Gasoline | Ben Parish

28

Zombie's shivering. His dark eyes are locked on me. His closeness provides a little warmth.

"I stayed in this little automotive shop. I didn't want to be in the same house that my mother died in, and I figured that since no cars were working, no one would come there." I wrap my arms around my waist. As I do so, it hits me that I've lost a lot of weight in the past few months. I used to have a nice figure. Now I'm muscle. No wonder I'm so cold. No insulation.

"I was wrong, of course." My eyebrows jump in salty amusement. A bitter smile stretches my face, making my lips crack slightly. "Group of guys came in. I had a knife. They had low expectations.

"I'm not a very intimidating person at first glance, you know? I'm short. I've got long hair. My nails were still painted then." I shudder when a strong gust of wind blows, howling in my ear and making my ponytail lick at my cheek. "I looked like I was easy."

This is the first time he speaks. "They didn't..." He inclines his head.

I snort. "I'm sure they would've loved to if I hadn't gutted them."

His jaw clenches.

I shuffle around in my tiny space, butt slightly sore from sitting in such an awkward position. "I was scared, you know? I hadn't seen another human alive since my mom. And these guys... they were intimidating. They didn't have any weapons, but I killed them anyway." I stop myself and shake my head. "No weapons, but I still saw them as a threat."

"Did you know that they weren't armed when they first walked in?"

"No."

"You were scared, and you didn't know if they had the means to hurt you. Sounds like a fair kill to me."

"At the time, it didn't feel that way. I told them to stay back and they kept coming towards me. So I stabbed one guy in the stomach. The other two tried to rush me. My knife tore right across one's gut. The other tackled me and my knife somehow ended up in his neck because of the way we fell." Subconsciously, I feel my right hand clench and the other rub over it.

"There was a lot of blood. It stained my clothes and made the floors slick." I swallow. "That was hard. But it got easier after that. I've even killed Teds, and they were even easier. Now I can kill anyone without a second thought, I think."

"You're dehumanized."

"Reznik called it the first day, remember? I'm a freak." I force myself to smile. "You sure know how to pick 'em, Zombie."

"Did you tell me this because you thought it might change my mind or something?" Zombie asks harshly. "Because it didn't."

"This isn't the Hallmark Channel." I snap back. "I told you this because I wanted to tell you. Ever since I told you about Tram, ever since I got it out, I stopped having nightmares about him. So..."

"You're hoping that now that you've got this out, it'll get you to stop having nightmares."

I nod. "You said that you've been having dreams too, right? What are they about?"

Zombie bites his lip. "I had the plague for a while," he reveals. "Right before I came here, actually."

"Yeah, you looked like it." I say without thinking.

To my surprise, he grins at my remark. "Yeah, I did. I looked pretty bad, huh?"

"Horrible."

We laugh. The sharp intakes of cold air sting the back of my throat.

"That's how I got my name, you know."

"If that's true, then it was very fitting." We smile for a bit longer. Then I nudge my knee against his. "So you dream about that? Coming here?"

"No." He shakes his head, looking at the ceiling. "I dream about what it was like... choking on my own blood... the taste of it and the way it sounded when it would gurgle in my throat as I tried to catch even the smallest amount of air."

I bump his legs again. He bumps mine back. "I thought that I was going to die," he tells me. "And I remember staring up at the top of that weak-ass tent I was in and thinking that that was going to be the last thing I ever saw."

"You did die," I remind him. "Ben is dead."

Zombie nods and crosses his arms. "This might be too much," he starts. I already know what he's going to ask. I can feel my heart rate quicken in anticipation.

"Who was she?" He asks me.

Part of me wants to scream at him that she doesn't matter anymore because she's dead, and that it's none of his business, and that he better not bring her up ever again.

But there's another part of me – maybe it's her clawing her way to the surface or maybe it's just Zombie unlocking parts of me that I didn't think survived – that wants to tell him. It feels good to have someone to tell everything to and to know everything about.

Plus, I like him. I care about him more than I've ever cared about anyone, including myself. That may sound bizarre or cliché, but I don't care. I know that I killed for myself, but I think for Zombie I'd go the extra mile and lay down my own life, the life I've fought so hard to preserve. I don't think I would regret it, or even hesitate if the time came. Zombie is good. Zombie, somehow, despite everything that has happened, is pure at heart. Zombie deserves to live through this.

It's a scary, dominating, full feeling, like my heart and soul and mind all might spontaneously combust because I can't physically contain how much I care about the boy right in front of me.

It's all hitting me now, as we're sitting in the dark in the freezing cold in nothing more than our sleep clothes, and it's all so much that it nearly takes my breath away. This kind of raw, powerful emotion is something that I haven't felt in a long time. It's nearly overwhelming.

Zombie stares at me with cautious, concerned eyes. "Hey," he says gently. His leg eases against mine. "You don't have to tell me. I get it-"

I feel bad for interrupting him, but I have to say it before I chicken out.

"Mary Beth."