Gasoline | Ben Parish

15

THE procession back to the barracks is a slow and tense one – well, at least for 53. All the other squads are wide awake, too hyped up to sink back into their previous sleepy stupor.

But none of them had two of their guys miss their mark by 48 seconds.

When we all shuffle into the entrance to Barracks 10, Tank throws his rifle down onto his bed. And so the temper tantrums begin.

"What the hell was that, Zombie?" He spits angrily. "You should've just left him." His face is bright red, veins in his neck sticking out. Basically he's majorly pissed off.

"Like hell he should've!" I find myself snapping. "Nugget is part of this squad too, you asshole! He was scared and so Zombie had to help him out."

"You were scared too, Croak!" Tank hollers, taking three threatening steps toward me. "And you didn't sit on the floor and piss and moan about the big scary noises."

"That's because I'm older than all of you." I square up to him, nearly nose to nose. "Nugget is a little kid. Of course he's going to get scared. Are you stupid? What else would you honestly expect? If there's someone you should be mad at, maybe take a look in the mirror. Last I checked, none of you warned me or Nugget about the air-raid drills. We had no idea they were coming. And you didn't even attempt to help Zombie at all – and you wouldn't let anyone else help out either. So sit the fuck down."

Tank shoves my shoulders roughly, sending me stumbling back a few feet. "You think you're so big and bad, Croak. But you're not. So you better get out of my face before I beat the shit out of you."

I cross the room and shove against his chest, sending him smacking back against the railing of one of the bunks. "You could fucking try it."

"Hey!" Zombie yells as he, Flintstone, and Dumbo wrestle their way between us. "Guys, we're in deep enough shit as it is right now. We don't need to get in trouble for a fight too."

"And whose fault is that?" Tank growls, eying Zombie with hatred.

Zombie sighs. "Tank, man, I know that you're pissed at me. But don't take it out on the rest of the guys, okay?"

Tank scoffs. "Croak's the one who butted in!"

I cross my arms and open my mouth to say something, but Zombie speaks. "She's just looking out for me, okay? Just try to take it easy."

"What is with the two of you anyway?" Tank snaps. "Do you think this is a fucking game? That you can play house while we're in this hell hole? Do you not understand what's happening out there?" He throws his arm out to gesture to the world beyond the base walls, nearly smacking Poundcake in the face.

Zombie struggles not to roll his eyes. I know this because I actually roll my eyes – and I'm pretty sure everyone else does. But if Zombie did that while Tank was talking to him, it might be the end of the tiny sliver of self-control Tank is trying to grasp.

"Croak and I are just friends. We know that it's bad out there, so we agreed to have each other's backs is all." Zombie steps forward slightly. "Just like the rest of the squad. We're a team. We need to stick together in order to make it through this."

Tank laughs. He actually laughs. But it's not one of those 'ha-ha-you-are-so-funny' laughs. It's more like a 'ha-ha-I-am-going-crazy' laugh. "This isn't a football game, Mr. Quarterback."

There's so much snark in his voice that Zombie stiffens slightly. Did that actually strike a nerve?

Flintstone groans. "Tank, you're being a little bitch. It was one drill. It's not like we were going to graduate this time around anyway. We suck too much. Who cares if we're booted down the leaderboard again?"