The Battalion Trilogy #1 - The First Chapter (Novel-in-Progress)

Prologue

[14 Days Until The Battalion]

“Back off!” Arkai yelled. He shoved Harry back, causing him to stagger a metre away. “I still wonder what goes through your head sometimes.” Arkai pushed him again. They were outside his small neighborhood house within the capital city, standing in broad daylight on the sidewalk. Harry was just another eighteen year old unacquainted with Arkai, and merely a casual walker taking a morning stroll down the sidewalk. He stared at Arkai, laughing.

“What’s your problem?” Arkai asked coldly.

“I was just passing by,” Harry laughed. Arkai smiled, nodded and joined in with his laughter.

“Yeah, and you decided to take another peek inside my house. You know I haven’t changed anything since last time,” Arkai said.

“I just happened to glance in there; is it such a crime?” Harry stopped laughing but hadn’t yet wiped the cheesy grin off his face.

“It’s an invasion of privacy,” Arkai told him. Harry kept his eyes on Arkai and then looked back into the house. Arkai stepped forward and hooked the man in the face. Harry slouched over and stared at the ground, feeling his bruised face.

“You come back and I’ll break it,” Arkai warned as he left for his front door.

“What’s wrong with you?” Harry whined.

“Get out of here,” Arkai said. He opened the white freshly painted door and walked in, leaving the bright streetscape behind him.

“Arkai, was that necessary?” Ica asked when he got inside. She was standing behind the kitchen bench, drinking a glass of water. Arkai looked at her.

“That guy’s creeping me out,” he replied, taking a seat on the white couch.

Arkai and Ica had been together for just over a year and a half, though their relationship hadn’t progressed much since they moved in together a couple of months back.

“I doubt he’ll be bothering you anymore,” Ica told him. Arkai took a deep breath.

“That’s what I was aiming for,” he said. They were silent for a moment as Arkai stared at the black LCD TV screen.

“Something’s troubling you,” Ica said, placing her glass back on the petrified marble bench and staring at him.

“It’s nothing; I’m just... tense,” Arkai replied. Ica walked to him and kneeled down on the ground with her elbows up on the arm of the couch. Arkai looked at her.

“It’s all right,” Ica assured him.

“Ica, the Battalion killed Rogan.”

“No, the Chikagas did, and there was nothing that could’ve been done to save him,” Ica explained.

“Rogan was in his third year – he was still a recruit!” Arkai said. “Signing the letter to join the Battalion is like signing your own execution paper.”

“You’ll be all right,” Ica said. “I’ll be there,” Ica told him. Arkai nodded and scratched his short, dark brown hair.

“When do they need me?” he asked.

“Check the letter.” Arkai lifted himself up from the couch and walked slowly to the kitchen bench where the letter lay unfolded. He positioned the paper in his hands and scanned through the cursive handwritten text.

“I’ve got two weeks,” he announced. “Better make it worthwhile.”

“Relax, it’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be,” Ica said. Arkai threw the letter back down onto the bench and leaned against it.

“Three years of training, beginners stuff. Then we move onto the more advanced aspects of things,” he said.

“That’s right,” Ica said, standing up. “It’s not so bad when you break it down, and I’m sure everyone else is feeling the same as you right now. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“I didn’t say I was afraid, just unsure,” Arkai replied. He walked and sat back down on the couch as Ica sat close beside him. “What influenced their decisions?”

Ica shrugged.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Academic reports, physical reports... they obviously see something in you.” Arkai nodded.

“I’m sure I’m not the best out there,” he said.

“You’ve got to feel at least a tiny bit good about yourself. They picked you over all those other eighteen year olds,” Ica said.

“Ica, we’re tools. They use us to fight their battles.”

“No, the people need someone like you to protect them. If there were no soldiers, we would all die.” Arkai shrugged.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But the Chikagas could always overrun us first.”

“It won’t be like that,” Ica told him.

“I hope you’re right.”

On the other side of the capital city, in his neighborhood home similar to Arkai’s, Achom Rocks landed a nasty blow into his tired punching bag. It flew away from him and then came back hard. He hit it again as sweat flicked from his forehead onto the blue foam mat below.

“Careful, you’ll hurt yourself,” Chad told him. He was standing in the doorway of Achom’s bedroom, watching him. Achom hit the bag twice more and then turned to face his uncle.

“If I’m going to survive, I’ll need to train hard,” he puffed. Chad nodded and then walked out into the lounge room and picked up the TV remote that was lying on the couch. He aimed it at the black set top box that was beneath the large television screen and then switched it on. Almost immediately, the news sprang up in front of him.

"Another Chikaga sighting has been reported in the east side of the capital city," came the female news reporter.

"Another one," Chad groaned as he slumped down on the couch, taking the place of the remote control. Achom grabbed a towel from the wall rack and slung it around his neck before walking to the couch and staring at the screen.

"They don't stop," he announced. Chad looked up at him.

"You'll have a lot of work to do."

"I'm sure it'll be easy." Chad smiled.

"That's my boy," he said.

“I’m not your boy,” Achom reminded him. Chad’s smile faded to a weak grin.

“Fuck,” he said, looking back at the TV. He held his arm out towards Achom and asked, “Can you pass me my cigarettes?”

"No.”

"Come on, I’m stressed,” Chad said.

“What are you stressed about?” Achom asked as he headed off to the oakwood cupboard.

"Just get throw me the box, that’s all," Chad told him, still watching the news and reaching out his arm over his shoulder. Achom opened the cupboard and retrieved a bag of white bread. Then he closed it and said, “I’m pretty sure you threw them out because you wanted to quit.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Chad asked, finally looking and lowering his arm.

“You flushed them down the toilet with your shit,” Achom told him.

“All right,” Chad said, lying back and returning his attention to the TV. “Can you go fetch me another one? I’ll give you the cash.” He rummaged through the pockets in his grey tracksuit pants and retrieved the wallet. “Here,” he said, holding it towards Achom.

"What am I, your slave?" Achom asked, dropping the bag onto the bench and pulling out two slices of white bread.

After the wallet was left untouched in Chad’s sweaty hand, he threw it down onto the coffee table in front of him and whinged, "Come on, man, I'm dying here.”

"You will be dead if you keep sticking those things in your mouth," Achom told him. Chad sat up, stood up and then stretched out his arms, exposing mountains of hair. "Jesus," Achom cried.

"What?" Chad asked, open-eyed.

"Put it down! Jesus Christ!" He turned away as Chad threw his arms down to his side.

"It has to account for the both of us; you're too pussy to have any." He laughed and walked off down the hall. Achom nodded him off and then returned to his bread, which was soon to become a sandwich. The news reporter spoke again.

"A soldier who went missing last week is now presumed dead; this is the third fatality this week. Five are still missing, and our hearts go out to the families of those." Achom tried his best to ignore it. Worrying won't get him anywhere. He had to think positive. He returned the bag of bread to the cupboard and then walked to the fridge where he took out cold sliced chicken. Suddenly, he heard dog-like growls on the TV, quickly followed by screaming, and he had no choice but to turn it off.