Gasoline | Ben Parish

8

I stare up into his dark eyes, surprised to find amusement in them. "Some killer you are, Croak." He taunts lowly, so that no one else can hear. "Can't even accomplish a simple break."

That's it. That's exactly what I need.

I bare my teeth, giving a huff, and use the one part of my body that isn't being held down: my head. I thrust the crown of my head right into his face.

Crack – that's the sound of his nose breaking.

Smack – that's the sound of me flipping him over onto the mats.

Wham – that's the sound of my fist making contact with his jaw. One, two, three solid hits.

Arms are around me, lifting me off Flintstone. I thrash for a second, still in the moment, until I recognize the voice: Zombie. "Croak, stand down! Croak!"

Panting, I stop my movements. Hesitantly, Zombie sets me down.

I gasp for air, shoulders bouncing in my struggle. Tank and Dumbo are crouched over the heavily-bleeding Flintstone. Everyone else is gazing at me with something in their eyes. I can't tell what it is.

Reznik comes into view, beaming like the bastard he is. "That's more like it!" He howls, sending me a grin before standing over Flintstone. "Damn, son! I think she split your unibrow!"

___

WHEN the buzzer goes off and everyone heads for the mess hall, I head in the opposite direction.

"Croak!" Teacup calls after me.

Damn it. I was hoping to sneak away. I keep stalking down the hall, letting her run to catch up with me.

"Where are you going?"

"Bathroom."

"There are bathrooms near the mess hall-"

"I know."

"Then why are you-"

"Just piss off, Teacup. I'll be at lunch in a second and then you can rant about how cool I am for landing Flint with Dr. Pam for the afternoon, okay?"

She stops chasing me after that. A small part of me wonders if I hurt her feelings. I shake those thoughts off and quicken my steps to the Barracks.

As soon as I step inside the entry way to 10, I suck in as much air as I possibly can. I rip the elastic from my hair, running my fingers through it harshly before looping strands around my hands and pulling harshly.

Mary Beth came back today during hand-to-hand. That's bad. Mary Beth is supposed to be dead. She can't afford to be anything else; she wouldn't be able to survive in this world otherwise. Isn't the way I locked up underneath Flintstone enough proof of that?

And this, now: me shaking and crying and tugging on my hair, on my knees on the floor – that's Mary Beth, too. She's weak. She's emotional. She's alive. She's trying to tear her way out of my blackened heart, struggling to tread water, struggling to swallow the blood, struggling to push away the dog.

She's dead, she's dead, she's dead.

I'm Croak. I'm a killer. I have an attitude. I'm emotionless.

As I shake, I force myself to picture Mom. I force myself to picture Dad. I force myself to picture Tram. Then I tell myself that they're all dead. I make myself re-live their deaths.