But Drew had to assume that Mike was here. The implications made his heart contract. A completely black room. He knew the situation well—from the black room in the airplane hangar at the Rocky Mountain Industrial School. Fighting in the dark had been their chief instructor’s specialty. And Hank Dalton had mercilessly drilled his students in the principles of that unnerving form of combat. But Mike had been trained just as thoroughly. Drew was fighting someone just as good. He was fighting himself.
13
In Colorado, Drew and the other students—including Mike and Jake—had gone to the gym as usual for their first class at 8 A.M. They’d studied the double doors through which Hank Dalton always pushed the gleaming copper coffin. Though proud of their eighteen-year-old maturity, they nonetheless felt the anticipation of children about to play with toys. Soon Hank would open the coffin and give them their weapons, urging them to see who could take apart and reassemble them in the shortest time. Jake was always fast. But Drew and Mike were faster, rivals in this as in everything else, their physical similarities seeming to make them want to test their resemblance in other ways.
That morning, they waited for the class to begin. Fifteen minutes later than usual, Hank Dalton came through the double doors. But without the coffin.
“Outside on the double!”
The sharp edge in his voice made the students think that Hank was angry at them. Anxious not to make him angrier, conditioned to be obedient, they snapped to attention and ran through the double doors, down a corridor, and outside, where they squinted from the morning sun toward an unmarked bus parked in front of the obstacle course. The motor was rumbling.
“What are you gawking at?” Hank barked. “You never seen a bus before?” At once he grinned and scratched his leathery cheek. “It’s time for a little field trip. Hustle aboard.”
Relieved that Hank wasn’t angry, everybody scrambled in, and with Hank himself driving, they left the chain-link fence of the compound, following a dirt road into the mountains.
Two hours later, after a seemingly aimless route, with nothing but pine trees and sagebrush to look at, Hank drove through the open gate of another chain-link fence and parked in front of a corrugated-metal airplane hangar. There were no other buildings. In the distance, a small dirt airstrip cut through the scrubgrass of this small valley.
Not that the students had a chance to study the place. Hank hustled them into the hangar, and that was the last they saw of the sun for what they later learned was twenty-five days.
He shut the door and marched the students forward. They bumped against each other in the dark.
“Having problems with your eyes?” Hank asked. “Well, we’ll fix that. You’ll soon think the dark is home.” He laughed good-naturedly.
Indeed, as their eyes adjusted to the dark, the students glanced around with interest. Helped by hints of light that showed through the cracks in the metal walls, they noticed something large in the middle of the building—so large that it might have been a one-story house without windows.
“Wonder what that is,” someone murmured.
“All in good time,” Hank answered, directing them toward a shadowy area to the right of the structure. Here they found a row of bunk beds, each with two dark sheets and one dark blanket, and on top of each blanket, the top and bottom of a plain black garment.
“Pajamas?”
“More or less.” Hank’s voice drifted out of the shadows. “Strip and put them on. They’ll be your uniform.”
More puzzled, the students obeyed. Their eyes adjusted further to the shadows, allowing them to see that Hank had changed from his usual cowboy boots, faded jeans, denim shirt, and battered stetson to the loose black pajamas.
“You’d better get some rest now. ’Cause from here on in we’ll train at night.”
Rest? In the middle of the day? Drew didn’t feel tired, and yet he yawned as soon as he stretched out on his bunk.
Abruptly he wakened to Hank’s voice echoing from a loudspeaker somewhere in the hangar.
“Rise and shine.”
At night?
“He sounds like God,” someone said.
Supper—or was it breakfast?—consisted of rice and fish in something that tasted like oyster sauce. It was followed by tea.
The training began immediately. Hank led them to the back of the hangar, where, by feel, they learned that sandbags had been stacked against the wall. Drew heard Hank move, leaning toward something beside the bags, and at once, a pale yellow light came on behind them from the opposite side of the hangar. It struggled through the otherwise absolute darkness toward the sandbags.
Hank shrugged, looking Oriental in his black pajamas. “Even the night has stars. And a moon, though of varying brightness. Unless there are clouds. And then you believe in demons.”
Drew’s eyes strained, fighting to admit as much as possible of the pale yellow light on the other side of the hangar. He was amazed at how much better he began to see the sandbags against the wall; his imagination learned to add the dimensions concealed by the shadows.
Hank instructed them on the proper way to hold a throwing knife. For hours, he made them hurl the knives against the sandbags. He made them hurl straight razors, Japanese throwing stars, even sticks, ashtrays, and rocks.
The exercise didn’t seem to be a rehearsal for killing, though often Drew felt confident that his opponent would have been felled by the deep blow of his knife. Rather, as Hank clapped his hands, the purpose seemed to be the speed with which they hurled the object on command and the accuracy with which the object struck.
“Because you can’t know in the dark if your target’s dead,” Hank barked. “The instant you hear your weapon hit, you’ve got to assume your enemy’s been distracted and—”
But the “and” was apparently for the next day—or night, given the reversal of their normal schedule—because Hank interrupted himself to correct the throwing stance of one student.
He made them turn their backs to the sandbags. Now, when he clapped his hands, the group had to pivot in order to throw.
He shouted commands about their balance, the need to keep their feet spread—not too much, just the width of the hips. And to keep their legs bent, so their knees—in that flexible position—could act as a better pivoting mechanism. They learned to hunch slightly forward, so their hips could help the body twist better.
Often the sharp objects they threw at the sandbags fell clattering to the concrete floor.
That too had its value, Hank insisted. “Because you can’t allow yourself to pay attention to any noise you can anticipate. By the end of your stay here, I plan to make you familiar with the sound of any weapon you can imagine as it falls on any surface you can imagine. Not just this concrete floor. But sand and carpet and grass and shale.”
Drew crawled exhausted into his bunk that morning, seeing the glow of the rising sun creep through the cracks in the hangar’s metal walls.
But the difference in time didn’t matter, he thought, as Hank turned off the pale yellow light and Drew snuggled naked between the dark sheets, beneath the dark blanket. What mattered was sleep. In his dreams, he threw Coca-Cola cans at sandbags.
The next night, Hank continued the throwing exercises. They became so repetitious that Drew no longer flinched from the sound of the various objects as they fell on the floor in the darkness.
In nights to come, Hank added refinements. The students now had to lunge at their target, holding a felt-tipped pen as if it were a knife, attacking the sandbag in the shadows and slashing upward.
After each assault, Hank would inspect the sandbag, using a shielded penlight, commenting on the accuracy of the thrust. His command was always the same. Use what little light you have, and learn to judge the rest of the target from the part you see.
Next, Hank had the students throwing fragile objects at each other in the almost total dark, then lunging with felt-tipped pens to slash at the opponent’s pillow-buffered chest.
And
each time, Hank used the shielded penlight to assess the theoretical damage.
Eventually the students weren’t allowed the advantage of pillows. If a felt-tipped pen bruised your stomach, well, you should have been more careful. Imagine if the blow had come from a knife.
In these and many similar ways, Hank trained his students to develop reflexes in the dark.
They were taught to move with a knife as if it were an extension of the hand. In turn, to make the hand an extension of the arm. To sweep the arm, to make the hand follow it. And thus the knife to follow the hand. Fluidity.
How to crouch while shifting sideways, never extending the feet beyond the width of the hips. Always slowly, gradually, shifting weight. Never to the rear, and never forward. Silently.
They learned the parts of the body: spleen, epiglottis, testicles, sphenoid, maxilla, thyroid, transverse sinus, septum, carotid, humerus, orbital. And lunged through the dark at the sandbags or at each other with felt-tipped pens, and later with the palms of their hands or the tips of their elbows.
As their training became more intense, they had the sense that Hank was preparing them for an ultimate test. Night followed night—how many, it became impossible to know. They couldn’t help glancing more often toward the single-story structure that waited for them in the middle of the hangar’s darkness.
At last, after they’d successfully demonstrated their skill in stalking an opponent through the darkness across various surfaces that resembled a sand shore, a thick carpet, a slick waxed floor; after they’d learned how to step silently around and over shadowy obstacles with the same grace that they’d developed in their ballet classes back at the school, Hank said, “Okay, it’s time. You’re ready to find out what’s in the compartment.”
Eager, they followed him through the shadows to its door. Hank opened it, but neither Drew nor anyone else was able to see inside.
Hank pointed to Jake. “After I go in and shut the door, give me fifteen seconds. Then you come in and shut the door.”
Jake hesitated. “And?”
“You never played hide-and-seek? Try to find me. Just one thing, though. I’m supposed to be your enemy. If you give me a chance, if you’re not careful and you let me hear you or sense you, well, in real life, I’d be able to kill you. For now, we’ll play the game this way—whoever surprises the other first, with a touch, is the winner. Simple enough?”
“Sure.”
Hank went inside. Fifteen seconds later, Jake followed, closing the door behind him. In thirty seconds the door opened again, and Jake stepped out. Drew saw the frustration on his face.
“What happened in there?” someone asked.
“I’m not supposed to talk about it. He wants you all to line up, and one by one to go in.”
Drew felt uneasy. Standing near the end of the line, he watched each of the others go in. None lasted any longer than Jake had.
Mike took his turn, and he too came out almost at once. Drew sensed his humiliation. Always competitive, Mike seemed to challenge Drew to do any better.
Then it was Drew’s turn.
He opened the door, concentrated to heighten his reflexes, stepped inside, and nervously closed the door behind him. Almost at once he felt stifled, as if the air was thicker in there, squeezing him.
And the darkness. He’d thought that the hangar was dark. But now he understood what darkness really was.
In here, it was absolute, compressing him. The silence made his eardrums hiss; he debated what to do. Stepping forward in search of Hank, he bumped against a table. Its legs screeched on the concrete floor, and at once Hank grasped his right elbow.
“You just got killed.” Hank whispered so close that his breath tickled Drew’s ear.
Leaving the black room, trying not to look embarrassed, Drew noticed Mike’s satisfied expression, his delight that Drew had been no more successful than himself.
Hank called the group together and asked them to assess what had happened. He made them repeat the exercise, debriefed them again, and gradually instilled in them the principles of this type of confrontation.
“All of you tried to find me too soon. You didn’t let yourselves feel the stillness. Your anxiousness betrayed you. Take your time. It might be the last time you ever have, so why not prolong it? Sense it fully.”
Hank taught them patterns with which to search the room instead of merely moving blindly forward. He encouraged them to use the skills which they’d already developed in attacking the sandbags and avoiding obstacles in the hangar.
“But this is different,” someone said.
“How?”
“In the hangar, we had plenty of room. And the darkness wasn’t total. Besides, you were in there first. You had the advantage of being able to hide.”
“Imagine that. And if you’re up against an enemy, I suppose you’ll complain to him that he isn’t playing fair if he too has an advantage. In this game, you have to make your own advantage,” Hank said. “By being better than your opponent. The most important thing you have to remember—apart from the pattern I told you to follow once you’re in the room—the most important thing is to move so slowly that you’re barely moving at all.”
They tried the exercise again and yet again, and each time they lasted a little longer before Hank touched them. Five seconds longer perhaps. Then ten. But that slight extension of their endurance was, by comparison, a major accomplishment. And the first time Drew survived for a minute, he had the exhausted but giddy sense afterward of having been in the room much longer.
“You’re still not moving slowly enough,” Hank insisted. “You’re still not feeling the dark. Did you ever watch the way a blind man knows an obstacle’s in front of him, even if he doesn’t have his cane? It’s because he’s so used to living in the dark that he can feel the air bounce off his surroundings. He can sense things around him, almost as if they give off vibrations. And that’s what you’ve got to learn to do. Compensate for your lack of sight by heightening all your other senses. Jake, you moved silently, I have to give you credit. But you’re a smoker. I smelled stale cigarettes on you and knew your exact location, even though I couldn’t see or hear you. From now on, nobody on this team is allowed to smoke. And I don’t mean just while we’re here. Ever. Mike, you use deodorant. I smelled you coming too. Get rid of it.”
“But we can’t help giving off some kind of odor,” Mike said. “Sweat, for instance. That’s natural under stress.”
“No. The kind of stress we’re dealing with makes your sweat glands dry up. They stop functioning. Oh, maybe one or two of you aren’t typical, and your glands won’t quit. We’ll soon find out. And you’ll be out of the school.”
Soon the students were able to survive the exercise for an even longer time. Two minutes lengthened to five. And then to ten.
Drew gradually learned about the objects in the room. Proceeding slowly, methodically, he discovered that the layout resembled that of a living room: chairs, a sofa, a coffee table, a television set, a lamp, a bookshelf. But one night, the furniture had been rearranged, and instead of a concrete floor, there now was a rug. Another night the setup had been transformed into a bedroom. Yet another night, the room was filled with crates at random, as if in a warehouse.
“You can’t assume anything,” Hank warned.
At last, each member of the class was able to stalk Hank for an hour without being touched. Then Hank changed the exercise. “From now on you stalk each other. One of you goes in, then someone else goes after you. After that, you’ll do it in reverse, the second man going in first, so the hunter becomes the hunted. And you’ll keep changing partners. Everybody gets a chance to go against everybody else.”
Drew glanced at Mike, who returned his look, clearly anxious for the chance to test his skills against Drew. They weren’t paired right away. Only after four other partners did they find themselves in the room together. Drew, the hunted, won the first time. But when Mike became the hunted, he won. And later when they were paire
d again, their score again was tied. The final time, after they stayed in the room for three hours, neither winning, Hank broke up the game.
14
Now, after sixteen years, they were paired again. But their weapons would not be felt-tipped markers, and Hank wasn’t here to stop the exercise. Their rivalry had reached the ultimate. There’d be no question about who was better. And no rematch.
Drew didn’t want to kill. He had to keep Mike alive, to make him talk about Janus. But his reluctance to kill was a liability. Because Mike for sure wouldn’t hesitate.
The instant Drew realized the terrifying implications of this pitch-dark basement room into which Mike had lured him, he automatically bent his knees, assuming the crouch Hank had made second nature for him. He spread his feet apart, the width of his hips, and stretched his arms before him, also spread apart, the width of his shoulders, testing the dark with his hands. He spread his arms farther apart, feeling the emptiness to his right and left. At once, he changed his location, shifting to the left, not far, just a body’s width, and stopped.
These initial tactics had one purpose only—to move from where he’d been as he came into the room, lest Mike take advantage of the inadvertent sounds Drew made and attack while he was still unprepared. But now Drew was one with the dark, just as Mike was. The stalk would begin.
Drew was even more sure that Mike had not been carrying a gun; there’d been too many chances for him to use one. Certainly as Drew came into this room, an instant before the door swung shut, cloaking him with total darkness, Mike would have had a reliable target.
Even so, Mike might have a knife. Drew considered that risk and decided that Mike would have thrown it when Drew first entered the room. The moment Mike heard the knife hit Drew, he would have attacked, taking advantage of the blow’s distraction to kill Drew with his hands if the knife hadn’t done the job. Hank Dalton had drilled that tactic into them. Second nature.
The Fraternity of the Stone Page 30
