barked as he was hit with a dart. “Fuck, I’m hit guys!”
“Hurry!” Leo shouted.
The boys heaved Adam into the back, then piled in after him. Lars scratched at the back of his neck, yanking out the dart that had lodged in his flesh.
“Go!” Anton pounded on the side of the truck. “Go, Leo!”
Tires squealed as Leo tore away from the bleachers, heading away from Bastopol High and the Soviet invaders.
Chapter 5Triage
RUSSIANS WERE HERE. Russians were here. On American soil.
What the fuck?
Lena would never let them hear the end of it.
Leo barreled down a country road, the speedometer bouncing at the 100 mark as he sped home.
The Soviets could attack at any time, his mom used to say. It will be World War III before we know it.
“I thought it would be nukes,” cried Bruce, an offensive tight end. “Shit man, this is an invasion!”
His words carried through the small open window at the back of the truck cab. The boys were in a full-scale panic. To be honest, Leo wasn’t doing much better. He held it together because there was no other choice.
“I got hit by one of those darts! What the fuck is going to happen to me?” said Lars, one of the team linebackers. His voice was shrill with panic. “What do you think is in those things?” He scratched at the back of his neck where the dart had been. “Why the fuck is this happening, man?”
“It’s the Russians.” Anton sat with Adam’s head on his leg, pressing his hands against the other boy’s wound.
“I know it’s the Russians!” Lars screamed.
Anton banged on the top of the cab. “Drive faster,” he hollered. “We’re going to lose Adam!”
Leo’s mouth tightened. The speedometer only went to 120.
Screw it. He’d rather blow up the car than risk losing Adam. He pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor. Apple orchards blurred past on either side of them.
Nonna would know what to do. She’d survived the Nazis in Italy as a kid. She’d know how to help Adam.
Dirt and grit sprayed up from the tires as Leo hit the dirt road and sped toward the Cecchino farm. “Hold on!” he shouted. From his periphery, he saw Anton bend over Adam in an effort to keep him from bouncing.
The back end of the truck skidded sideways as Leo slammed on the breaks in front of the house. Lars jumped out of the back, yelling about Russians. Bruce stared, slack-jawed. He looked like shock was setting in.
“Bruce,” Anton snapped. “Help me!”
The other boy shook himself, turning to grab Adam’s feet. Leo helped the two of them wrestle the bleeding boy out of the pickup. Adam was a big kid, an offensive lineman. He had to weigh at least two-hundred and fifty pounds.
They had just gotten him to the ground when Mr. Cecchino appeared.
His dad absorbed the scene in a single blink: the hysterical Lars, the bleeding Adam, and the disheveled state of Bruce and his sons.
Rather than panic, a steely look overcame his features. “What happened?” he barked.
“Russians,” Leo said. “They’re attacking.”
Mr. Cecchino’s gaze tracked from Adam
