about two weeks later there was a air raid drill, it was weekly in the middle of the night. we all shuffled around to find the blue jumpsuits, our boots and m16s in the dark, as all of us ran out of the room i seen zombie go back for nugget, the rest of us pushed through the crowds of groups running down the steps.

turning the corner of the vibrating floor, pushing into bodies, the screaming alarm. i look back for zombie but can't see him. we kneel on the ground, our rifles at the metal grate that covers the airshaft leading to the surface. reznik behind us, holding a stop watch. we missed the forty-eight seconds mark, because of zombie and nugget. it would drop us another place and take away three days of free time.

we're back in the barracks all too hyped to sleep. half mad at zombie, half mad at nugget. i wasn't necessarily, i mean zombie is the group leader of course he'd go to help the runt of the squad. and if it were a real drill nugget would be dead if he didn't go back to get him.

"you should have left him behind," tank says. his thin face is flushed with rage.

"there's a reason we drill, tank," I remind him. "what if this had been the real thing?"

"then I guess he'd be dead."

"he's a member of this squad, same as the rest of us." zombie spoke up.

"you still don't get it, do you, zombie? It's freakin' nature. whoever's too sick or weak has to go." he yanks off his boots, hurls them into his locker at the foot of the bunk. "if it was up to me, we'd throw all of 'em into the incinerator with the teds."

"killing humans—isn't that the aliens' job?"

his face is beet red. he pounds the air with his fist. flintstone makes a move to calm him down, but tank waves him away.

"whoever's too weak, too sick, too old, too slow, too stupid, or too little—they go!" tank yells. "anybody and everybody who can't fight or support the fight—they'll just drag us down."

"they're expendable," zombie shoots back sarcastically.

"the chain is only as strong as the weakest link," tank roars. "its frickin' nature, zombie. only the strong survive!"

"hey, come on, man," flintstone says to him. "zombie's right. nugget's one of the crew."

"you get off my case, flint," tank shouts. "all of you! like it's my fault. like I'm responsible for this shit!"

"zombie, do something," Dumbo begs. "he's going dorothy."

dumbos referring to the recruit who snapped on the rifle range one day, turning her weapon on her own squad members. two people were killed and three seriously injured before the drill sergeant popped her in the back of the head with his sidearm. every week there's a story about someone "going dorothy," or sometimes we say "off to see the wizard." the pressure gets to be too much, and you break. sometimes you turn on others. sometimes you turn on yourself. sometimes i question the wisdom of central command, putting high-powered automatic weapons into the hands of some seriously effed-up children.

"oh, go screw yourself," tank snarls at dumbo. "like you know anything. like anybody knows anything. what the hell are we doing here? you want to tell me, dumbo? how about you, squad leader? can you tell me? somebody better tell me and they better tell me right now, or i'm taking this place out. i'm taking all of it and all of you out, because this is seriously messed up, man. we're going to take them on, the things that killed seven billion of us? with what? with what?" Pointing the end of his rifle at Nugget, who's clinging to zombies leg. "with that?" laughing hysterically.

everybody goes stiff when the gun comes up. i look at zombie who looks towards me then to nugget. the little boy i used to baby sit, i used to look at like my own brother then remember not being able to save my own.

"put the damn gun down." i snap, but calmly, the gun now snaps to me, "come on think about this tank, you're threatening to shoot people who didn't even start this shit, we didn't ask for this, not you, not me, not nugget, not even zombie, non of us." i say not even phased by the gun. "i get it, feeling like you're going insane. not having anything left. i get it. we all get it. we've all lost our family's, we all think we have nothing left, nothing left to fight for — but we do, we have to fight for them." i explain, he doesn't seem phased but you can see him cracking at the foundation.

"shut up! shut up!" i shouts his finger on the trigger now, "i'm not some little kid you can just tell, 'it's all going to be okay' in that stupid voice you call comforting. you're a bitch, you've been a bitch. and now because your life is on the line, or nugget your little brother. or he'll even your little fuck buddy zombies on the line you want to be nice. fuck you!" he shouts mockingly, my eyes narrow at him. i just want to snap his little neck.

zombie hold up his empty hands and say as calmly as he can, "private, lower that weapon right now."

"you're not the boss of me! nobody's the boss of me!" standing beside his bunk, the rifle at his hip. on the yellow brick road, all right.

zombies eyes slide over to flintstone, who's the closest to tank, standing a couple of feet to his right. flint answers with the tiniest of nods.

"don't you dumbasses ever wonder why they haven't hit us yet?" tank says. he's not laughing now. he's crying. "you know they can. you know they know we're here, and you know they know what we're doing here, so why are they letting us do it?"

"i don't know, Tank," zombie says evenly. "why?"

"because it doesn't matter anymore what the hell we do! it's over, man. it's done!" swinging his gun around wildly. if it goes off..."and you and me and everybody else on this damn base are history! we're—"

flints on him, ripping the rifle from his hand and shoving him down hard. tanks head catches the edge of his bunk when he falls. He curls into a ball, holding his head in both hands, screaming at the top of his lungs, and when his lungs are empty, he fills them and lets loose again. somehow it's worse than waving around the loaded m16. poundcake races into the latrine to hide in one of the stalls. dumbo covers his big ears and scoots to the head of his bunk. oompa has sidled closer to zombie, right next to nugget, who's holding on to his legs with both hands now and peeking around my hip at tank writhing on the barracks floor. the only one unaffected by tanks meltdown is teacup, the seven-year-old. she's sitting on her bunk staring stoically at him, like every night tank falls to the floor and screams as if he's being murdered.

and it hits us: this is murder, what they're doing to us. a very slow, very cruel murder, killing us from our souls outward.

it is hopeless. it is crazy. tank is the sane one because he sees it clearly. i look at the little boy on the floor, is this what it would've been for tommy? if he hadn't died, who knows tank could've been a nice boy before everyone died, maybe like tommy. but now he's dead inside, he's angry, sad. he knows the truth. and that's why zombie had to let him go.