Things run as usual for another three months or so. Wake up, inspection, three laps around the yard, breakfast, training, lunch, training, dinner, Q&A, free time, lights out, repeat.
Before Zombie joined we had an odd number and I was always the one who took the one man jobs, trained with punching bags, those sort of things. Flintstone has Tank to bitch and snicker with, Oompa and Teacup are around the same age (and he's the only one that can work with the spitfire of a girl without wanting to rip her head off), and Poundcake doesn't talk whereas Dumbo never shuts up, so they're a good match. I didn't mind working alone, it gave me some time to myself, which is quite necessary when you spend literally every hour of the day with the same group of people. All this to say that by circumstance alone, Zombie had become my unofficial partner in pretty much everything.
It makes sense, really. We're around the same age and capability, though I'm almost positive that when he fully recovers from what the plague did to him he'll surpass me. It was an easy connection, the kind of friendship that you just fall into with no awkward 'get-to-know-you' phase ("what's your favorite color?", "how was your day?", "do you like Taylor Swift, personally I'm not a fan of her earlier work?", you know what I'm talking about). Zombie's a sarcastic little shit, but a good soldier. He knows when I'm up to talk and banter and he knows when to stay silent, which I can appreciate, and he's effortlessly funny. We spar in hand to hand, stand next to each other on the shooting range, help each other on the obstacle course, etc.
Currently, it's washing dishes while Squad 53 is on kitchen duty. We had established a system during his first week, I wash and he dries, and stuck to it. I don't hate kitchen duty, it's better than P&D and it's the nice kind of monotony that gives you time to unwind.
"Did you have a restaurant job before all this?" Zombie asks.
"What?" It takes me a second to process his words, and he almost repeats himself but I answer before he can. "No."
"You're just good at this, efficient."
"I'm good at a lot of things."
"I've noticed."
I roll my eyes and splash some water on him for being cheeky. The truth is, I practically raised two little girls, which included a lot of dishes to be done, but I can't say that. So I go for a different truth. "I worked at a roller rink, before."
Before. The word holds so much weight now. Before the Arrival, before the Others, before Camp Haven. Before Snowflake.
Zombie stares at me for a second so I go back turn my attention back to the dishes. "You- you worked at a roller rink?"
"That's what I just said, yes." It's quiet for a minute, maybe two, just the sound of the running water and him stacking trays.
"I didn't have a job, wanted one for the summer though." I don't doubt it. I didn't peg Zombie as having the kind of family that needed the extra help, and tell him as such. "So you think you've got me all figured out then?"
"Not all, but enough," I tell him, smirking when I meet his narrowed eyes.
"Alright, so tell me. Who was I before, Snowflake?"
I raise my brow, "You sure you want to go down that road?" I'm hoping his answer is no, because I certainly don't.
He falters for a second, brow furrowing, then averts his eyes to the tray in his hands, scrubbing harder than before. "No. No, not really."
I simply hum in agreement and it's quiet again. Suddenly, we're just two kids who lost everyone we know. Who never got to go to senior prom or graduate high school or choose a college. Our lives were over before they had even begun.
And then I blink and we're back to being two soldiers in the machine of war, not even having our names to hold onto.
"Give me one thing, one thing to describe who you think I was." I whip my head up and look at him incredulously, though he refuses to meet my eyes. "I'm curious now."
I huff in exasperation, but nevertheless find myself racking my brain for a suitable answer. "Football." It's quiet, like a breath, but I know he hears me. "You played football. Damn good at it too."
Shoving the final tray into his hands, he finally meets my eyes. "They should've named you Sherlock."
His attempt to lighten the mood actually works and I turn to lean my back against the sink, watching him finish his job. "Does that make you Watson?"
"I think it makes me Lestrade." I let out a small laugh, only a little surprised that he knows the stories well enough to know the name, and he gives me one of his easy smiles. No teeth, of course, he hasn't smiled with teeth since he got here. "Can I guess?"
My face falls a little. "Guess what?"
"Something about you. Before."
Before. A tight smile pulls at my lips and I clear my throat, fair's fair after all. Plus, now I'm curious. "Go for it, inspector."
I'm not sure if he can sense my discomfort, he probably can, but Zombie makes an elaborate show of looking me up and down and humming in thought. Not that I'd ever admit it to him, but it does help to ease my nerves.
"I think you were a pretty big Harry Potter fan at some point. Owned all the books, seen all the movies- though they're not nearly as good, obviously- the whole shebang." Zombie puts his hands up in L's like he's framing a photo and I can't help but grin. "Hufflepuff, definitely Hufflepuff."
Taking half the trays in my hands, I laugh at the ridiculous boy next to me. I move to push past him, but pause by his shoulder to whisper in his ear. "Ravenclaw."
His laugh rings in my ears as I walk away and I feel a little like my old self again. I hate that I don't entirely hate it.
*****
Despite my countless warnings, Zombie never stopped being the biggest idiot on base. The next morning, for example, with cold nipping at our cheeks and a brand new recruit at roll call, he made a great case for Einstein's claim of infinite human stupidity.
A small boy with brown hair and the largest eyes I've ever seen, who Reznik deems Private Nugget, stands in line with tears in his eyes as our drill sergeant crouches down and yells in his small, reddening face. I feel incredibly bad for the poor kid, who could be no older than five. Fresh out of kindergarten and now in the world's shittiest boot camp. Not bad enough to do anything though, Nugget will have to toughen up and soon if he wants to last a week here.
Cue the idiot.
"Leave him alone."
My eyes widen from my place next to the absolute dumbass I call my best friend, but I don't dare move or make a sound. I think today might be the day the zombie actually dies.
Reznik shot up so he was standing straight and whipped around to look at us all. You could hear a pin drop in the yard and I can only imagine what's running through the head's of everyone present. A lot of cursing, I'm guessing. I can't believe Zombie just did that, and judging by the way his body tenses next to me, I don't think he can either.
"Who said that? Which one of you scum-sucking maggots just signed his own death warrant?" Reznik paced in front of us with a red face and his fists clenched, the anger almost tangible as it radiated from him. "Nobody, huh? Well, I'm going to fall on my knees and cover my head, because the Lord God his holy self has spoken to me from on high!"
He stops in front of Tank, who looks about ready to pass out from fear. "Was it you, puckerhole? I will tear your arms off!"
"Sir, I said it sir!"
I almost flinch at Zombie's shout, but keep my eyes forward and expression blank, watching Reznik approach slowly from the corner of my eye. Oh, fuck.
"So Private Zombie is giving the orders now. Private Zombie is Squad Fifty-Three's very own catcher in the fucking rye. Private Zombie, I think I have a crush on you. You make me hate my own mother for giving birth to a male child, so now it's impossible for me to have your babies."
My brow furrows, but only slightly. I kind of wish I could erase that whole statement from my memory because not only was it incredibly weird, the mental image that goes along with it is vomit inducing.
Reznik lands a hard chop to Zombie's throat, the boy falling back but straightening as quick as he can, not allowing himself to let out so much as a cough lest Reznik gets another reason to scream.
"Sir, he's just a little kid, sir." Zombie's usually even voice is raspy and he had to choke the words out. I clench my fists a little tighter behind my back.
"Private Zombie, you have two seconds, exactly two seconds, to seal that sewer pipe posing as a mouth, or I will incinerate your ass with the rest of the infested alien sons of bitches!"
"Then the senior drill instructor should do it, sir!" Oh my god, this fucking kid. "The private really doesn't care, sir! Just- just leave the kid alone."
Reznik is silent for a moment and I find myself holding my breath, fully expecting him to take out his gun and shoot Zombie on the spot.
"Private Zombie, who is your squad leader?"
"Sir, the private's squad leader is Private Flintstone, sir!"
"Private Flintstone, front and center!" Flint takes a step forward and his hand darts into a salute. For a painful moment, I wonder if Zombie is going to get us all a month of P&D or moved to last place on the leaderboard. "Private Flintstone, you're fired. Private Zombie is now squad leader." Okay, what? That was not one of the several hundred outcomes that had just run through my head. "Private Zombie is ignorant and ugly, but he is not soft. Private Zombie, what happened to your baby sister?"
My heart flips at the very words "baby sister".
Zombie takes a second to answer and when he does, I don't miss the way his voice cracks slightly. "Sir, the private's sister is dead, sir!"
This is the first time Reznik has brought up any of our pasts, though I have no doubt he knows them all from our Wonderland profiles. I think even he knows it's harsh.
"Because you ran like a chickenshit!"
"Sir, the private ran like a chickenshit, sir!"
"But you're not running now, Private Zombie? Are you?"
"Sir, no sir!"
It's silent for a moment and Reznik takes a step back. At this point I'm just hoping we get out of roll call with all our appendages still attached to our bodies.
"Private Nugget, front and center!" I had almost forgotten about the crying boy that started all of this. "Private Nugget, Private Zombie is your squad leader, and you will bunk with him. You will learn from him. He will teach you how to walk. He will teach you how to talk. He will teach you how to think. He will be the big brother you never had. Do you read me, Private Nugget?"
His voice is small and squeaky, a stark contrast to Reznik's rough shouting. "Sir, yes sir!"
*****
The day easily becomes one of the longest. Nugget is crying a lot and slowing us down on pretty much everything, Zombie is trying to get used to his new leadership role, and I'm back to doing things on my own. At first, Zombie stuck with me because it's normal, routine. But with Zombie now comes Nugget and he quickly becomes distracted. Not to mention I have no interest in playing mom and dad to a sensitive five year old. So I gradually pull myself away and get back into the swing of things, how they were pre-Zombie.
We trudge back into Barrack 10 at the end of the day, ready for an hour to ourselves more than ever. Zombie shows Nugget his bunk and locker then shoves him off to the showers. His shoulders fall and he runs a hand through his hair as soon as the kid is out of sight. I chuckle as he plunks down next to me on my bunk.
"You think this is funny? The kid's like a damn puppy." He grumbles, pulling off his boots to shine them like I am.
"It's a little funny," I smirk. Zombie lets out something that almost sounds like a growl and hits me on the shoulder with his boot. I grunt and elbow him in the ribs, my smirk not faltering. "Keep your boots away from me, no one wants to smell that shit."
He releases a puff of laughter and we turn silent as we work out any scuffs from the day. It's the kind of moment that reminds me why I like Zombie's company, the comfortable silence a welcome change from our normally active lives.
Flint stops by once, growling about making sergeant after graduation. I get the distinct impression that Zombie doesn't really care about his new title, and he definitely never wanted it. Once the glowering boy leaves, I knock my shoulder into Zombie's. "Congrats, by the way. You might be the craziest son of a bitch I've ever met, but it seems to have worked out for you this time."
Nugget comes trotting out of the latrine, brown hair plastered to his forehead from the water, and makes a beeline for Zombie. Our new squad leader looks at me, raising a brow in exasperation. "I'm not sure it did, Snow."
Taking another look at the tiny Private Nugget, I can't help but hum in agreement.