Gasoline | Ben Parish

5

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."