by MK Clark
By the end of the class, the boys had a feeling for how the professor taught, and enjoyed it. It was an outlet for frustration and restlessness, and it gave them freedom to direct the conversation. It was the only thing they had a choice in besides what to eat first at meal times. That is, if they got to eat.
When a bell rang throughout the building, the professor stood from where he’d been leaning against the front of his desk. “All right, we’ll continue this discussion tomorrow. Keep your eyes open for things to ask about. Your sergeant should be waiting for you in the hall. He’ll direct you to your next class. Dismissed.”
Tony caught up with Don as he reached the door. “He’s brilliant!” Tony whispered. Don nodded as they exited the classroom, but didn’t say anything. Bitty was waiting for them outside. Without providing any message, it turned and began to lead them away. The boys followed, knowing this was what they were supposed to do.
Everything about their second teacher screamed military crispness, from his crewcut to his polished shoes. They each found a computer tablet on a desk, accompanied by an electronic pen. The tablets would be theirs for the duration of their stay, used only for their lessons and submitting homework. Don already knew most of what was taught during those two hours, and found it to be a very boring lesson. He wasn’t the only one who thought so, either. Whenever one of the boys seemed to be overcome by sleep, their teacher would ask them a question. Don always knew the answer.
When the bell rang, the boys were out of their seats and lined against the wall before the man had time to say, “Dismissed.” This time, it was the sergeant who met them. When he announced that their next stop would be lunch, he was greeted with a cheer. Don figured someone would’ve had to be deaf not to hear the growling stomachs.
The mess hall was a one-story rectangular building in the middle of the campus. It contained five rows of long tables, obviously meant to contain more than just Don’s company. Even though they had the entire hall, the boys found themselves seated on either side of one table.
“Hey! You’re General O’Hara’s kid, aren’t you?”
Don’s head popped up. Dallas Omar, a short, dark-skinned boy he had spoken with briefly before, was pointing his fork at Don.
Don swallowed slowly as the boys around him grew silent. “Yeah,” he said evenly. “So what?”
“So how come you lied to us?” Dallas asked accusingly.
Don shrugged. There was too much to try to explain, and he didn’t care to make anything up. No one said anything for a while, and Don kept his eyes glued to his food as though he were interested in nothing else.
Finally, someone spoke. “Well?”
“Well, what?” he asked.
“What’s it like? Living with your dad, I mean.”
Don looked at the kid. He had thick black hair and faint freckles. His name was Ezekiel, but everyone called him Zeik for short. “Terrible!” Don answered with a smile. “I never get to do what I want.”
“Really? I thought it’d be different with you, being a general’s son and all.”
Don forced a laugh. “Naw. If anything, I envy you guys. I mean, I guess it’s cool in some ways, but truthfully, it’s horrible most of the time. I never get away with anything. If my dad doesn’t catch me, the media does. It’s like having two sets of parents.” Don felt the tension around him subside, and by the end of lunch, everyone knew he didn’t want, or ask to be, treated any differently.
Chapter 5
July 18, 625 T.A.
Don sighed and flopped down on his bunk as end-of-the-day chatter filled the room. He instantly regretted the action as his peeling sunburn protested. He could recognize the voices of his classmates quite easily now. In the past eleven days, he had grown closer to these thirty-nine boys than he'd thought possible.
So when the sergeant made them spend the entire night scrubbing the barracks floor, Don cursed him silently along with the rest of the boys and never once blamed the trainee who had brought it on. In return, Don received the same treatment from the others.
Even the fight between Michael and Tyson had been forgotten by most, although Don couldn’t shake the feeling that Tyson wasn’t the kind of person to let things go that easily, which worried him. Michael was a good kid when he wasn’t angry.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
Startled, Don jumped slightly before his eyes focused on Tyson’s upside-down face. Little prick, Don thought. He made a face at Tyson, “What’s that from? The twentieth-century? This is the Third Age; we only speak common here.” Tyson rolled his eyes, and Don grinned.
“Just thinking about tomorrow,” Don answered. “Michael and some others were trying to decide if our schedule was going to be any better next week.”
There it was. Don sighed inwardly. For one split second, Tyson’s eyes had flashed when he’d said Michael’s name. There was no mistaking that.
“What a waste of time,” Tyson answered, making a face.
“As long as I don’t wake up to that damn pot again, I don’t care what tomorrow brings.” Don and Tyson both turned their fake smiles toward Tony, who was scowling ferociously. Don laughed and sat up, absentmindedly smoothing out the wrinkles he’d formed on the bed cover. No one ever knew when Sergeant Cohan would get it into his mind to inspect their barracks. He had even learned to sleep on top of the covers and in his running clothes to allow himself more time in the mornings before they had to run the Cake-Walk.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Tyson said in answer, a mischievous look spreading across his face. Both Don and Tony looked at him questioningly, but Tyson didn’t answer. Trading confused looks, they began to barrage him with questions and threats, to no avail. He refused to answer. Finally, Don gave up, and Tony followed in suit, only after punching Tyson lightly in the shoulder and threatening him one last time. Tyson merely ignored it, patting Tony playfully on the head.
“Never fear, my young apprentice. You will find out soon enough,” Tyson teased.
Groaning, Don lay back down on his bed as Tony chucked a pillow at Tyson, who ducked and caused the pillow to fly into the face of a boy across the room. With a curse, the pillow soared back, falling short of Tony by a few feet.
While everyone else had been learning as much as they could about what the teachers loaded on them, Tyson had been absorbing everyone’s quirks and buttons. Don figured indifference was the best way to handle Tyson’s needling. Of course, sometimes that was hard to do. Tyson could be so irritatingly mysterious, and the worst part was that his evasion usually meant trouble.
Tony grabbed his pillow from the floor and brushed it off, muttering curses under his breath that made Don smile. Tony was always the easiest pick for Tyson at the end of the day. Tony still hated Basic.
“So,” Tyson said, continuing his conversation with Don, “have you heard the latest rumor?”
“You mean the one where the sergeant makes you run the Cake-Walk while we sit and watch?” Tony asked glaring at Tyson.
Don rolled his eyes at the two. “Are you ever going to grow up?”
“Don’t hold your breath, mate.” Don turned to look at Derek, who’d become famous for his spotless bunk, locker, and uniform. The sergeant never said a word to Derek during inspection, though he found plenty to say about everyone else.
Turning to Tyson, Derek continued. “Do you mean the rumor about the landlubbers?”
“That’s the one!” Tyson answered. “I heard they were coming Sunday afternoon.”
“I can’t wait to meet them.”
Don shook his head slowly. “For some reason, I feel bad for them.”
Suddenly, a bell rang throughout the barracks building, signaling that it was time to retire for the night. Derek and Tyson returned to their bunks as Tony grumbled one last time to Don. “See,” he said. “They have a bell! Why can’t they just wake us up with that?”
Don laughed and shoved Tony off his bed. “Because it’s good for your character.” Tony climbed up to the
top bunk.
“Character has nothing to do with it. It’s just plain torture. The sergeant likes seeing us suffer.”
“No,” Don heard Tyson say as the lights blinked off in the room. “He likes seeing you suffer. That’s why the rest of us have earplugs. The sergeant gave them to us while you were sleeping.”
Tony said something rude that Don couldn’t quite make out, and then someone shouted from across the room for them to be quiet.
He awoke the next morning to a roar. Don rolled off his bed and dropped to the ground, his groggy mind sure of only one thing: he had to hide from whatever animal had entered the room. As he crouched behind his bunk, Don found himself sharing the small space with Derek, who looked just as sleepy and confused as Don felt. It took only a few moments to figure out that the animal they were hiding from was the sergeant.
Within seconds, Don found himself running for his life on the Cake-Walk with thirty-nine dazed boys at his heels, wearing only their shoes and the clothing they had slept in.
As the boys began to slow after their initial rush, Don maneuvered himself till he was beside Tony and Tyson as the morning tradition dictated. “Well,” Tyson said cheerfully, “that went well.”
Don had a few seconds to wonder what Tyson was talking about before Tony, with a roar of fury that rivaled the sergeant’s, tackled Tyson, taking out almost the entire company along the way.
As he lay at the bottom of the pile of cursing, yelling, scrambling boys, Don could hear Tony shouting. “What did you do? I’ll kill you! What did you do?”
It finally occurred to Don, while he tried to disentangle himself from the mass of arms and legs around him, that Tony was probably referring to what Tyson had said the night before. A sinking feeling in his stomach told Don that he agreed. Whatever had transpired minutes before in their barracks, Tyson was definitely behind it.
When Don finally managed to get far enough away from the other boys to stand, he looked around for his two friends. Past Sooray bleeding from the nose and Blake nursing an arm, right near the edge of the trees, were his friends. Tyson had somehow managed to get Tony on his stomach with his arms twisted behind his back. As he knelt over an enraged Tony, Tyson calmly tried to reason with him.
“Come on, T-man, it’s not really that bad. Besides, you don’t know that I did it.” Tony replied with a rude word, and Tyson sighed. “Fine, you’re right. I did it, but I was doing you a favor.”
Tony snarled something under his breath and tried to jerk out of Tyson’s grip. It didn’t work. Don stood with a few of the other boys who had freed themselves from the pile, watching the argument at hand. No one tried to interfere, mostly because they were curious about what Tyson had done to cause the predicament they were now in.
“You said you didn’t want to wake up to the melodious sound of the sergeant’s noise-maker,” Tyson continued, holding Tony’s arms tighter. “I just obliged you.”
“Go to hell,” Tony snapped, but quit struggling.Tyson stared in disbelief at the back of Tony’s head, “So much hostility! We would have had to run the hill anyway.”
“Not half-naked!” Tony spat.
“True,” Tyson replied. “But it’s more interesting this way.”
Don suddenly felt an uncomfortable tension in the air. Everyone was now watching his two comrades, and some of the murderous looks he saw told him that Tyson was not making any friends.
Don stepped forward, catching Tyson’s eye. “Let’s go before Bitty catches up with us.”
Tyson nodded and looked down at Tony. “If I let you up, do you promise not to attack me?”
Tony remained silent, as if contemplating the question. The air crackled with anger, and Don began to wonder if letting Tony up was a good idea, after all. Finally, Tony nodded curtly.
Tyson grinned as he looked down at Tony, “Tell you what. I solemnly swear never to help you again,” he said and held out a hand to help the other boy up.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Tyson stiffened and turned toward the voice. Michael looked angrier than Tony, if that was possible. A small trickle of fear ran the length of Don’s spine as Michael continued.
“I was right about you. You never think about anyone but yourself, do you?” Michael asked. “You never even considered whether we would approve of your little prank, but we get to pay the price.”
Don grabbed Tyson’s arm and gave Michael a warning look. “Fine, he was wrong. He won’t do it again.”
“You stay out of this,” Michael snapped at Don. “You’re always protecting him, like he can’t defend himself.”
Don gripped Tyson’s arm even tighter. “I’m protecting you, Michael,” he answered. “You’re just so pigheaded that you can’t see it, dammit.”
Michael took a step forward, only to be interrupted by a new voice.
“This is stupid.” Dallas stepped out of the crowd, a cut on his forehead nearly unnoticeable against his black skin. He looked at them in disgust. “I’m not going to be late because of you.” He walked past the four of them and began to jog up the hill.
After a few moments of silence, others began to follow him. The last to go was Roberto. He stopped beside Michael and whispered something in his ear. Michael shot him an angry glare but turned and began to make his way up the hill.
“You’d do well not to provoke him, mi hermono,” Roberto said to Tyson. “He is not one to be trifled with, and does not forget easily.”
Tyson snorted, and Tony shoved past them. Don knew that look on Tony’s face. He had run out of patience. “We’d better go,” he said to Don.
Tyson shook his arm out of Don’s grip and went to run beside his friend. “Why bother catching up? We could just wait here. If we hid well enough, Bitty would just pass us by.”
Don didn’t catch Tony’s reply, but his tone suggested something crude. Don glanced at Roberto and then half-shrugged before turning to follow his friends up the hill at a light jog.
After a few minutes, Don slapped the side of his neck, wincing at the sudden, painful sensation.
Roberto sped up and shot Don a concerned look. “What’s wrong?”
“I dunno,” Don answered, letting his hand drop. His neck still throbbed, but he didn’t feel it spreading. “Don’t worry about,” he replied. “It’s nothing.”
Roberto nodded and then stopped suddenly. Frowning slightly, Don turned and saw Roberto staring off to the side of the path. Finally, he spoke. “Did you hear that?”
Don shook his head slowly. Then a yelp pierced the morning air. Don traded a look with Roberto. “That one, I heard,” he noted as he picked up the sound of rustling in the bushes.
Tony burst onto the path out of the brush in front of Don. Stepping sideways, Don threw out an arm, catching his friend by the shoulders. “What’s going on?” he asked. He looked at his friend and took a step back. “What happened to you?”
Tony’s face had three red marks on it, all of them swelling slowly. He didn’t answer Don, but swore loudly and swiped at his arm. Grabbing Don, Tony pulled him toward the direction they had come. “Run!”
Don planted his feet and yanked his arm away. “Where’s Ty? What’s going on?” Simultaneously, the back of his hand and his opposite arm begin to burn and sting like his neck. He swore again.
“Damn right!” Tony answered. “Now let’s go!”
This time, Don felt something attach itself to the skin on his forearm before the stinging started. Steeling himself, Don resisted the urge to swipe whatever it was away and looked down at his arm. Yellow and black were the first things to register in his mind, then the nearly invisible wings and thin, stick-like legs. Don brushed it away.
“What’s going on?” Roberto asked. Don glanced at Tony, covered in red welts, and then down at his hand where a welt of his own was still burning.
“These things are attacking us.” Don looked over at Tony for help. His friend just shrugged and inched toward the direction of the path. As if on cue, a quiet
buzzing filled the air around them and then stopped. Don saw a flash of yellow land on Roberto. Before Don could say anything, Roberto had been stung.
“We’ve got to find Tyson,” Roberto said.
“Why?” pleaded Tony. “He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”
Don rolled his eyes and grabbed Tony’s arm, pulling him after Roberto, who had started off in the direction Tony had come from. Tony whimpered; he’d been stung many more times than either of the other two. Before they could go more than five steps, Tyson materialized beside them. He sported his own red welts, though they were far less severe than Tony’s.
“Looking for me?” He looked from one blank face to the other and then sighed. “You’re right, we shouldn’t have gone off the path, but it’s a shortcut.” Don blinked, not quite sure what Tyson had seen in their faces to earn them this explanation. He didn’t care why they had gone off the path. He just cared about getting back on it, with everyone accounted for and getting away from the monsters. Now that he knew, though, Tyson was going to get it when they got back to the barracks.
“Besides,” Tyson continued, face turning to stone, “Michael went this way. I thought I’d go see what the prick was up to.”
“Michael went this way?” Roberto asked in horror. “Dios mío!”
“Which way?” Don asked, trying and failing to keep the frustration from his voice. Tyson pointed off to the side with a gleeful look. He shoved past Tyson, knowing that his friends would follow. Michael would pay for every burning welt Don received while looking for him.
After a few moments, during which a faint buzzing sound had turned into a loud roar, Don broke through the foliage to find himself in a small clearing. The deafening noise came from what looked like a moving black cloud near the trees. It took Don a few seconds to realize the cloud was actually a swarm of the little, yellow monsters.
