Gasoline | Ben Parish

21

AWKWARD. That's the best way to describe the atmosphere.

Ringer sits on Tank's old bunk – I should probably stop thinking of it like that and just call it Ringer's bunk – and cleans her rifle. She doesn't talk. She hasn't said a damn thing since this morning. Maybe that's her way of coping, like Poundcake.

Usually Zombie and I would head to extra practice right now, sometimes with Nugget in tow, but tonight he tells me that we're going to stay in. Make sure the new member feels welcome. Something about the way he says this, the way his eyes flitter to her folded form on her bunk, sends my stomach up in flames. It's a strange feeling, one that I'm not accustomed to feeling – well, not as Croak, at least.

And I fucking hate it. Such bullshit. So what if Zombie's making goo-goo eyes at the new girl? Who wouldn't, honestly? She's badass! She's pretty! She's scary! Boys like that shit!

Get ahold of yourself, Croak. Jesus. You act like you own the guy. You treat him like a piece of crap half the time. You're the first girl he's been around in a while, so naturally he was gonna be drawn to you. Now he has an option, and he wants the newer choice. That's life. It sucks. Aliens invade. People die. Zombie likes Ringer. The world will keep spinning into deeper shit. Oh well.

I sit beside Teacup, shining my boots with too much ferocity while she dangles over the side of my bed. She's watching Dumbo and Oompa play cards; she's already declared that she gets to play the winner.

Flintstone has laundry duty tonight. He's folding a jumpsuit when Ringer slides off her mattress, slinky legs strolling across the floor at her leisure. He drops the cloth, practically drooling as she walks past. She's not wearing anything special, just the same night clothes Teacup and I wear: t-shirt and undies. But he's foaming at the mouth like she's a juicy steak and he's a starved dog.

Well, that's one thing I don't mind Ringer taking: Flintstone's sexual advances.

Nugget, who is helping Flintstone, doesn't notice. He continues to fish out socks from the deep basket and pair them.

Ringer approaches Zombie's bed. "You're the squad leader. Why?"

His eyes flicker over her form briefly before returning to her face and answering, "Why not?" There's a slight curve to the corner of his lips like he wants to smile.

I turn my gaze back to my boots. Who gives a shit what they're talking about? Not me. I've got more important things to worry about. For example: is this hard-ass mud going to come off?

Dumbo and Oompa have stopped their card game. Teacup has sat up and turned around to face the pair. Poundcake is sitting up in his bunk. Flintstone's hands are resting on the laundry basket, his lower lip tucked between his teeth. Nugget is peeking over the edge of the basket, curious to watch the scene unfold.

Despite my internal ramblings, I can't help but listen in. I won't turn around and look at them though. If I see him give her the heart eyes one more time, I'm going to lunge across this bed and choke him.

"You're a terrible shot," Ringer says.

"I have other skills," Zombie assures her. "You should see me with a potato peeler."

"You've got a good body." Flintstone lets out a light laugh under his breath, but it's cut short when he sees my back straighten. He sends me an uneasy look as she continues, "Are you an athlete?"

"I used to be," Zombie says. There's a hint of sadness in his voice, similar to the longing he had held when telling me about the things he missed.