Gasoline | Ben Parish

20

RINGER isn't here for morning inspection. Ringer doesn't make it to the morning run. Ringer doesn't show up for breakfast in the mess hall.

"Where the hell is he?" Flintstone grumbles when we head back to Barracks 10 and check over our rifles. Today we're due to the firing range. We haven't been in a while, so I'm feeling a little rusty. Although half the squad has been practicing during our extra time in the evening, that doesn't equate to a day on the range with Reznik.

"He'll be here, Flint," Dumbo says dully as he closes his rifle's chamber. "Just chill out."

But that's hard for Flintstone to do – actually, it seems pretty damn near impossible for everyone. We're all a little uneasy about having Tank replaced. I wonder if this is how they felt when Reznik first told them that I would be joining their squad.

Nugget is a wreck. He's dancing near the door, anxious to walk around the base and to possibly catch a glimpse of his sister. I glance at Zombie, who is avoiding Nugget's gaze at all costs. He's bent over his rifle, checking that everything is working properly.

Part of me wants to go sit by his side and put a tender hand on his arm and ask if he's okay. The bags under his eyes are extra-pronounced today.

But of course, I don't. I lean back against the railing of my bunk and stare at the floor. And for the first time, I find myself wanting to be Mary Beth for just a split second. But she's dead. Croak is here to stay.

___

IT'S a clear day – beautiful, really. That's the first thing I notice when we step out of the training room onto the shooting range. The sky is so brilliantly blue and there isn't a cloud in sight. It's bitterly cold, too, but the sun is out and provides a slight warmth that makes everything better.

If you ignore the big-ass space ship hovering over us, that is.

The second thing I notice is how quiet it is. Nobody has said anything on the walk here, and no one says anything now as we trudge outside. The only sound is the ricochet of bullets off metal cut-outs and our boots trampling the dead grass. Squad 53 is usually bickering and laughing and telling dirty jokes. This is new. This is different. This is uncomfortable.

The third thing I notice is the person currently firing their rifle at moving targets. And let me tell you, this dude is one hell of a marksman. The targets pop up out of the dead grass and lose their head just as fast with two quick shots. Another target rises and the same thing happens, just like clockwork. Reznik is smirking from his stance at the controls of the moving targets. Flintstone, Oompa, and Poundcake are the only ones from our squad that have had the privilege to use those.

Basically, I'm pretty damn impressed. So is everyone else.

Reznik sees us enter and begins hitting the buttons faster. The targets are lurching up one after the other, but none of them get fully upright before this kid takes 'em out.

Flintstone lets out a long, low whistle. "Damn, he's good." He's grinning. "This has got to be Ringer. Please, God, let this be Ringer. He's so good."

Nugget stops his tedious fidgeting. I hear him take a small breath. "It's not a he," is all he says before worming out of formation and sprinting to the figure cradling the rifle. Smoke swirls from the gun in the cold air.

The person turns before Nugget reaches Reznik. He skids to a stop, churning rocks and weeds. His shoulders immediately droop. Apparently Ringer isn't Nugget's sister. Go figure.

Zombie and Flintstone start forward, and the rest of the squad follows.

Nugget was right – Ringer isn't a he. Ringer's a chick. And she looks oddly familiar.

She's a few inches taller than me. Very thin, with lean muscles. Older than most of the kids in our squad, maybe fifteen or sixteen. She has a delicate pixie face and dark, deep-set eyes that are startling and disorienting, like a black hole. Her hair is long and straight and glossy onyx.

Then I place her – she's the girl from P&D that almost hit me with a dead guy. Great.

Teacup edges her way to my side. "Ringer is a girl," she whispers to me. She sounds like she can't believe it, even though she reminded us all of the possibility last night.

I don't say anything in response. I'm too drawn to the blinding beam splitting Zombie's face. He looks like he's just won the goddamn lottery. "Looks like we're going to be the first squad to graduate," he says.

"You're damn right," Flintstone claps him on the shoulder. "Ringer, welcome to Squad 53."