Gasoline | Ben Parish

8

THE next day the squad attends a follow-up lesson on hand-to-hand combat. I say follow-up because they've been instructed in this area before, pre-Croak. So they're all killin' it, and I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. Lucky me.

"Croak!" Reznik shouts as Teacup – Teacup – knocks me on my ass and pins me in less than a second. "What the hell are you doin'?"

"Learning, sir!" I roll onto my stomach, bringing up my knees, rising to my feet, slowly straightening my back. Jesus. Teacup may not look like much, but she can sure as hell hit hard.

"Really? 'Cause all you seem to be doin' is lyin' on your back! You like that?"

Okay. Usually I find Reznik kind of funny, but that crossed the line. I grit my teeth. "No sir!"

The entire training room is silent. Everyone has completed the hold and successfully broken it – everyone but me, that is.

Teacup pushes her hair out of her face in a huff. It's coming down out of the ponytail I yanked it into this morning – despite her screaming and bitching about me pulling too hard. Zombie made me put it back. Reznik actually brought scissors in the other morning and pretended to snip Teacup's silky locks since they weren't up.

"Really, now? 'Cause it sure doesn't seem like it to me." He whirls around then, hands clasped behind his back. "Flintstone! Get over here, big boy! It's your lucky day!"

I can almost hear the silent, sharp intake of breath among the cadets. For hand-to-hand combat, we're only to have partners that are the same gender as we are. It's fair that way, and... not weird, I guess. Appropriate is probably a better word than weird. Teacup is the only other chick in my squad, so we're each other's partners.

But now...

I keep my chin raised as Flintstone's heavy footfalls draw closer. His eyes are dark, brow sweaty. He spares me a brief look up and down before standing at attention. "Sir!"

Reznik prowls closer to me. "You're going to provide Croak some incentive, here, Flintstone! You're going to execute the hold on her. Let's see how well she breaks it now." He's grinning. Reznik thinks his plan is brilliant. I think it's almost as shitty as he is.

Flintstone steps toward me, eyes slightly lidded. He smirks at me before grabbing my arm.

I'm supposed to drop a hammer-fist onto his forearm three times before turning my wrist and sliding away forcefully. But for whatever reason, I'm not able to get enough power into my hammer-fist. Or maybe I'm not twisting and pulling at the same time.

I drive my hand down three precise times before rotating and heaving with all my might.

It doesn't work.

Flintstone draws me in easily, dropping us to the floor and pinning my wrists above my head.

I can feel my heart begin to pound, thrumming through my body, even echoing in my ear. I've felt fear before – fear for my life, fear for my family, fear for my sanity – but never like this. It's... different.

I feel small. I feel helpless. I feel alone. I know everyone is standing around and watching. I know Flintstone, no matter how much of an ass he is, would never do that. I know I'm perfectly safe.

But the sensations are still there: his body pressing against mine, his sweat dripping onto my forehead, his hot pants hitting my lips. I can't move, no matter how much I squirm – and I do. I'm bucking wildly but it's no use. Legs are pinned by his. Torso is held down by his. Arms are conquered by his. Nothing's free, everything's lost.