Gasoline | Ben Parish

28

THE freezing temperature is enough to produce a tiny gasp from me. We step outside of the doors and are immediately greeted with a gust of chilling wind.

"Okay," Zombie grunts. "I'm ready to go inside."

"Don't be such a baby," I tease through chattering teeth. "Here." I drop down in the doorway, back pressed against the thick threshold. The wind isn't as strong down here with the walls of the base to protect me. "Sit there." I point directly across from me.

He does as I say, slouching against the cool metal. We can't comfortably cross our legs, so we sit with bent knees, legs in-between one another's.

"All right," Zombie leans his head back to rest it against the wall. "What did you want to tell me about?" He gives me a lazy smile.

"I wanted to tell you about the people I killed."

Whatever he was expecting, it certainly wasn't that.

Zombie sits up so fast his shoulder knocks against the door. "Ouch!" His hand comes up to rub against the bare, bright red flesh. Did I mention that he's shirtless? It's a little distracting. His muscles are tense from the cold weather, especially now after his clumsy ass hit the wall.

"Quit looking at me like that," he demands, nose scrunched as he continues to apply soothing pressure to the tender spot.

I blink, snapping myself out of my shirtless-Zombie-haze. "Like what?"

He pushes himself up slightly, biceps swelling. I look, even though I know he's watching my face and it's totally obvious that I'm checking him out.

"Like that!" He exclaims. "It's weird."

I scoff. "You look at me like that all the time."

His cheeks, already pink from the merciless cold, turn rosy. "Whatever," he grumbles. "Why do you want to tell me about the people you killed, of all things?"

"Because I trust you," I say softly.

This causes him to somber instantly. "I'm glad," he says.

I just nod. "It's just... I never thought that I would be a killer. And once I became one, I never thought it was a good thing. Then I came here and pretty much got praised for it. It felt wrong."

"You're human," Zombie cuts in. "Of course it's going to feel wrong."

I bite my lip and shake my head. "Zombie... I liked killing. A lot."

He doesn't have any wise, comforting words to respond to this. Although his face is mostly impassive, there's a tiny crease in his brow.

"I guess it made me feel like I actually had control over something." I shake my head and look away, out over the frosty grass and dark night sky. "That makes me sound like a psychopath."

Zombie doesn't say anything. I'm glad. It makes it easier. I don't need someone to blow sunshine up my ass and tell me that it's okay.

"My parents... after they died..." I shrug. "Their deaths were kind of my fault, so I guess they could be considered my first kills. I told you that I left my father to die. We were caught in some water when an earthquake hit. Our boat went under. I felt something grab at my leg, but I kicked it away. When I got to the surface, I realized it was probably him, but I wasn't able to find him, so I left.

"My mother caught the plague from me. She was taking care of me when I had it. It left me and went for her." I study my bare feet. "I should feel guilty about it. For a while, I think I did. But I realized that they would rather me be alive and them be dead, as fucked up as that sounds, so I let it go. I had bigger things to keep me up at night."