The Darkness of LightThis is the first chapter of Knifed, and very rough. Even now it's being improved on. Please keep in mind that it's very difficult to put appropriate line breaks into it, so don't be alarmed when a very long paragraph doesn't contain the same style of formatting the other paragraphs have.
The gunshot ran through the entire school grounds. A whip crack in the silence; a battle horn in the beginning of a war. Screams of the dying, echoing around the gravestones of those whose souls passed into the unknown.
Attending a military school was hard, made even harder when all its students attended the best in the world. Lennocks, known for producing decorated soldiers, patriots and whatever the people of Britain could think of, was situated twenty five miles north of London, nestled in the rolling green hills of the countryside. Buried underneath, the bones of thousands of livestock from ages past. It used to be an abattoir.
It wasn't pleasant, dealing with two suicides yearly. More so, facing the dozens of parents who stormed in to know why their sons and daughters had disabled themselves. It was fairly routine, and life went on.
So no one had expected anything to happen on this humid night. The school's tally this year was one suicide so far - now it had reached the mark. Rct. Jon Taylor had faced only three months of what he thought was child labour, and had desperately rushed for the emergency exit. It was effective, but irreversible.
Just-awaken school officials and soldiers-in-training rushed toward the source of the shot armed with pitchforks, pistols and rifles. They had reached dorm room 49, in the East Wing. The corpse was lying spread-eagled on the floor, blood splattered on the walls, the sheets and the carpet. One of the school cleaners whimpered - a twice annual job they had hoped would not come. Lieutenant General Tark, who happened to be the principal, stepped forward and stared into the once lively hazel eyes. He clicked his fingers, signalling for the garbage boy. Tark then waved the staring crowd away.
Breakfast the next morning - it looked like everyone had forgotten what had befallen them last night, but was brought back by General Herwood, the deputy.
‘Yesterday, tragedy had once again struck our school.
We are here to honour the life of Rct. Jon Taylor. He was described as bright, energetic and ready for anything...’
Amongst the gathered mass of the some 500 green-clad students sat a slim 15 year old boy. Sand coloured hair, blue eyes and wiry, but strong, arms. Freckled face, and an old chrome watch glinting on his wrist. How he hated these speeches.
Dex Hartley had been in Lennocks for more than half his life. Not that he had really wanted it. His father had died in the Fourth Pacific War, and his mother had abandoned him at the age of six.
Two speeches a year, for nine years. Eighteen he had to sit for. Eighteen for which he didn't care.
Herwood had concluded his speech. ‘Now, would everyone please proceed to their next lesson.’
Dex yawned, and got up. Paintball scrimmages. The only thing he felt was satisfying about them was hearing the splat of the paint. But, it was technically a lesson, and he had to show up.
The usual practice guns were in place, loaded with the usual paint-filled bullets. Dex wondered what would happen if they were loaded with real bullets. Also as per usual, a crowd of people with free periods had come to spectate.
‘Alright, listen up, you mongrels!’ yelled Sergeant Winterhouse. ‘We're going to have a full-out scrim today, Elimination Match!’ The spectators booed in disappointment; Capture the Flag was more entertaining. A few metres in front of them, Dex smiled to himself. Elimination was when he was at his peak. His fingers were fiddling with the blue cloth tied on his right wrist.
‘Red Team, step forward and receive your guns!’
Dex watched as the Red Team marched forward in single file and were issued their guns. ‘These are official Modified X525 Modular rifles. Treat them with care!’ Winterhouse screamed.
‘And will the Blue Team come up and receive their guns!’
Everyone who was left, just like the Red Team had done, marched in single file and received Practice Model X525 Modular assault rifles, descendants of the X458 rifle. Dex weighed the gun in his hand, getting a feel and balance of it. This was the first time he had ever used this beauty of a rifle, and hoped it wasn't the last. Before he was done gathering ammo, Winterhouse shouted through a speakerphone, ‘POSITIONS...!’ Dropping the bullets and moaning at the speed Winterhouse expected tasks done, Dex made his way into the small forest that served as a training field for Lennocks and hid under a bush, making sure he was well covered. He loaded the magazine and waited for the signal.
‘NOW… BEGIN!’ roared Winterhouse.
Dex crouched in his hiding place, certain that no one could see him. His team had trusted him as a sniper – he would just have to live up to it. Squinting into the low scope, he spotted a Red standing behind a tree, anxiously looking over his shoulder in the other direction. Grinning, Dex pulled the trigger. A large blue spot appeared below the boy’s collarbone, and he immediately fell to the ground. That was the good thing about Elimination – people would have to play dead once hit. He prepared to take aim at the next unfortunate victim, before something hard, like a blank filled with paint, struck him in the back. Dex groaned, then fell face first into the mud.
Before he knew it, he was being pulled up again.
‘Sorry there, friend, I thought you were a Reddie,’ the person holding onto Dex was saying.
Scar on the right side of the face. Hazel eyes, reddish hair and hulking build. There was something alarming about the guy's appearance, but Dex couldn't place it. Perhaps it was the scar, or the red hair. Or perhaps both.
‘Thanks,’ Dex said.
‘No problem,’ the stranger replied, and stalked away.
Dex threw himself onto the ground and took aim. In the next ten minutes he took out four, five, six victims, savouring the sight of them collapsing onto the forest floor, supposedly dead.
It wasn't long after his last victim that Winterhouse had called for the end of the scrim.
Lunch was the usual, unchanging meal. A slice of bread, vegetables and a few bits of meat. It was meagre, but then again, soldiers weren’t supposed to stuff themselves. Dex sat back and enjoyed eavesdropping on the chatter when he was done.
History with Moorecroft was a terrible ordeal. Not only did the majority of the school hate history, but Moorecroft himself was the most repetitive teacher on the face of the earth. He said everything at least ten times before moving on. History was interesting, but not while being taught with his methods.
‘Welcome, class. Today we are going to start investigating World War II, one of the most important events of the last century,’ he chanted.
Slowly, but surely, Dex slipped into a stupor.
‘… the Japanese bombed the American naval base of Pearl Harbour in December 1941… did you get that, boys? The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor on the seventh of December, 1941…’
The bell signalled the end of the lesson. Everyone sighed in relief, and Moorecroft shouted out their homework over the din.
‘Write an essay detailing the Axis powers of World War II, and hand it to me in the next lesson!’
Lennocks Military Academy is split into approximately five parts: the East and West Wings, where the dorm rooms were located; the North and South buildings, home to classrooms and, in the case of the South block, the Administration; and the Grounds, where everything physical took place, next to the East Wing. Dex’s room, WR40, was in the West Wing – he shared it with a certain Mike Saunders. During lessons, the doors were alarmed, keeping would-be thieves out. It didn’t make it very easy for emergencies, but no one expected emergencies much.
Dinner at seven was made up of generally rice, meat, and a small amount of vegetables. Pumpkin soup was completely optional, but in high demand. Perhaps it was because of the hardly satisfactory main course. The students had fifty minutes to finish, but most, if not all, finished within ten. The Food Hall wasn’t supervised at these hours. After dinner was finished, the students would head back to their dorms and spend two hours doing some homework. After that, they would go to bed.
Tark and Herwood thought they had it all under control. The state of rebellion among the Privates and Privates First Class went unnoticed. They, under a general consensus, hated being here, hated being forced the military ways from a century ago into them. It’s not like they, like Dex, had a choice. Mostly, they were students rather more fortunate than Dex. Their parents, being influential and/or stupid, had been deceived from the start into thinking that Lennocks was one of the most prestigious in the world. It was prestigious in a way, but only by driving the living daylights out of recruits.
Tark’s office in the South Block Administration looked like any other principals’ office: a desk, office chair, filing cabinet, school photos and a wall devoted to awards.
‘The Supervisor will be here soon!’
The principal was pacing his office in agitation, and beadily watched by George Herwood.
Lindl Tark was a former veteran of the British Military Forces (as they are now called), promoted to Lieutenant General in his last year in service. He received a dishonourable discharge after planting a grenade in the wrong location. However, regardless of what he did, Tark forced himself to follow the Military Code after being kicked out. His rather strong build still gave off the commanding aura.
The Supervisor was the overseer of education in London and surrounding areas. He had the power to give schools a complete overhaul, principals a screaming rant, schools a complete shutdown (if desired). Put simply, the Supervisor was any principal’s worst fear.
Herwood, being a more composed man than Tark, with less experience, was amazed at this show of fright from the principal.
‘Lindl, it’s just a person - a man. Not God.’
‘God doesn’t shut down schools,’ Tark retorted. ‘You never know what the Supervisor might do next. I heard he closed a school in metro London a few weeks ago.’
Herwood sighed in exasperation. ‘We’ve done nothing wrong. Just keep a cool head. You have enough time for his arrival in three days.’
It was only then when Tark started listening. ‘You’re right. We need a student representative for his arrival. Any good recommendations?’ His deputy lapsed into thoughtful silence.
‘We’ll carefully watch the higher forms. Someone will pop up eventually.’ Tark nodded in agreement. Herwood, realising he had done his job, walked out of the room.
In WR40, Dex was lying in his bed, fully awake, face turned toward the cabin window. The silver white moonlight was streaming through, the sound of cicadas and Michael's snoring penetrated the deep silence.
Saunders was the son of an obscure politician – Geoff L. Saunders. He was thin and weak, even after spending four years at Lennocks. Dex thought of his dorm mate as a slight coward, but on more than one occasion Michael had showed his loyalty. He also happened to be Dex’s only friend at Lennocks.
When they had met, Michael was a loser and wimp. Even on the forest battlefield, he couldn't stay 'alive' for more than ten seconds. Dex, who had actually felt sorry for this boy, batted the fast approaching paintball with his rifle.
'Thanks,' Michael had said, 'but you're better off taking care of yourself.'
Dex had shaken his head. 'Nah, it's perfectly fine.’ Then someone had started shooting at them. ‘Give me covering fire!' Dex commanded, and Michael had obliged, finding his worth in the forest. The year after, he and Dex were put into different Scrimmage classes, but they resolved to train together whenever they had the chance.
Slowly, the image faded from his mind, replaced with a new one.
He was floating through the abyssal landscape. The blood red flames licked his legs and burnt his feet. It was completely dark, save the eerie, flickering light coming from the fire. Alarmed, he yelled out, 'Where am I?!' and listened as his voice echoed and died in the depths of the semi-darkness. Just then, a shadow that could be seen even in the blackness, darker than any other shadow ever cast, crept behind the unsuspecting boy.
Dex sat bolt upright in his bed. Sweat was rolling down his body; the blankets were damp. Wary, he gathered himself together and looked out the window. Something was not right, but he couldn’t think what; sleeplessness overcame him. He lay back onto the covers and promptly fell asleep.
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