The Dark Horde (5 page)

“What’s happened?” Arthur said.

Julie hesitated. “I, I can’t say.”

SUNDAY 1:45
PM

Jason looked at Aaron and then out of the hotel window at the road outside. “Yeah, that loser.”

Four mates, all in their early twenties, sat around a counter meal at the Royal Hotel in the Main Street of Howqua Hills. They’d been there since soon after twelve and had downed a number of beers already. There were no plans to go anywhere until they’d downed a number more. Conversation currently revolved around recollections of school days at Howqua High.

Bruce laughed. “Remember that time they found him in the forest?”

“It wasn’t just one time, it happened a few times,” Aaron said.

Vincent spoke up. “What happened?”

Aaron replied, “Oh that’s right, you came to our school in year twelve after he’d left. He was a schizo. He’d be like sitting there in class and then suddenly he’d jump up and shout something like, ‘I banish the demons from my mind!’ And the whole class would just crack up laughing.” Aaron acted out Henry’s movements as he spoke, drawing more laughter.

Vincent cut from laughing to ask again. “But what happened in the forest?”

“They found him chanting some ritual with candles. The fuckin’ freak! Apparently he’d sleepwalked in there,” Aaron said with sarcasm as he mimicked Henry again.

“Chanting a ritual?” said Vincent.

“Something like that,” said Aaron. “Some satanic masturbation ritual.”

“And what the fuck is a satanic masturbation ritual?” said Bruce, his voice carrying across to nearby tables where other patrons sat trying to have a quiet meal.

“I don’t know!” Aaron gave another demonstration. “Like, oh Satan! Oh Satan, my master!”

Vincent laughed awkwardly and glanced at the patrons on nearby tables. The others seemed oblivious to being in a public place.

“He wasn’t a Satanist; at least I never heard him talk about that, the few times he
did
talk,” Bruce said.

“Yeah probably not, just fucked in the head,” Aaron replied.

Jason rose from the table. “Oh look, who gives a fuck about that loser! Who’s up for a game of pool?”

Vincent seemed happy with the diversion. “Yeah, I’m in.”

Aaron waved them off. “Nah, you guys have a game and then I’ll play the winner. I’m still finishing.”

“That’s ‘cos you’ve been too busy fuckin’ talkin’,” Jason said as he grabbed a cue. He headed for the pool table with Vincent.

Bruce had finished his meal, but remained at the table with Aaron and put his feet up on a vacated chair. Aaron was silent whilst he shovelled pasta into his mouth and Bruce’s gaze wandered to the television screen overhead. News Centre Six, the local news bulletin, was on.

A shot of the smouldering remains of a building amidst gum trees, with uniformed police officers in the foreground. “In breaking news, two people were found dead this morning, at the scene of a burnt farmhouse near Howqua Hills...”

Bruce sat bolt upright. “Hey Aaron, look!” He pointed at the television screen.

“The Country Fire Authority responded to a call from Howqua Hills residents who noticed smoke coming from the farmhouse shortly after six-thirty am this morning. There they discovered the bodies of two men, whose identities have yet to be released, at the scene of a house that had been destroyed by fire.”

Aaron choked on his food. “Fuck, that’s Barney Weston’s farm! Hey guys!” he called to the others playing pool. “Check this out!”

They began to gather around the screen, as did other patrons.

A shot through police tape at a black tarpaulin covering what appeared to be a body, next to the house ruins. “One of the victims was found decapitated at the front doorstep.”

A rear-view shot of an orange HQ Kingswood with an AC-DC sticker they all recognised as Frank’s. “And the other was found in his car with his throat torn open.”

They were exclamations of shock and surprise from the other patrons, but from Bruce, Aaron, Vincent and Jason there was only stunned silence, their disbelieving eyes fixed to the screen.

“Police are treating it as an arson-homicide case and had this to say:”

A shot of a uniformed police officer surrounded by microphones, cameras and reporters. The officer is tall and gaunt, sporting a bushy moustache. “The actual cause of the fire and the cause of death have yet to be established, but I can say that it does appear to be malicious and particularly savage in nature. We cannot disclose more at this stage, including their identities, but their immediate families have been contacted and are assisting the police with their enquiries.”

A reporter’s voice came over the clip of the police officer. “Police urge anyone with any information regarding the events of last night to contact them by calling Crime Stoppers 1800 333 000.”

Bruce was the first of the four friends, all of whom knew Frank, to speak. “I need another drink. Who wants one?”

Aaron had lost interest in his food. “Think we all do.” He lit a cigarette.

Vincent went with Bruce to get drinks and returned soon after. Jason sat at the table, his shaven head sliding into his arms.

Aaron cleared his throat to speak, but Jason spoke first. “That was Frank’s fucking car we just saw, wasn’t it? Tell me I’m not fucking dreaming!”

Aaron nodded and then sculled his beer. Bruce sipped his beer in contemplation. Vincent looked at his watch and away outside. Jason kicked a chair in frustration and stood up, unsure where to unleash his anger.

Aaron slammed his empty glass down. “Fuck it! Frank’s our mate. Let’s go down there now and see what happened!”

“Who’s going to drive?” Bruce said.

Aaron looked to Vincent. The others followed his gaze. “Well, Vino’s been nursing his drinks since we got here, so–”

“I have not!” Vincent protested.

Jason laughed. “How many have you had? Two?”

“Nah... I’ve had like... Five or something. Probably more actually.”

“Oh bullshit, you have! That’s probably the same drink you bought an hour ago!” said Aaron.

Bruce raised a palm. “Well anyway, none of the rest of us can drive, so if Vincent won’t take us then we can’t go.”

Aaron stood up. “Nah, fuck that! I’ll drive if I have to. I just reckon this pussy should do it ‘cos he’s had much less than the rest of us.”

“I have n–”

Jason cut Vincent off. “Oh, who fucking cares, Vincent! You’re a pussy and Aaron’s going to drive. I’m grabbing another drink and then we’re going.”

“Grab me another while you’re there, here’s some money,” said Bruce.

Jason waved Bruce away. “Nah, I’ll get it.”

“I’m gunna get a coffee,” said Aaron. “You having another beer, Vino?”

Vincent looked uncomfortable. “Actually, I was thinking of getting going.”

Jason stormed off to the bar. Aaron persisted. “Going? What the fuck for?”

“It’s Amy, isn’t it?” said Bruce.

“Nah, I’m just tired and stuff.”

“Bullshit! You’re pussy-whipped and won’t admit it. I bet as soon as you get home you’ll be giving her a call,” Aaron said.

Vincent said nothing, so Aaron kept going. “How often do you ever come out with your mates? You’re always with her!”

“Least I’ve got a girlfriend.”

“Fine, fuck off then,” replied Aaron. “Don’t expect any of us to care if anything ever happens to you.”

“It’s not like that, Aaron.”

“It’s not? Well, come then. Frank was your mate too. Or don’t you give a shit about anyone except Amy?”

“Of course I care! I didn’t get much sleep last night and–” Vincent screwed his face up in an expression of pain, struggling to think of something to say.

Aaron’s face became flushed with anger and Bruce intervened, “Vincent, why don’t you just call her and tell her what’s happened? I’m sure she’d understand.”

Vincent looked around the bar.

“And there’s a phone just over there,” said Bruce, pointing.

Vincent saw Bruce was right and sighed. With reluctance, he rose and started walking to the phone, “I’ll try.”

Aaron followed Vincent, saying to Bruce, “I’m gunna make sure he actually calls.”

A short time later, Vincent and Aaron came back to the table where Bruce and Jason were seated. Vincent looked glum.

“So are you coming?” asked Jason.

“Yeah, let’s go.” Vincent ran a hand through his hair.

Aaron seized the moment, slapping his keys into Vincent’s palm. “Good. You can drive.”

SUNDAY 3:43
PM

A short, skinny, brown-haired boy stood at the entrance to his dormitory, H Unit, uneasily a moment before entering.

Another kid, Damien, emerged from the pantry. “Oh, it’s shit-head again.”

Danny tried to ignore the insult, but was overcome with angst.

He began to cross the study where Ben and Alex were playing table tennis. Ben didn’t look up, “Hey Danny, can ya get me some snakes from me tuck box.”

Hoping to reach his bed in the dorm, Danny tried to protest, “Well Ben, they really are yo–”

“Just fuckin’ do it!” Ben threatened, turning to Danny with a raised bat.

Danny turned and fetched Ben’s snakes. He then ended up getting Alex some Maltesers as well.

Danny collapsed onto his unmade bed, half-expecting it to slide out of his way and taunt him. Tears welled in his eyes as he felt again the pain of loneliness, of isolation. He was alone and unloved in a world of brutal indifference to his plight, a world without mercy, justice or hope.

I wish I had a mate, someone big and strong, who’d stick up for me, someone who’d pulverise anyone who laid a finger on me. “Don’t you dare touch Danny, he’s my mate!” he imagined his mate saying.

As regular as the tide, the flood of homesickness returned. His breath became jerky as tears spilled down his cheeks.

His father wouldn’t stand by and watch him get abused like this; he’d teach these kids a lesson... Or would he?

He often wondered why his dad always put down his oldest son and yet pounced on anyone who did the same. “I’m your father. I know how not to hurt your feelings,” he’d proclaim.

If Danny ever tried to explain that comments like, “You mean after all I’ve told you, you still don’t get it? Gees, you’re stupid!”
did
hurt his feelings, he’d be quickly rebuked.

“Oh, come on Danny, a little criticism now and then never hurt anybody.”

Yes, but how often was now and then? Once a week? Twice a week? Every day? Every–

His thoughts were interrupted by the rapid approach of a whizzing sound. He instinctively sat up, just in time to catch a water-bomb on the forehead. The balloon burst and sent water gushing over his face, shirt, pillow and bed sheets. There was a sea of laughter around him.

“SCORES!” shouted Mark, raising a hand in triumph. The others continued laughing.

Through a blur of tears, Danny looked around the hostile panel before him and saw neither compassion nor means of escape. He dug his face into the soaked pillow to muffle his crying and their laughter.

Robbo moved in to stroke Danny’s knotty hair. “Ohhh, the poor little cry baby. Where’s mummy now?” More laughter.

Robbo continued, “Don’t cry. We didn’t mean it.” The chorus of laughter grew louder.

Then the dormitory door flew open and the room fell silent.

Danny craned his neck around to see a gaunt figure standing in the doorway, eyes ablaze on those present: Unit Master, Mr Neilson. Behind him, Ben and Alex made faces in an effort to make the others laugh, but weren’t successful.

“WHAT IS GOING ON?” Mr Neilson demanded.

No one dared answer. All avoided his intense stare.

“I WANT SOME ANSWERS!” He shouted as he slammed down his foot with a crash that echoed around the wooden room.

Still no one spoke. Kids hung their heads low and shuffled their feet. Even Ben and Alex gave up their attempts to amuse the others.

Like a searchlight, Mr Neilson’s gaze circled the room, scrutinising each face except Danny’s, daring someone to meet his eyes.

Clint, thinking the searchlight had passed him, looked up at the wrong time.

“Clinton Byrce.” Mr Neilson smiled.

Clint gulped.

“Tell me what has been going on here.”

“I-It was just an accident.” Clint looked down at his feet and stuck his hands in his pockets. “We were, y’know, just throwing it around when–”

“What were you throwing around?” Mr Neilson interrupted.

Clint gulped again and glanced around the others. The silence amongst them was as complete as before. He momentarily met Mr Neilson’s gaze, said “A water balloon, sir,” and looked away.

“And just
why
were you throwing around a water balloon?”

Clint hesitated, before answering, “I don’t know.”

“And you were just throwing this water balloon around when it accidentally hit Danny on the head... Is this what you’re trying to say, Clinton?”

“Yes sir,” he mumbled.

Mr Neilson’s searing eyes fell upon Danny as he said sternly, “Is this true, Danny?”

Against his intuition, Danny searched those fierce green eyes for sympathy, but there was none. He tried to pivot his head away, but like a rabbit caught in headlights, his muscles were frozen with fear. He was transfixed and compelled to answer.

His mouth opened, but the word was stuck. Other words formed in his mind, sinister, flashing across his consciousness too quick and too many to grasp. Meanwhile the gallery waited... For him to pronounce his own sentence, to say the word “Yes” and die, or the word “No” and die. More time passed and still they waited, poised to attack on the whim of his word.

Then a new idea surfaced:

Running.

Before the others could react, Danny jumped through the open window behind him. He landed roughly from the one-and-a-half metre drop on the downhill side of the dormitory. In the next instant, he was up and running, leaving them staring at the spot he had been two seconds ago.

He didn’t hear the commotion and didn’t care. He was getting out of that place, even if it killed him. Who knows, even if he did get lost and a rescue squad had to come and find him, he might just be returned back to mum and dad, instead of back to this
hell
!