Marionette (A 'The 5th Wave' Fanfiction) [COMPLETED] #wattys2017

14. Zombie; Chapter I.

    I just hate stars. I know, I've been over this already, but I can't get over it. If you know what I mean. Okay, scratch that last thought. Even I don't know what I mean.

    The darkened wall opposite me is covered in bullet holes, so when the light shines at just the right angle it makes the metal look like a jet-black sky and the holes like stars. This proves that fate has a sence of humour.

    A wooden plank built into the wall behind me serving as a chair has to be the only furniture in the abandoned hall. The east wing is where we came from and the west leads to one of Commander Vosch's offices. I'm somewhere in the middle.

    I was never in this part of camp -and that's not such a big surprise, considering it's size- and I wonder whether this is where they take Dorothies to be locked up.

    I guess it has to be pretty crappy there, since every Dorothy commited suicide. Will I be one of them? Will I take my own life after all?

    Kistner yet again interrupts my rather morbid thoughts after talking with Vosch about something. The young medic says Vosch is expecting me. I thank him and stand up a bit too eagerly for someone who's only a few steps away from being determined 'mad.'

    The hall is unnerving.

    A door down the west is ajar and I can make out Vosch's behind a large wooden table. I walk towards him and notice more details. He's still wearing his uniform, his fists folded before him and his sharp blue eyes are as icy as ever. His calculating and keen expression lessens when I close the door and raise my hand in salute.

    With one elegant movement his hand gestures to a free chair. He wastes no time—as a leader of a military camp an hour could be but a millisecond. "You might be guessing why I called you, Private Marionette."

    Great, he dived right into it. I nod my head once. "Yes, sir," I admit.

    His brows arch the slightest. "And what is your opinion, Private?"

    "I can't quite agree, sir," I say. "I know it may look strange, but I'm okay. Just got a short temper, that's all. Sir." I drum my fingers on my thighs nervously through the whole course.

    Vosch leans forward. "Excuse me?"

    "I really am fine. Sane, I mean. Sir."

    "Sane?"

    "I'm not Dorothy, sir."

    Knowing flashes in his cold eyes. "I would not accuse you of that," he says in a level tone.

    I feel like someone took off the weighs I was carrying around. So I'm not going into the nut house. I'm not a Dorothy. But . . . then why am I here? I ask aloud.

    Vosch shows me a clipboard. I can't read anything on it as it is turned not to face me. He briefly scrolls through the papers and flips them over when he finds what he wants. He points at it and I can tell it's a number just above his pointer finger—53. The squad above ours in the chart. "Last night a recruit from Squad 53 went Dorothy. They'll be needing a replacement."

    He eyes me in a calculative manner. I understand what's going on now. "They have no sniper or anyone with a good and solid aim. My reports say your squad has two."

    I sigh. "Yes, sir, but why choose me?" I ask.

    He lets the papers fall back into a neat stack before answering. "Private Slingshot is your squad leader and oldest squad recruit. Transferring him would mean putting Private Mononoke in his position. We decided against the idea. She's a great warrior, indeed, but she's displaying odd behaviour lately and we overheard her speaking strongly against general regimes," he explains. "We trust her to take care of her life, but not the lives of the others. Slingshot has proven himself a very . . . worthy leader."

    He tilts his head as if to examine me from a different angle. "You are our best option."

    He waits and I wonder if I'm supposed to say anything. Vosch is always so focused and blank-faced, it's hard to figure out what's going through his head. Impossible is a better way to put it.

    The silence is broken by a knock. Seriously, what's with all the knocking? (Forget that, I'm just being stupid.)

    Vosch straightens. "Come in," he says.

    The door opens and Kistner enters. Again. "Sir, Private Zombie is here, sir," he announces.

    Vosch nods. "Good. Send him in, Private."

    Kistner obliges and leaves. This kid is hyperactive I swear.

    "Sir."

    I turn around in my chair at the sound of that voice. That voice. I recognize him immediately. The messy cinnamon-like hair, deep and tired and sunken brown eyes and carefully trained stone-like expression. It's the boy with whom I met Nugget. Zombie.

    I know it was said, by the way. I'm only half-heartedly paying attention. It takes me a while to process information given to me.

    Zombie's eyes flash with and emotion I don't manage to register -surprise, maybe?- and his face goes back to blank.

    Reznik stands and gestures to me. "Due to recent events involving Private Tank," -probably the Dorothy, I conclude- "we have decided to transfer Private Marionette from Squad 22 to your squad. She has skill in the sniper area and might just be the last addition to help you move up the chart." He stops pacing. "Private Marionette, you will move your belongings and will already sit with your new squad at evening chow. You are dismissed."

    Zombie doesn't talk while he navigates through the hall. The sun isn't blinding when we reach outside.

    Zombie clears his throat overly loudly. "So . . ." he trails off, looking for something to say. "Are you . . . How are you?" he says at last.

    I blush for no evident reason. "Okay," I reply. More silence. "And . . . yourself?"

    He shrugs and smiles. "As far as okay goes," he answers.

    There's a slight draft that makes Zombie's hair whip around his head. At times it makes the golden locks look like a halo. He's like an angel of death with the semi-automatic at his waist.

    Yes. Zombie is an angel of death.