Gasoline | Ben Parish

8

When I get my breathing under control, I give him the most threatening look I can manage. "If you-"

"I won't tell anyone." He immediately promises. "I would never tell anyone about this."

I stare at him for a long time. "Good," I finally say. I bump his shoulder as I head to the bathroom. "So who tipped you off?" I ask as I drop the cloth at the bottom of the laundry basket, hidden under all the towels used this morning.

"Teacup came to lunch looking a little down," he informs. I catch his eye in the mirror before popping my neck. "You were missing. I figured something happened."

"So you took it upon yourself to come and check on me?" The words taste like poison, and they come out just as venomous.

Zombie, to my surprise, cracks a smile. "Hey, squad leader, remember?" He jerks a thumb toward himself. When I don't smile back, it fades from his face. "Look, remember how I said that I needed someone to have my back, and you said that you would?"

I sigh and turn to face him. He's closer than the mirror let on. I tilt my head back slightly to look in his eyes.

"Well, it goes both ways." A small smile, trying to coax one out of me. I want to, really bad, but I hold it in. In fact, I feel myself revert back to Croak.

I advert my gaze, studying the shower stalls over his shoulder. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm fine. I don't need anyone. I'll be your back-up, but that doesn't mean I want you tailing me all the time on some kind of guilt trip, trying to pay me back." Then I march away from him, back out into the Barrack.

He stomps after me. "That didn't look fine." He thunders, pointing to the place I had been standing earlier. Funny, I never noticed, but I was in front of his bed. "And this isn't a guilt trip or whatever. I actually want to look out for you because you're looking out for me. This goes both ways, all right? We're a team. We stick together and we help each other."

I purse my lips. "Maybe I don't want you to look out for me. Like I said, I don't need anyone."

He lets out a laugh. It's a little jarring, how much Zombie resembles his namesake. Sunken eyes, rattling jaw, bared teeth. It's dark and twisted and genuine. Zombie, what happened to you?

"You can lie to everyone, Croak. You can pretend that you're some tough little soldier who doesn't hurt and doesn't need anyone, but I know. I just saw proof that it's all a lie, that you're just as human as the rest of us. Even if you won't admit it to yourself, I know."

___

NEEDLESS to say, I don't talk to Zombie for the rest of the day – well, after we have a spat at the lunch table. Am I being childish by giving him the silent treatment? No, I don't think so. I think the asshole deserves it. Plus I have nothing to say to him.

We enter the mess hall quietly, the tension between us tangible. The squad picks up on it immediately when we sit down for lunch.

Tank glances over at me. "Your hair's a little messy, Croak." A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. I know what he's implying.

I eyeball him for ten seconds, nothing but hate pouring off of me.

He holds his hands up in surrender. "Geez, just making an observation. No need to get pissy."

The knife I'm holding slams down into the table, inches from his hand. It misses just because he flinches at the right second.

Zombie's quick to come down on me. "Private, stand down." He growls. "That's an order. You keep acting out and I'm going to have to punish you."

"Bite me."

The table goes quiet. Everyone is looking back and forth between me and Zombie, waiting to see his next move. I'm a little curious too. Is he going to stay true to his word?

Before he can say anything, Teacup snickers to Oompa, "Sounds like they need to have sex."

I don't think. I launch myself across Zombie, ready to tear that sloppy ponytail right off her head.

Dumbo's arms are wrapped around my hips; Zombie around my chest. They struggle to shove me back into my seat without any adults noticing.

I'm trembling from rage when Zombie calmly takes half of my portions and scoots them to Poundcake, who looks at me cautiously before robotically tossing them in the trash. Good move.

I get in Zombie's face and snarl, "Fuck you." Then I get up, knee banging against the underside of the table and shaking everyone's tray and eating utensils. Other squads are looking. I've even caught the adults' attention. Reznik glances up from his plate, mild interest playing in his eyes.

Zombie holds my deadly gaze with a hard look of his own. "Get out of here and cool off." He commands.

Don't have to tell me twice.

___

I'M so pissed off that I don't even think about where I'm going, I just let my feet lead the way.

So you could say I'm a little surprised when I wind up outside of Dr. Pam's room.

Of course. I spent so much time with her, she reminds me so much of Mom... and I walked the halls to her room every day for two weeks straight. The way to her is permanently engrained in my memory.

I raise my fist to knock. In my right mind – in my Croak mind – I wouldn't even consider knocking. Croak doesn't care. Croak doesn't have manners, unless you count cleaning up a bloody mess after killing someone.

But I knock. Mary Beth is back at it again, goddamn it. She always comes at the most inconvenient times. Dr. Pam is good at bringing her out.

"Come in."

Her voice relaxes my muscles. I slump as I push open the door.

Dr. Pam is bent over a lump on the examination table. It takes me a second to realize that the lump is actually a person, and that person is Flintstone.

When she sits up, she seems surprised. Then she smiles. "It's nice to see you again-"

"Croak." I say flatly. She always calls me Mary Beth. I don't want Flintstone to know my real name. I can't tell you why. It just feels too personal.

"Croak," she inclines her head with a smile. "What brings you here?"

I hold up my right hand. "Can I get some ice? I'm the one who messed up the face you're working on right now."

Flintstone snorts, flecks of blood spraying across the table underneath him. "Hey, Croak."

I ignore him. Dr. Pam has gotten up and is pulling a blue sack from the small freezer beneath one of the many cabinets. "Here you go," she passes it to me gingerly. "Take a seat. You look troubled." She waves for me to take a load off in one of the uncomfortable, cold, plastic chairs lining the wall.

I hesitate for a second before plopping down, placing my bruised hand on my knee and settling the ice over it. Honestly, it doesn't hurt that bad – Reznik's knuckle push-ups hurt much worse – but I figure if I don't ice it and it swells, then I'll have trouble doing much of anything.

"Not troubled." I say after a beat. "Just thinking."

"Hopefully of an apology." Flintstone cranes his neck to glare at me. "You broke my nose."

I shrug. "Tough shit. You deserved it."

"I did not-"

"Flintstone?" Dr. Pam interrupts. "Lay flat. I'm trying to check for split gums. I can't do that while you're talking to Croak, now can I?"

He grumbles and shuts up. Before turning back to her work, Dr. Pam sends me a wink. I grin, fighting the urge to giggle, and she smiles back.

Maybe I'm not as alone as I really think I am.