Echo • Ben Parish

I

To whatever higher divinity that exists up there, this is purely cynical.

As if contriving an apocalypse wasn't enough, you staged the waves to crash a week after having received my scholarship to MIT. That one week was pure bliss, seven days in which I simply could not wipe a contagious smirk off my face, for 168 hours I fantasized the bright future that lay ahead of me, finally harvesting the fruits of my arduous labor. A rapturous glimpse of all the good that was to come. All this was harshly snatched from my grasp with the arrival of the Others, all I could do was wonder what could've been. A lifetime was spent and wasted on test scores, exams, essays, and presentations, the memorizing, practicing, revising, all for a useless 4.9 GPA and perfect SAT score.

Maybe it was my vengefulness that first prompted me to seek out Wright Patterson, to be on the frontlines, to make them pay for what they had cost me, for everything that I never had.

Yet as soon as I joined bunker 53, my previous identity as petty school girl was wiped clean and replaced as a thoughtless machine.

Echo.

That's the name Reznik tailored for me my first day on site, he had caught word that I possessed the capacity of memorizing any article of writing after my first read, echoing the words directly from the page. Consequently, he proceeded in ordering me to recite the periodic table of elements, including each atomic number. A single error during this task would result with the entire squad completing 300 pushups. It was an exercise to evaluate my performance under pressure.

After this I was assigned with a job personalized just for me. I was the database of the squad, the strategist. For every mission I would analyze our goal, our playing field, our obstacles, our strengths, and use my intellectual advantage to form a game plan.

Instead of Processing and Disposal I was commissioned with reading assignments on medical articles, documents on military weaponry, anything that could be useful on the battle field.

How far can a sniper shoot?

Three kilometers.

How long can the brain survive without oxygen?

Approximately seven minutes.

What are the first few digits of pi?

3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197...

I admit that last one would probably prove to be useless against the Others, but it seemed like a piece of information Reznik might grill me on eventually.

I was essentially the database of bunker 53 and likely our sole chance at graduating this year. Yet, although my brains could compensate for the rest of the squad there was no denying our lack in brawn.

I had a fair shot and my speed was above average but when it came to hand-to-hand combat my book-smarts held no advantage. I knew the logistics of each move, when it was created, by who and for what purpose, yet when it came time to execute I lacked follow through. My bones felt brittle and knuckles would buckle under the force of a punch.

When I first arrived at barrack 10, bunker 53 was under a new authority much to Flintstone's frustration. Zombie, a pale faced kid with seemingly permanent bags etched under his eyes, was whom I was supposed to report. I never fully understood what Reznik saw in Zombie's dead eyes, nor did I care, all I wanted was to get on the field and quench my thirst for revenge. I'd drag all of bunker 53 with me if that's what it took.

✯

At the moment the occupants of bunker 53 were indulging in the last hour before curfew. Most of us were engaged in a game of poker while some simply rested. I was reading a book on martial arts, desperate for something, anything that could make sense of it all.