Gasoline | Ben Parish

12

IF there was any part of me that thought training could only get better after the whole drinking-your-own-piss fiasco, it dies the next day.

It's sleeting outside. We run through it, crushing the tiny spikes of ice under our feet, turning it into slush. Every pant I take in is like a knife slicing open my lungs, pressing its chilling blade against the inside of my throat.

"Let me take it today," Zombie mutters to me as we near the end of the third lap, jogging steadily behind Nugget and Oompa. "'S not fair for you to have it twice."

"Don't tell me what to do," I snap instantly. Then I back-pedal. "I mean..." My eyes cut across the frosty field before landing on Reznik. "You've taken it every other day. I can handle it."

"Don't I know it," he says softly.

I roll my eyes. "Just shut up and get in front of me. I'm trying to be nice."

"You don't sound very nice."

I shove him hard between the shoulder blades, sending him skidding into Poundcake. Then I take the last lap, running at top speed. The wind is absolutely awful, stinging my cheeks and drying out my eyes and mouth. I try to breathe through my nose, but it hurts just as bad.

Damn Zombie. Damn him and damn Mary Beth and damn the aliens and damn every single person on this planet.

___

WHEN I've successfully made it back to the starting point, Reznik yells for us to fall in. We all trudge after him, the air fogged with our breath.

"What the hell is he up to now?" I grumble to no one in particular. The thin fabric of my jumpsuit doesn't keep the cold out, but the run has warmed me up.

We march around the side of the Air Force base, coming to a back lot I haven't seen before. Immediately, my squad groans. I turn to Nugget and give him a questioning look. He just shrugs. Obviously it's something neither of us have had the pleasure of experiencing.

"All right, cupcakes," Reznik booms. His voice is loud, like he has a megaphone built into his throat. "We're racin' today. I want every single one of you to complete the obstacle course within two minutes."

Whispers rise up, most out of panic. I stand on my tip toes, trying to see around the crowd of recruits. Then I nudge past Oompa and lean around everyone, taking a peek.

Hell – that's what it looks like. Hell rose up from the earth and plopped itself in our backyard for Reznik's entertainment.

First off is the barbed wire fence toppled over, leaving barely a foot between it and the ground. Underneath it lies mud and pig intestines and all sorts of other fun stuff. Then there's the super high and super slick climbing wall, and the stupid logs you have to throw yourself over, and the tight tubes you have to crawl through. Scattered beneath those three lovely attractions is gritty sand with little pieces of shrapnel, so if you fall... yikes. Ropes hang over thick pools of some murky liquid, prompting us to swing over them to the other side.

I always avoided the bouncy castle obstacle courses at parties. They were never my thing. So this is going to be fun.

"What in the hell are you standin' around for?" Reznik barks. "Move, move, move!" His whistle pierces my ears as he blows into it repeatedly. He calls for the first few squads to go, fishing a stop-watch out of his pocket. My shoulders slump at their own accord. Should've known he wasn't kidding about the two minutes thing.