that dream, I need to feel in control.
I fall into step beside John, walking briskly through the monotonous halls. “Do you think we’re heading on another mission?”
“Don’t know. I got the call from Brice. He told me to collect you, but that was all.”
So Convict isn’t talking to me directly. Nice. Funny how John always seems to get the shit jobs that Convict doesn’t want to do. I’m tempted to ask him why he puts up with it but that might open some sort of dialogue between us and given the state he found me in, I’m not too keen on opening that sort of Q&A session.
We pass through the mess hall and down the short hall to the lift. John presses the button and we wait. And wait. And wait…
“Hey, I wanted to apologize for all those questions earlier,” John says, breaking the long silence.
I look over at him, expecting to meet up with his typical stoic profile, but he’s actually looking at me. His brow even has a little crease in it.
Nope. Not buying it. I cross my arms. “You figured out why you were asking them?”
There is a clank and a rattle and the lift doors open. Empty. We step inside and John presses the button for the command floor. He doesn’t look at me again, choosing instead to stare at the passing concrete. “You’re my teammate. My gut says I can trust you, but I’m not stupid enough to follow it blindly.”
“Ah. And you think my responses to some random questions are going to prove or disprove what your gut says?”
He glances down and to the side, catching my gaze. “No. But your reactions will.”
I swallow. Well that sucks. So far my reactions haven’t been very good. Both times he’s tweaked my buttons I’ve lost more than a touch of my control. If he’s trying to make sure I’m safe and stable… yeah, crap.
I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Take a deep breath. “What you said, the words themselves, they, uh, reminded me of someone else.” I don’t expand. Can’t, even if I might want to. The dream is too close, squeezing down on my ribcage like a vise.
John is staring at me steadily, as if measuring my mettle. Eventually he nods and turns to face back forward, yet again displaying another amazing bit of tact. And why does that disappoint me? It’s not like I’m looking to pour my heart out to him. Geez.
The lift jars to a stop, the doors sliding open. John gestures me out first—what a gentleman—and then steps up beside me as we head down the hall. Unlike the empty halls below, these are bursting with on-duty soldiers. I forgot to look at my clock when John woke me from the dream, but judging by the level of activity, it’s late afternoon. The teams that have been out are returning, their stats—kills, materials retrieved, and other reconnaissance info—recorded.
I frown as a thought crosses my mind: Marine has made a special exception because of me. What I am requires that I only go on night missions, or very cloudy day missions. This is obviously not the norm. With good reason too. Zombies are more active at night. The virus that changed them, changes their iris so they can no longer constrict, making it painful for them to be out in the light of day. It’s easier, and safer, to kill them while their activity is low. In the right circumstances, a team can cut a pretty impressive path of destruction before the sound and movement rouses the rest from their dens.
Gnawing at my lip, I follow John into the conference room. Inside we find not just Convict, Brian, and Herbie, but Rodriguez with the rest of his team.
Blaine motions me over, nodding his head at the empty seat beside him. Feels kind of like high school, saving seats and all, still I find myself glancing at John who meets me with an indifferent expression. Yeah, okay then. I cross the room, wishing I could indulge in a forehead smack. Why would John care where I sit? Why do I care whether John cares where I sit?
Still, I can’t help notice that John doesn’t take any
I fall into step beside John, walking briskly through the monotonous halls. “Do you think we’re heading on another mission?”
“Don’t know. I got the call from Brice. He told me to collect you, but that was all.”
So Convict isn’t talking to me directly. Nice. Funny how John always seems to get the shit jobs that Convict doesn’t want to do. I’m tempted to ask him why he puts up with it but that might open some sort of dialogue between us and given the state he found me in, I’m not too keen on opening that sort of Q&A session.
We pass through the mess hall and down the short hall to the lift. John presses the button and we wait. And wait. And wait…
“Hey, I wanted to apologize for all those questions earlier,” John says, breaking the long silence.
I look over at him, expecting to meet up with his typical stoic profile, but he’s actually looking at me. His brow even has a little crease in it.
Nope. Not buying it. I cross my arms. “You figured out why you were asking them?”
There is a clank and a rattle and the lift doors open. Empty. We step inside and John presses the button for the command floor. He doesn’t look at me again, choosing instead to stare at the passing concrete. “You’re my teammate. My gut says I can trust you, but I’m not stupid enough to follow it blindly.”
“Ah. And you think my responses to some random questions are going to prove or disprove what your gut says?”
He glances down and to the side, catching my gaze. “No. But your reactions will.”
I swallow. Well that sucks. So far my reactions haven’t been very good. Both times he’s tweaked my buttons I’ve lost more than a touch of my control. If he’s trying to make sure I’m safe and stable… yeah, crap.
I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Take a deep breath. “What you said, the words themselves, they, uh, reminded me of someone else.” I don’t expand. Can’t, even if I might want to. The dream is too close, squeezing down on my ribcage like a vise.
John is staring at me steadily, as if measuring my mettle. Eventually he nods and turns to face back forward, yet again displaying another amazing bit of tact. And why does that disappoint me? It’s not like I’m looking to pour my heart out to him. Geez.
The lift jars to a stop, the doors sliding open. John gestures me out first—what a gentleman—and then steps up beside me as we head down the hall. Unlike the empty halls below, these are bursting with on-duty soldiers. I forgot to look at my clock when John woke me from the dream, but judging by the level of activity, it’s late afternoon. The teams that have been out are returning, their stats—kills, materials retrieved, and other reconnaissance info—recorded.
I frown as a thought crosses my mind: Marine has made a special exception because of me. What I am requires that I only go on night missions, or very cloudy day missions. This is obviously not the norm. With good reason too. Zombies are more active at night. The virus that changed them, changes their iris so they can no longer constrict, making it painful for them to be out in the light of day. It’s easier, and safer, to kill them while their activity is low. In the right circumstances, a team can cut a pretty impressive path of destruction before the sound and movement rouses the rest from their dens.
Gnawing at my lip, I follow John into the conference room. Inside we find not just Convict, Brian, and Herbie, but Rodriguez with the rest of his team.
Blaine motions me over, nodding his head at the empty seat beside him. Feels kind of like high school, saving seats and all, still I find myself glancing at John who meets me with an indifferent expression. Yeah, okay then. I cross the room, wishing I could indulge in a forehead smack. Why would John care where I sit? Why do I care whether John cares where I sit?
Still, I can’t help notice that John doesn’t take any
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