Gasoline | Ben Parish

36

"CHRIST," Zombie mutters, running a hand down his face. The other rests in Teacup's hair, attempting to soothe her grieving state. "He's been hit."

Right on cue, another painful cry echoes in the destroyed building we're trapped in.

"I've got to get to him," I mumble, flinging my rifle off my shoulder.

Zombie scoffs. "Croak, you can barely walk."

"Doesn't matter," I hiss. "The Ted can't see for shit right now. That's why he missed me last time. I need to take advantage of that while I still can."

I check to make sure my rifle wasn't damaged in the blast. A large hand settles over my sights, lowering the weapon. I bite my cheek to keep my temper in check.

Zombie stares at me with hard eyes. "What happens if he hits you?" He demands. "What the hell am I supposed to do with two injured privates?"

"Leave me behind and get Oompa to Dumbo." I already know he won't go for it. Leaving people behind has been Zombie's weakness since day one.

He clenches his jaw, confirming my presumption. His voice becomes dangerously dark. "Don't. You know I can't do that."

"And I can't let him lay out there in the open when he's hurt," I retort. "You fucked me up, Zombie. You made me care too much about too many goddamn people." My hand goes to my hair, roughly running through the now-loose strands. Some time during this mess, my ponytail snapped. I guess hair-ties can last through alien invasions but not a tanker truck explosion. "Besides, it's my fault he got hit. You can't tell me that it wasn't. The only reason he was near the blast was to make sure that I made it out okay."

He looks at me with eyes of a broken man, eyes of a man who sees the futile extremes of the situation.

"Fine," he says.

I blink. "What?"

"We'll do it together." Zombie straightens, maneuvering Teacup to sit up on her own. He takes her tiny face between his grimy palms. "Hey, listen to me, okay?" His voice has become a great deal softer, much too gentle for the ruins we're currently surrounded in. His eyes match hers: wide and brown and afraid but strong. "Oompa's not dead. He's out there, but he won't be alive for long if we don't go help him. So I need you to run, understand? You're going to run as fast as you can for the parking garage."

Her lower lip trembles. My patience is wearing so thin that I almost yell at her, but Zombie continues in his steady, assuring voice. "Hey, none of that." A thumb runs over her mouth. "You need to be strong for Oompa. You need to make it to the parking garage and tell Dumbo that Oompa's hurt."

"Okay," she whispers.

Zombie stares at her expectantly. "Can you do that?"

Teacup raises her chin. There are clean streaks from her tears down her soot-coated face. Her braid is messy and half-undone. There's a small cut above her eyebrow that leaks a red trail to her ear.

Still, she has never looked more durable than she does now. Teacup, small and beaten down and terrified. Teacup, the toughest person I have ever met. Teacup, the one who can cry and fight through the tears.

"Yes," she says.

Zombie forces a smile onto his face for her sake. "All right." He claps her on the shoulder. "We need a plan."

My brain is moving fast. "You get to Oompa. I'll distract the shooter while Cup runs."

He starts to protest, not wanting me in the direct line of fire, but I cut him off. "I can't lift Oompa. I'm guessing that if he hasn't dragged himself over to us by now, he can't move. You're going to have to carry him." I press my lips into a firm line. "We don't have any other options."

He stares at me in the dim shelter, eyes filled with so much emotion that I have to look away. I know that look. It's the same heavy-lidded gaze that he pinned me with last night in the frigid cold, hunkered down in the doorway of Camp Haven.

"Whatever you're thinking of doing right now, don't." I stare at the toes of my boots. "Declarations and displays of love before battle are cliché and ridiculous."

"Shut up, Croak." His words are weary; he doesn't mean a damn thing.

Still, my jaw drops. "Excuse me?" I dare him to explain himself, glaring at him with enough heat to rival the tank outside.

"Teacup, don't look," he says.

"Zombie, don't you dare-"

His cold fingers press firmly against the back of my neck, yanking me off balance. My hands find purchase on his broad shoulders, and before I can smack him, he's kissing me.

It's not a romantic kiss, and it's not a sweet one. It's not lust-filled either.

Zombie's lips are softer than I would've thought. They beg me to reciprocate the gesture, the gentlest pressure coaxing me along. I can feel how hot the inside of his mouth is, the tiny flutter of his eyelashes on my face, and the length of his nose against mine. He smells of gasoline and sweat.

I've experienced closeness with Zombie before – physically in the hallway this morning and much more intimately many times in the past. But this is different.

When he pulls away, I lean forward, chasing after him. He lets out a soft chuckle in between pants. I find that I'm breathing hard too, with a drumming heart and shaky hands.

Teacup has her hands over her eyes.

"It's safe," Zombie tells her. She slowly uncovers her eyes, looking back and forth between us.

"Are you good?" He asks me.

No, my head is spinning because you're a damn good kisser. Why the hell did I put that off for so long?

"Yeah," is what I end up saying.

"All right. Let's do this."