Gasoline | Ben Parish

3

FOR the two weeks I'm receiving treatment for the bite, I stay in the Convalescent Wing. It's nice, I guess: my own room, food brought to me at meal times, my own bathroom, a window that shows me the base from six stories up.

But it's difficult, staying in there all day every day. I'm told by a nurse – the same nurse that bathed me – that this is so I can properly heal before I'm 'reassigned' to my new position.

I'm used to constantly being on the move. After my parents died a few months ago, it's all I've known. It became normal. It became instinct.

This, just sitting here or pacing or staring at myself in the mirror, is like a closing cage. The only time I'm allowed to leave the room is when Parker comes to escort me to Dr. Pam's office for new dressings or shots.

Needless to say, it's driving me nuts. Well, more nuts than I already am.

I do like being alone, though. That's another thing I got used to quickly when I was out there: trusting no one and staying by myself.

On my last day in the private room, the door slides open. I'm a bit confused; I've already seen Dr. Pam today. I received my last shot and even got to reduce the bandaging on my arm. I'm going to be moved tomorrow morning. It's too early for dinner. So what the hell..?

It's the man from the Humvee, the one that ordered me to drop my knife, the one that didn't care if Parker saved me or not.

He's taller than I remember. That may be because I'm sitting down when he walks in. His eyes are an icy blue, and just as cold as he takes me in: hair in a loose bun, white jumpsuit baggy in some places, shoes off.

I don't jump to attention. I know I should. He's wearing a neat military uniform with some sort of officer insignia. It's obvious that he's high up in the ranks; he holds himself the way Tram did.

But he's a soldier. And I don't like soldiers.

"Do you know who I am?" He asks in a slow drawl.

I raise an eyebrow. "No," I tell him. It sounds to me like he's a little butthurt that I didn't lurch to my feet and immediately start praising him.

"I'm Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Vosch," he waits for this information to register on my face. It doesn't. I continue to stare at him blankly. I don't give a damn what he is. "I'm commander of this base."

"Oh," I straighten my back a little. "You should've opened with that."

He gives me a smile, but it seems fake, forced. "I heard that you're a mouthy one."

I just shrug. I mean, there's no use in denying it. He makes an amused "hmm" sound and nods to himself. "Reznik is going to have fun with you."

"Who is Reznik?"

He ignores my question, taking calculated, slow, deliberate steps towards the window. He stares at the bustle way down below, watching the soldiers scurry to and fro. "I saw your Wonderland profile," he says, slowly turning back to me. "You sure are something, aren't you? Have almost physically died three times, and yet here you are."

He stands like there's a firm stick against his back. "But you're already dead, aren't you? You're dead where it counts – in here." He's suddenly standing right in front of me, tip of his callused finger jammed against my left rib cage. Over my heart.

I wet my dry lips. "I guess you could say that," I hold his gaze.

"It's turned you into something, something dangerous, something destructive, something... murderous." He removes his hand but still stays in my face. I think it's supposed to be an intimidation thing. It doesn't work. I have nothing to lose, so I'm not intimidated.

"You think liking the kill makes you crazy," he studies my arm, with the small Ace band aid over the water proof dressing. "But I'm here to tell you it doesn't. Do you want to know why?"

"Yeah."

"Because you have every right to like killing them," he continues in the same breath, like I'd never even spoken. "I like killing them. Look what they did to us." He stretches his arms out. "They're pressing their heels down on the heads of humanity and demanding it to be squashed. Why?"

I say, "I don't know, sir."

"It was a rhetorical question," he bats my answer away. "It doesn't matter why they're doing it; it just matters that they are."

I nod. "So what do we do?"

There it is – the look that was in Dr. Pam and Parker's eyes. It's blazing in Vosch's. He's looking at me like I cured cancer or enacted world peace. Like I'm the solution to everything.

"We fight back," he says. "That's what we do. We tell the alien bastards to bring it on, and we show them where to stick it. We give them a taste of who they are messing with. We let them know that this will not be an easy victory."

I nod firmly. I can feel the rage pulsing through me, that fire licking my veins and engulfing my heart. "You think we have a chance?"

"I don't know," he tells me honestly. "But I'm not going down without a fight. Not after all they've done. Are you?"

I stand. "No sir."

He smiles then – and this one is real. "Of course you won't. You're too strong." He moves towards the door. I'm guessing our chat is over. As he steps out, he turns to look at me with that look again. "Tomorrow morning, you'll report to Squad 53."