Gasoline | Ben Parish

41

WHEN we are about to enter the third floor of the parking garage, I hear the words: "Croak isn't going to like this."

Then I hear someone else say, "Croak never likes anything."

A bullet leaves its home. Someone grunts, stumbling.

Teacup and I don't hesitate. The last few steps of the stairs are a blur; I don't even remember taking them. All I know is that suddenly we're in the room, and I can't believe my eyes.

It takes me only a few seconds to process, but it feels like hours.

Flintstone, lying crumpled on the ground. Poundcake, thick red lines oozing down his neck. Dumbo, a dripping knife in his hand. Zombie, blood spreading across his left abdomen. Ringer, her gun still held high with light smoke swirling off the barrel.

Some sort of switch flips inside me. I'm raising my weapon with cold precision, Ringer falling perfectly in my sights. "You have three seconds," I growl in a low voice. "Explain yourself or I'm going to shoot you."

Every part of me is screaming. Zombie's been shot by Ringer. Zombie's been shot. Zombie. I want to run to him and stand in front of him and protect him from everything this wicked world offers.

But I can't move. I'm so infuriated, so terrified, so depressed, that my feet are rooted to the concrete. I am as rigid as the statue of the soldier we saw when we first got here. My index finger is shaking as I move it to the trigger.

"Put the gun down, Croak," Ringer says softly. "We have a lot to talk about."

"Did you shoot him?" I ask, voice trembling with rage. I know the answer. I just want to hear her say it to my face. "Did you fucking shoot him?"

Teacup is frozen by my side, except for her tiny pink lips. "Croak," she murmurs.

I hardly spare her a glance. I'm too focused on Zombie's pale hand clutching at the dampening spot on his once-new uniform.

Ringer doesn't answer me. Instead, she sets her rifle on the ground. "Croak, listen to me. It's like I said: we have a lot to talk about." She takes one step toward me, palms raised. "Just put the gun down-"

She's stopped in her place when I point my gun at her head. "Stay the fuck away from me and answer my question." There's no room for negotiating in my tone. No matter what her answer is, I'm going to kill her. If she didn't shoot him, then she didn't protect him.

"Croak, it's okay." My heart squeezes at the sound of his voice, winded and tinged with pain. "Put the gun down."

"She fucking shot you!" I lose my temper, screaming the words at him. "You're going to die, Zombie!" You're going to leave me.

"No, I'm not." He smiles, trying to comfort me. That's hard to do when there's grime on his cheeks and blood on his teeth. "We have a plan. I asked her to shoot me."

Well, that certainly snaps me out of my over-protective funk. I give him an incredulous look. "You- what- why would you-" I stop, shaking my head. I drop my weapon and rub my eyes from exhaustion (and also to get rid of any tears that might've shown up and been waiting to fall). "You're so fucking stupid, Zombie."

He's indignant. "No, I'm not – well, not that stupid. My plans usually turn out pretty good. I'm probably about... eighty-five percent sure that this is going to work."

The laugh I let out is a little too breathy. I let my hands drop to my sides and shake my head. "Ever heard of democracy? You should've talked this over with us before shooting yourself."

"You would've said no," Ringer speaks up.

"You're damn right I would've." I send her a glare.

She grimaces. "I would've said no too, Croak. Zombie is my CO, though, so I have to do what he says – even if I think it's moronic and suicidal."

"Hey, come on." Zombie throws his free hand up – well, as high as he can before he hisses and lowers it slowly back down by his side. "Doesn't anybody like the idea?"

Dumbo cautiously raises his hand. "Everything but the shooting part," he tells us quietly.

Zombie nods. "Yeah, the shooting part hasn't really been my favorite part of the plan either." He glances down at his wound.

Teacup's small hand has latched around my sleeve, yanking on it subtly. I risk tearing my eyes away from Ringer for a moment. "What?" I hiss.

I'm taken aback by how wide and serious her eyes are when she firmly whispers, "They're green."

"What are you talking about?"

Her hand removes itself from my sleeve and points at her eyepiece. "They're lighting up like Teds."