Flurry [Ben Parish]

Sonic Drive-Thru and Rule #1

Wake up. Get dressed. Braid my hair. Splash water on my face. Fall in. Get yelled at. Three laps around the yard.

I don't mind the running. Soccer was a fall sport, so in the spring I ran cross country to keep in shape. I certainly wasn't winning any medals there, but it did its job and the experience doesn't hurt here at Camp Haven, where everything we do seems to involve running. The last man has to take a fourth lap and Zombie always makes sure it's him. Again, he's an idiot.

After the run is breakfast. I think Reznik knows that if chow was first, half of the recruits would end up with vomit on their boots by lap two. Zombie plops down across from me, tray clattering on the metal table, Nugget on his heels. A quick glance under the table tells me his tiny feet don't even touch the floor, they just dangle from his spot on the bench.

I silently eat my own mush as Zombie tries to convince Nugget to eat, the boy adamantly refusing.

"Look kid, if you don't put something in your system, boot camp will kill you." Zombie's words seem to finally draw a reaction from the boy who begins to eat slowly, grimacing on every bite.

"Aw, look at Zombie being Nugget's Nanna," Tank sneers. Flintstone lets out an ugly snort. I think he's still bitter about losing his title.

Zombie elegantly tells them to go screw themselves and that's the end of it, the table falling into it's usual conversation of ranks, graduation, and Dumbo's horrible jokes. Nobody ever talks about before, our baggage is our own to carry. Except for Nugget, who's spent the hours I've known him insisting that his sister, Carrie or something, is coming for him. I don't have the heart to tell him his sister is most certainly dead and neither does anyone else. We do tell him to shut up though.

After we eat, Reznik leads us to a small room that's lined with punching bags and mats for hand-to-hand combat training, which happens to be one of my favorites. There's nothing more satisfying than punching out your frustration, and trust me when I say I have a lot. From Reznik, from the Others, from my family, from Nugget not shutting his goddamn mouth for the past twenty four hours. Even when he's sleeping, the kid snores.

Now that my sparring partner has been roped into around the clock babysitting, I'm on my own. I pick a bag and begin wrapping my hands because while Reznik's a dick, he made it clear he can't have privates running around with broken fingers. I land hit after hit, my anger bubbling dangerously closer to the surface every second. I try to keep it under control, moving to a rhythm in my head. I think it might be The Backstreet Boys.

It's important I keep it together because it's Robin's anger, not Snowflake's. Robin is emotional, impulsive, and weak. Snowflake is even, sarcastic, and hard. Robin is fighting for her life. Snowflake knows she'll die, but she's gonna take a few dozen Others out with her. So I shove it down, moving methodically and in a predetermined sequence. Right, right, left, right. Left, left, right, left. Right knee, left leg, right elbow. Switch.