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Death is cold and heavy in my hands. My eyes burn into every crevice of the weapon, memorizing every single inch of the very thing that would have gotten me killed in the forest. I gulp. I haven't touched one in months. Not since the woman. Not since she...
"You okay?"
My eyes flit over to meet Zombie's concerned brown ones. He's in the booth next to mine, rifle set against his shoulder comfortably. I don't understand why he thinks otherwise until I notice the tremor of the barrel of my M16. My hands are shaking.
I let out a shaky breath and nod, but I don't speak. I don't trust my voice right now.
"Not used to guns or just don't like them?" Zombie questions, eyes soft.
"Both," I admit. "Been shot to many times to be comfortable around them."
He smirks. "One time would be enough, don't you think?"
I don't let myself laugh. I just stare at him with an emotionless face. Eventually, his mouth drops back down into his normal, half frown. He stares at me for a long moment, then cocks his head to side, somewhat resembling an upset puppy. "Are you okay to shoot?"
I clear my throat, startled by his worry. "Yeah. Of course. I'll be fine."
His lips quirk up again. "Are you sure? You don't always have to--"
I lift the gun to my shoulder and fire. I force my body to stay still as the bullet soars through the air and hits just to the right of the target, nicking the arm of the cardboard man. I don't look back at Zombie. "Yes, Zombie. I do. It's how I have survived up until this point."
He doesn't answer for a very long moment. I assume he catches on that I am finished talking to him because he turns back around to start his assault on the concrete ground-- the only thing he seems to be able to hit.
Half of the squad sucks at firing M16's. Some-- Tank, Flintstone, Teacup-- are decent enough to at least hit the target, like myself. Poundcake is exceptional, almost never missing his shot. The others, however, I swear are cross-eyed or something.
Zombie has a special thing for the ground, and Dumbo has to hastily shove his glasses up and over the bridge of his nose every so often. Nugget isn't even allowed a gun-- he is given a stick and forced to pretend.
Reznik barks in our ears about us being soggy shit sandwiches, pauses to let Poundcake know that he is still a shit sandwich, just not a soggy one, and continues with his screaming. I want to punch him so he'll shut the fuck up and let me concentrate, and then I realize that the Other's won't stop for me on the field.
If we make it that far. According to Tank's constant grumbling, we'll never do it.
__
Nugget starts crying in the middle of supper. Zombie becomes frustrated quickly and everyone at the table growls at Nugget to shut the fuck up, myself included. But it gets nowhere. He continues to sob and hold onto Zombie's pant leg for dear life and stare at his food like it is the worst thing he's ever seen, which can't be true.
I reach around Zombie's body so I'm face to face with the little boy and soften my features lightly as to not to scare him. If he doesn't stop, I'm going to wring his little neck.
Zombie doesn't expect the sudden lunge and so he wraps his arms around my chest to tug me back, but stills when he notices I hadn't attacked the kid. He stares at me in complete confusion, but I don't my eyes move from Nugget's.
"Your sister," I begin, my voice low so only he can here. "Chloe, right?"
"Cassie."
Whatever. "You'll want to be big and strong for her, right?" I don't let myself add on 'when she comes' because I'm certain she won't be doing that. He nods. Sniffles. I nod to his food. "Then you have to stop crying, got it? And eat your fucking food."
He nods grimly, a short, curt one. His messy hair flips in front of his teary eyes and he wipes it away quickly as he lets out another sniffle, before turning to his food and taking his first bite of canned beans.
When I lean back to devour my peaches-- canned peaches, the only fucking good left in the world-- everyone is staring at me like I just grew another head. I raise my hand and scratch my cheek, subconsciously checking for it because, honestly, with everything that has happened, would it really be that surprising? When I find nothing, a sharp glare is sent towards the rest of Squad 53.
"What?" I quip, and realize Zombie's hand has settled to the small of my back. I turn to him with an icy stare that is sure to stop him, and it soon falls back into his lap. I turn back to the squad. "I didn't see any of you fucks doing anything."
"You haven't had to deal with it this long," Tank retorts, brows furrowing in sudden anger. "You don't get to say a goddamn thing."
"Boohoo," I growl. "Doesn't mean a damn thing when it comes down to it. It's dealt with. Let's move on."
"Stop being a bitch," Tank growls.
"Don't call her a bitch," Dumbo defends, the tops of his big ears going red at the word usage. It's not because it is a swear word, I think, but mostly because it was being used as a derogatory word against me.
"You're being the bitch, Tank," Teacup sneers at him, and I think it's hilarious that she even says those words.
"Stand down, both of you," Zombie orders, brows furrowed in frustration even more so than before.
My eyes drift to Teacup, who seems to want to lunge across the table at the hothead. She's only seven, and suddenly I wonder if she swore before the Arrival. Did she used to wear pretty pink dresses and braid her hair and paint her nails like ever other seven-year-olds? Or was she a brat, then, too?
It doesn't matter. I don't care. I pretended to be soft, I let Sofia get a finger out of the grave I buried her in so that I could calm Nugget down long enough to shut the fuck up and eat. That doesn't mean that I suddenly care again. That just means that I don't want to go lower on the leader board.
It's not because Sofia is returning, crawling from the grave, ready to haunt me. Another ghost beside my family. Another reason for my name.
