Gasoline | Ben Parish

37

WHEN I first see Oompa, I know that he's not going to make it. That might sound completely pessimistic, but it's the truth. 

A massive piece of metal has speared him; it entered through the back and hangs out his gut. More than likely from the initial blast, when the tanker truck first blew apart and its fragments went everywhere with blunt force.

I only see him for five seconds, and I know that he's not going to make it.

Teacup doesn't look, thankfully. I don't think she'd be able to go very far if she knew that her best friend is moments from death. She has a job to do and she knows it. As soon as the three of us sprint out from behind our shelter in a low crouch, she leaps out one of the shattered windows and takes off down the snow-covered, night-darkened, fire-lit street.

Zombie attracts bullets like a damn magnet. He's halfway to Oompa when the sharp pings ring out in the glass around him. He goes down in the mess with a loud crunch and sticks to a low crawl for the rest of the way.

I don't have time to watch him approach our bleeding squad member. I have to trust that he can take care of Oompa and himself.

My job is the glowing green dickhead hiding out in one of the buildings nearby.

This bank must've been fancy before the waves. It has two large pillars near the entrance that provide excellent protection.

I squat with my back against the pale structure, panting. My calf is on fire and my pants leg is wet. I probably got cut in the past ten minutes by some glass from the window I was propelled through.

But I can't worry about that right now. A cut from glass isn't as major as a huge piece of truck sticking out of a body.

Part of the pillar is concealed in shadows from the dark inside of the building. I use this to my advantage to peek out.

I'm not able to see a green glob, but I do spot a tracer round when the aggressor continues to fire on Zombie.

He crouches behind the pillar across from me, Oompa's sobbing and skewered body draped over his shoulder. His face is scrunched from strain. He's barely able to scoot back in time to avoid another bullet.

"Croak!" He shouts above the rifle's report. "What the hell are you waiting for?"

"A good opening, Sergeant Idiot! What do you think?"

"Just go for it!" Zombie shifts Oompa. "I need to get to Dumbo!"

There are several things I want to say in response to that, but none of them are worth voicing when a person from my squad is bleeding out.

I roll across the floor and out the remains of the front door, getting impaled by small shards of glass, and rise in a kneeling position. I'm short enough that the newspaper box I ended up behind provides sufficient cover from the section of the street I saw the tracer round coming from.

"Move, move, move!" I scream as I open fire in the general hostile area.

Zombie sprints out from the cover of the bank, steps made heavy and slower than normal due to the weight of the dying Oompa. Still, I'm able to provide cover for him until he rounds the street corner and disappears out of range of the sniper.

Now it's my turn to run for it.

I take three even breaths, trying to calm my heart so I can hear over the frantic beating in my ears. My fingers slide across the slick surface of my rifle, hot underneath my cold, clammy hands.

I can do this.

My feet find purchase through the snow and debris before I can even consciously tell myself to move. I'm flying down the street, fighting the urge to duck every time a shot is fired. I round the corner and a piece of concrete above me explodes, raining down in thick chunks. My arms go over my head, trying to prevent myself from receiving a head injury.