Gasoline | Ben Parish

6

THAT night at dinner, Flintstone and Tank decide to grill me.

"How the hell did you get that good so fast?" Tank barks over his slop.

"Chill out, she's not that good." Flintstone gives me a look. "But it was some improvement. More practice would do you good, Croak."

I nod, chewing thoughtfully on my fruit. "Thanks, Flintstone. I care so much for your opinion."

Dumbo and Oompa snort into the drinks. Poundcake cracks a small grin. I still haven't heard that kid say a word.

Teacup flicks her hair to the side. It's down again; Reznik is going to have her ass one of these days. "I think you did great."

I give her a nod.

Zombie shovels peas into his mouth. "I'm going to be heading back to the training room tonight. Does anyone want to-"

"I'll come," Teacup sends me a grin. "I want Croak to help me shoot better."

"I won't help you," I say it before I can even think about how it sounds. Everyone turns towards me. I backtrack. "Nugget was the one who helped me get my shit together. Talk to him." I stick a spoonful of canned meat into my mouth. It's disgusting – luke-warm and slimy – but it's all we've got.

Now it's time for everyone to turn to look at Nugget. He sinks down by Zombie's elbow and pushes his food around his plate.

Flintstone stares at me hard. "You're kidding me."

I eat a peach slice. "I'm not."

"How the hell would he know anything?" Tank spits. "He can't even pick up his rifle!"

Zombie cuts in. "He's been through the training. He knows what to do." His voice is firm, eyes cutting as he glances around the table to meet everyone's eyes. "He can help."

Dumbo looks at Nugget curiously. "Can you?"

A tentative nod, along with a hand tightening around the loose knee of Zombie's pants.

___

"THIS is such crap," Flintstone complains.

The whole squad is standing in the cold, clutching our rifles to our chests as Nugget advises us on what to do.

Zombie turns on him immediately. "No, it's not. Shut up and let him do his thing."

"I can't believe this," Flintstone shakes his head not even thirty seconds later, interrupting Nugget once again.

"Flint, can it."

A minute later: "This is-"

"Shut up!" Zombie snaps. "Just shut up, Flint! Okay, I get it! You're pissed off because you're no longer squad leader. Well guess what: I didn't ask for Reznik to give me your position. So grow up and stop treating everyone like crap or go back to the barracks."

Flintstone glowers for a few moments before stomping inside. Tank follows after him, slamming the door.

Zombie takes a few deep breaths. He rubs his fingers over the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry guys," he says after a moment. "I lost it. I just-" He stops himself, focusing on a random patch of shriveled up grass.

"It's okay, man," Dumbo speaks up. "We get it."

Zombie takes another breath and looks over at me. The eye contact is both awkward and searching. I don't blink or look away, but I also don't hide my approval of him kicking Flintstone's sorry ass out. I wait for him to back down first, even though I know it wasn't a challenge.