Gasoline | Ben Parish

25

RINGER has been in Squad 53 for five weeks. Over the course of those five weeks, our squad's rating has risen all the way to fifth place – something that doesn't sound super awesome, but none of us ever thought it would happen. The possibility of graduating, of leaving Reznik behind, of seeing the world outside of the Air Force Base is almost tangible.

There's just one problem.

Poundcake, who is good with numbers, has figured out what's keeping us from passing the other loser squads up and taking first place. We've got it made in the shade when it comes to the obstacle course, the air raid drill, the morning run, and other bullshit Reznik has us do.

Our downfall is marksmanship – aka, everyone aside from Poundcake and Ringer and Flintstone and Oompa.

The rest of us have kind of accepted that we suck. It ticks Ringer off to no end. It's kind of funny, in a way. She hassles us to go to extra practice – even though she never goes with us – and gets this hilariously sour look on her face when Reznik chews one of us out for being such a terrible shot.

I'll admit: seeing her like this has kind of made me warm up to her. She's no longer a beautiful robot with kickass skills; she's a girl who wants to get out of here. I'm able to relate to her.

So when she slows her jog to match the easy strides of the rear of Squad 53 during morning run, I don't automatically glare at her.

"I've got a proposition for you." Her bangs are pulled back by a headband. She looks less severe without the hair in her face. "For the both of you, really. I'll help you two and everyone else with their shooting on one condition."

My interest is piqued. Zombie's is too, but he expresses it differently than my inclined head. "Does it have anything to do with chess?"

Ringer and I both roll her eyes at his statement. It makes me like her a little more.

"Resign as squad leader."

I nearly stop my strides. What the hell?

Zombie hasn't responded either – he's staring straight ahead at the power plant. Smoke puffs from it, filling the dark morning sky with something to block out the stars.

Ringer gets impatient. "You didn't ask for the positon. You don't care about it either. So why not let me have it?"

"How do you know he doesn't care about it?" I demand. "Zombie does care. He's the best squad leader in the whole damn base. Know why? He cares – not just about graduating, but about the kids who would be graduating with him."

She looks over at me. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" I ask. My question isn't exactly out of hostility. I'm genuinely curious. "And why do you want it so badly, anyway?"

Ringer's eyes stay on the path. "Giving orders is my best chance to stay alive."

Zombie laughs. He actually laughs. For a second I think he might've finally lost it and went Dorothy or whatever the hell it's called. "We're already dead, Ringer."

The three of us don't say anything after that particular truth is spoken. There's not much to say. We keep our pace steady behind Oompa and Poundcake and Nugget.

"Until I die, I'm alive." Ringer suddenly says. "And during that time, I want to be the one calling the shots. It might delay the inevitable for a little longer."

Zombie's mouth twists. "How about this: you help, we win, I step down. You'll make sergeant. Boom. Happy Ringer, no stressed-out Zombie." We all know that being squad leader doesn't guarantee the sergeant position. But it for damn sure helps.

Ringer doesn't seem to be listening anymore. A Black Hawk is thundering by, headed for the landing zone. "Do you guys ever wonder how they got everything running again after the EMP strike?"

"No," Zombie answers honestly. He turns his head to me. "Do you, Croak?"

"I've been a bit preoccupied." I say sarcastically. "But now that you mention it, yeah, I kind of want to know." I turn to look at her, breath puffs swirling. "Any theories?"

"It has to be underground bunkers." Her tone is final, as always. "Or..." She stops herself.

Zombie raises his eyebrows. "Or what?"

I want to know what she's thinking, too. As much as she might tick me off sometimes, Ringer is more than likely the smartest in the whole squad.

She shakes her head. "Too crazy. Forget it." I'm about to protest, but she glances over at us for the first time during the run. I'm stunned by how deep, dark, and dizzying her eyes are. "Anyone up for a race?"

Okay, I like this chick.

"You guys go ahead." I give her a smirk. "Kick his ass, Ringer."