MY name is Croak.
I wasn't always Croak. I was once a little girl. But she died.
She died when the lights went out. She died when her home shook and her father was washed away. She died when the blood poured from her. She died when her mother cared for her and took the burden of the plague and passed away in a shower of red spewing from her lips.
Croak was born when she was alone, truly alone, for the first time in her life. She's evolved since then. She tries not think about the past. She doesn't hear her old name from her old life from her old home's lips. She hears the scream of her new name given to her by her new life in her new squad.
Okay, that was kind of dramatic. But you get the point.
It's been three days since I joined Squad 53. And in those three days, I've changed.
That sounds dramatic too. But cut me some slack, all right? I'm a teenage girl; I'm supposed to be dramatic.
Back to the changing thing. There's been a lot of it. For one thing, that pain in my arm? You know, the one from that giant bite from that rabid dog? Gone. The only pain I have is from the aching, quivering muscles that I've built surprisingly fast.
Change: I've gone from a chick who has never shot a gun in her life to a chick that has discovered she has semi-sucky aim. I only say semi because I can actually hit the target. Zombie can't do that. Nugget can't even hold the gun. We're kind of dragging the whole squad down.
That's another change: the revival of my competitive side. I never thought I would care so much about the condition of bed, but I learned quickly that if everything isn't perfect for inspection, then Reznik will chew your ass. And if Reznik chews your ass over something like that, it knocks your squad down.
See, graduating is a competition. Your squad can only graduate if you're in, like, the top four. You get into the top four by being good at everything and keeping your shit clean and not picking fights. A little ass kissing helps too.
And as you probably guessed, Squad 53 is scrapping the bottom. We suck. Not only do we have sucky shots and slow people and messy beds, but we also have a hot-head named Tank and the meanest seven year old who has ever lived, Teacup. When they fight, it costs us, too.
So if we want to graduate – and finally be rid of Reznik, the asshole – then we need to shape the hell up.
Zombie made the suggestion one night during personal time. I don't really have a tight relationship with everyone. I keep to myself. I don't have an interest in playing card games or being hit on by Flintstone. I just sit on the edge of my bunk and shine my shoes or clean my jumpsuit.
"Guys," Zombie says. "Look... we suck."
I snort; so does Oompa and Tank. Teacup looks ready to throttle him. Flintstone rolls his eyes so hard I wonder how they haven't come out of his head. Poundcake doesn't say anything, as usual. Nugget and Dumbo wait quietly, ever the faithful followers.
"So I was thinking... we need more practice."
Flintstone stands. "How are we going to get that?" His voice is hard, fury boiling underneath it. I wonder what happened between them; Flintstone hates Zombie's guts. "We're busy every second of the day. The only time we could do any more practice is our one hour of free time."
Zombie shifts his weight. "Yeah, Flint, I know. But if we just put in a little more time... if we give up a couple of nights of personal time... I think we could get better."
It's Tank's turn to speak up. "The only ones who need extra practice are you and Nugget and Croak." He turns to give me a look. "Seriously, they make you out to be some great killing machine, and all you can do is nick the edge of the target? How did you even kill anyone?"
I clench my jaw and drop my shoes, rising to my feet. "Want to find out?"
Immediately Zombie and Dumbo are standing between us.
"Let's take it easy," Dumbo advises, head swiveling as he looks between me and Tank. "Zombie wasn't calling anyone out. It would be good for all of us to have a little extra practice; it would be like... squad bonding."
"The only bonding any of us would want to do would be with Croak, but she's mean as shit." Flintstone grumbles. "No way would she put out."
"That's the first thing you've said that isn't stupid." I cross my arms over my chest. I feel naked in my standard issue shirt and undies. As ugly and baggy and idiotic as that damn jumpsuit is, I wish I had it on right about now.
Teacup quips, "Why are you such a pig, Flintstone? All you ever think about is sex."
"Why do you even know what that word means?" Oompa gives her a look. "You're seven."
"What's your point?"
"Guys," Zombie calls everyone's attention once again. "Look, I talked to Reznik about it today after Q&A. He's willing to let us have an extended personal time if it's all being spent in the training room. We'll be expected to be up and ready at 0500 still, but I think it'd be worth it." He looks around the room expectantly.
Flintstone shakes his head and turns back to his card game. "I don't. I'm staying here."
I stand and slide into my boots. "I'm going."
He scoffs. "Really? Just because I'm not going to be there, you're going to go?"
I roll my eyes. "Don't automatically assume everything is about you. It's obnoxious." I adjust the laces. "I don't like being dead weight. I don't like Reznik. And yes, Flintstone, I don't like you, but that's not the main reason why I'm going. I want to graduate and get as far away from Reznik as possible." I straighten then and look him in the eye. "You not being there is just a bonus."
___
AS we're making our way down the hall, I try to imagine how we look, but it makes me want to laugh, so I push the image as far from my mind as possible.
I mean, I'm in nothing but a t-shirt, undies and boots. Zombie is wearing some dorky cargo pants and a black shirt that looks too small for him, no shoes. Nugget only has those weird pants on, but they're so big that he has to pull them all the way up to his waist so that they sit right, but they still spill all over the tops of his boots. And we're all very seriously carrying our rifles like we're on a mission or something.
No one is in the indoor training room to see us in our ridiculous get-up. I imagine this was once the weight room for those who lived on the base before the invasion, but it has been converted to help condition privates.
There are still weights along the long wall, as well as mats laid out for sparring, but the thing we're heading for is the firing range. There's an exit at the very end of the room that the three of us quietly slip out.
The firing range is basically this huge section of one of the parking lots that has been marked off and walled. There are separate lanes with little wooden benches that you can stand or squat behind, depending on the drill. The dead grass under our feet crackles as we step up to the pavement.
"You sure Reznik gave this the okay?" I ask Zombie as I slap a magazine in. "I don't want anyone to freak out because a couple of privates are shooting at 2100 hours."
"He said it would be fine." Zombie reassures me as he checks that his chamber is closed.
I give him a cautious glance before turning to my target. There's just enough light here that I can make out the large red circles in between the eyes and the breasts of the cutout.
I click the safety off and fire. The sound echoes in my ears, seemingly louder in the quiet night.
Ping! I nailed the empty space beside the left leg. I grumble to myself as I glare back in my sights.
Three more rounds wasted. I get angry. The next two don't even hit the target.
I snap the safety on and slam the rifle on the table.
Zombie gives me a look as he positions his stock in the cushy rest between his shoulder and collarbone. "You okay?"
"This is bullshit," I seethe. "I have no clue what I'm doing wrong."
"You're blinking," a quiet voice says.
I whirl around to glare at Nugget. He's standing at the lane beside mine, cradling his rifle like a baby, since that's the only way he can carry it.
"What? How do you know that?"
"'Cause I just watched you," he says simply. "Whenever you pull the trigger, you close your eyes." He sets the gun down and takes a few hesitant steps closer to me. His brown eyes are wide and wary; I realize that he's afraid of me. "You also tense up in here." He softly pokes my forearm and skims his finger down to my wrist before backing away quickly. "And when you do that, it jerks the barrel up or away."
I stare at the bare-chested, tiny little boy below me. I take in his flooded pants and his thin arms that can't even hold up a rifle. He's never been able to shoot, but he's been there through all the training and drills. He follows behind Reznik as the drill instructor shouts at us for effing up. He's seen how to properly shoot and how to incorrectly shoot. He knows this stuff like the back of his hand.
For some reason, I never thought that Nugget would be the one to know this kind of stuff. I mean, he's the youngest and the smallest. The runt. So why would he?
I guess the old saying 'never judge a book by its cover' even applies in the middle of an alien apocalypse.
I don't say thank you. I don't smile. I don't tell him he's a genius, when on the inside I really want to. That's not Croak. That's Mary Beth. I can't be both. Mary Beth wouldn't survive this. She didn't survive this.
Croak says, "Watch me shoot again and tell me if I keep doing it." And Nugget nods, because he doesn't expect anything else from Croak.
___
THE next day when Reznik takes us back out to the firing range, Tank shoves me out the door. "Let's see how that extra practice worked out." He sneers. I roll my eyes and take a few deep breaths. I have a loaded gun in my hands. I could easily make his death look like an accident. But that would be messy and I'd probably get into a ton of trouble.
It's strange. I never used to think about the consequences of killing. Now the only reason I do is because I don't want to lose half my rations as punishment. Or would the punishment be higher? Probably. Best not to find out.
We're all lined up at our own lanes. I can see Zombie is still having a hard time. At least he's hitting the target now. Nugget watched over him after me last night and gave him some pointers, but they didn't do much good. Zombie just... sucks.
I push my hair off my shoulder and pop my neck. Then I bring my gun up and take a few deep breaths.
Pop, pop, pop!
I lower my gun and stare with wide eyes. One in the ear and two in the neck. Not that close to the targets, but not that far either.
"You're still a shit sandwich," Reznik says from behind me, causing me to jump. "Just not a soggy one."
I smirk and he gives me a warning grin. When I turn back to the target, he moves on down the line.