THE next day the squad attends a follow-up lesson on hand-to-hand combat. I say follow-up because they've been instructed in this area before, pre-Croak. So they're all killin' it, and I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. Lucky me.
"Croak!" Reznik shouts as Teacup – Teacup – knocks me on my ass and pins me in less than a second. "What the hell are you doin'?"
"Learning, sir!" I roll onto my stomach, bringing up my knees, rising to my feet, slowly straightening my back. Jesus. Teacup may not look like much, but she can sure as hell hit hard.
"Really? 'Cause all you seem to be doin' is lyin' on your back! You like that?"
Okay. Usually I find Reznik kind of funny, but that crossed the line. I grit my teeth. "No sir!"
The entire training room is silent. Everyone has completed the hold and successfully broken it – everyone but me, that is.
Teacup pushes her hair out of her face in a huff. It's coming down out of the ponytail I yanked it into this morning – despite her screaming and bitching about me pulling too hard. Zombie made me put it back. Reznik actually brought scissors in the other morning and pretended to snip Teacup's silky locks since they weren't up.
"Really, now? 'Cause it sure doesn't seem like it to me." He whirls around then, hands clasped behind his back. "Flintstone! Get over here, big boy! It's your lucky day!"
I can almost hear the silent, sharp intake of breath among the cadets. For hand-to-hand combat, we're only to have partners that are the same gender as we are. It's fair that way, and... not weird, I guess. Appropriate is probably a better word than weird. Teacup is the only other chick in my squad, so we're each other's partners.
But now...
I keep my chin raised as Flintstone's heavy footfalls draw closer. His eyes are dark, brow sweaty. He spares me a brief look up and down before standing at attention. "Sir!"
Reznik prowls closer to me. "You're going to provide Croak some incentive, here, Flintstone! You're going to execute the hold on her. Let's see how well she breaks it now." He's grinning. Reznik thinks his plan is brilliant. I think it's almost as shitty as he is.
Flintstone steps toward me, eyes slightly lidded. He smirks at me before grabbing my arm.
I'm supposed to drop a hammer-fist onto his forearm three times before turning my wrist and sliding away forcefully. But for whatever reason, I'm not able to get enough power into my hammer-fist. Or maybe I'm not twisting and pulling at the same time.
I drive my hand down three precise times before rotating and heaving with all my might.
It doesn't work.
Flintstone draws me in easily, dropping us to the floor and pinning my wrists above my head.
I can feel my heart begin to pound, thrumming through my body, even echoing in my ear. I've felt fear before – fear for my life, fear for my family, fear for my sanity – but never like this. It's... different.
I feel small. I feel helpless. I feel alone. I know everyone is standing around and watching. I know Flintstone, no matter how much of an ass he is, would never do that. I know I'm perfectly safe.
But the sensations are still there: his body pressing against mine, his sweat dripping onto my forehead, his hot pants hitting my lips. I can't move, no matter how much I squirm – and I do. I'm bucking wildly but it's no use. Legs are pinned by his. Torso is held down by his. Arms are conquered by his. Nothing's free, everything's lost.
I stare up into his dark eyes, surprised to find amusement in them. "Some killer you are, Croak." He taunts lowly, so that no one else can hear. "Can't even accomplish a simple break."
That's it. That's exactly what I need.
I bare my teeth, giving a huff, and use the one part of my body that isn't being held down: my head. I thrust the crown of my head right into his face.
Crack – that's the sound of his nose breaking.
Smack – that's the sound of me flipping him over onto the mats.
Wham – that's the sound of my fist making contact with his jaw. One, two, three solid hits.
Arms are around me, lifting me off Flintstone. I thrash for a second, still in the moment, until I recognize the voice: Zombie. "Croak, stand down! Croak!"
Panting, I stop my movements. Hesitantly, Zombie sets me down.
I gasp for air, shoulders bouncing in my struggle. Tank and Dumbo are crouched over the heavily-bleeding Flintstone. Everyone else is gazing at me with something in their eyes. I can't tell what it is.
Reznik comes into view, beaming like the bastard he is. "That's more like it!" He howls, sending me a grin before standing over Flintstone. "Damn, son! I think she split your unibrow!"
___
WHEN the buzzer goes off and everyone heads for the mess hall, I head in the opposite direction.
"Croak!" Teacup calls after me.
Damn it. I was hoping to sneak away. I keep stalking down the hall, letting her run to catch up with me.
"Where are you going?"
"Bathroom."
"There are bathrooms near the mess hall-"
"I know."
"Then why are you-"
"Just piss off, Teacup. I'll be at lunch in a second and then you can rant about how cool I am for landing Flint with Dr. Pam for the afternoon, okay?"
She stops chasing me after that. A small part of me wonders if I hurt her feelings. I shake those thoughts off and quicken my steps to the Barracks.
As soon as I step inside the entry way to 10, I suck in as much air as I possibly can. I rip the elastic from my hair, running my fingers through it harshly before looping strands around my hands and pulling harshly.
Mary Beth came back today during hand-to-hand. That's bad. Mary Beth is supposed to be dead. She can't afford to be anything else; she wouldn't be able to survive in this world otherwise. Isn't the way I locked up underneath Flintstone enough proof of that?
And this, now: me shaking and crying and tugging on my hair, on my knees on the floor – that's Mary Beth, too. She's weak. She's emotional. She's alive. She's trying to tear her way out of my blackened heart, struggling to tread water, struggling to swallow the blood, struggling to push away the dog.
She's dead, she's dead, she's dead.
I'm Croak. I'm a killer. I have an attitude. I'm emotionless.
As I shake, I force myself to picture Mom. I force myself to picture Dad. I force myself to picture Tram. Then I tell myself that they're all dead. I make myself re-live their deaths.
I thought this would make me numb, get me to snap out of this little panic attack. Instead, it sends me deeper into it.
I really am alone.
No, shut up. I'm not alone. I have a whole squad. I have an ass-hat for a drill instructor. I have the nicest doctor a couple of wings away.
But Croak won't let those people in. Croak doesn't need anyone. Croak likes being alone.
But Mary Beth doesn't.
Who gives a damn what Mary Beth cared about? She's dead.
I sink lower and lower. I'm drowning. The current is too strong and I can't fight it this time. The boat is heaving above me, cap-sized and angry as the waves toss it back and forth. The water is cold and stinging and biting. Something is touching me.
"Croak?"
I jolt, staggering to my feet. The water is gone. My lungs are empty. I whirl around, hair hanging limply in my face as I yell, "Go away!"
Zombie stands in the doorway, face a mixture of shock, confusion, and fear. Shock because cool Croak has snapped. Confusion because Croak actually has emotions. Fear because Croak is not Croak at the moment, she's the risen Mary Beth, fresh from the grave.
"Croak..."
"Get out of here!" I snap, slapping away the tears on my cheeks. I turn my back on him then, crossing my arms and staring straight ahead. "Just leave me alone!"
"Croak, please..."
Please what? Please stop? Please let me help? Please come back?
I'm shaking hard, almost unable to remain standing. My voice is hollow and hoarse when I gruffly murmur, "Just go." I fight the impulse to sniffle, still wiping my face. "I'll be fine. I just... want to be alone."
"Are you sure?"
I scoff. "Yes."
He hesitates. I know he's still standing behind me. I don't find it in me to yell at him again, so I let him stay. I take several deep breaths, constantly dabbing my leaking eyes.
I hear him trot into the bathroom. The sink turns on. I remain where I stand, tense and searching for the unfeeling feeling I cling to as Croak. As me.
Zombie comes back from the bathroom. He stands about a foot away from my shoulder. Probably too scared to come too close. "Put this on your face," he says softly. "It's all red and puffy."
In most cases, I would've refused his damp towel. I would've rolled my eyes and made some sort of witty retort.
But I don't. Instead, I hold my hand out behind me. He places the cold rag in my hands. I press my face into it, inhaling the stink of the cabinet under the sink, and take another breath.
Zombie tentatively steps closer. I can feel his jumpsuit brush mine. His hand comes up slowly – I see it out of the corner of my eye – and carefully tucks my hair behind my ear. "It's okay," he says softly.
I jerk away instantly. "Don't." I warn, looking him in the eye for the first time since he walked in on this fiasco.
He sighs and stares at me forlornly, like he's attending one of Mary Beth's funerals. I can't tell if he's sad to see her go or if he's like damn, this bitch just won't stay dead. I know the latter is what I'm thinking.
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.