A chair noisily scraped against the floor as one of the boys stood and shouted, his voice shrill, “That can’t be!”
Shuya turned to see the source of the outburst, somewhere behind Hiroki Sugimura. It was the class leader for the boys, Kyoichi Motobuchi. Kyoichi’s face had crossed from pale into ashen in a surreal contrast with his silver-rimmed glasses. He could have been one of Andy Warhol’s silkscreen creations from their art textbook, Decadent Art of the American Empire.
Some in the class may have hoped Kyoichi would offer some rational argument. Kill the kids who were our friends just the day before? That’s impossible. This has to be a mistake. Explain it to this jerk, class leader.
But what Kyoichi said was utterly worthless.
“M-my father is the director of the Kagawa Department of Natural Resources.” Kyoichi was trembling, and his voice sounded even more nervous than it usually did. “There’s no way my class would be selected for the P-Program.”
The man who had called himself Sakamochi shook his head with a dry smile. His long hair billowed.
“You’re Motobuchi, yeah?” Sakamochi said, his voice syrupy. “Surely you know of the concept of equality, right? Listen, all people are born equal. Just because your father is a government official doesn’t mean it’s all right for him to receive special treatment. Clearly the same goes for his son. Listen, everyone, you all have your own circumstances. Some of you come from rich families, and some poor. But your value isn’t determined by such things—by things beyond your control. Each one of you must discover your own worth through your own efforts. So, Motobuchi, don’t make the mistake of thinking that you alone are special.” Then he shouted, “Because you’re not!”
Stunned to silence, Kyoichi slumped to his chair. Sakamochi glared at the boy for a time until his broad grin suddenly returned.
“They’ll be talking about you on the morning news,” Sakamochi said. “Of course, with the Program being a secret experiment, they won’t announce any of the details until it’s over. But, well, your fathers and your mothers have all been informed.”
Everyone appeared stunned. We have to kill our classmates? Can it really be?
“What,” Sakamochi said, scratching his head in apparent consternation, “you still don’t believe me?”
He faced the doorway and called out, taking time with the words, “You men—come on in!”
On command, three soldiers noisily rushed into the room. Their dress—a camouflage combat uniform, combat boots, and a metal helmet with the peach emblem emblazoned on the front—identified the men as members of the Nonaggressive Forces. They carried assault rifles slung from their shoulders and wore belt holsters with pistol grips visible. One was tall, with tousled hair—odd for a soldier, that—and his default expression seemed to be an insincere smile. Another was of average height and baby-faced, a leading man type. The last seemed a touch effeminate and fairly unimpressive compared to the other two. The three men were stooped over, hauling a large sack made of heavy plastic. It resembled a black sleeping bag, only it bulged here and there, as if stuffed with pineapples.
Sakamochi stepped aside to the window, and the three soldiers placed the bag atop the teacher’s podium. The ends of the bag hung off the edges of the platform. Whatever was inside must not have been very rigid, because the ends—especially the side facing the windows—drooped.
Sakamochi said, “These men will be assisting with your Program. Allow me to introduce them. This is Mr. Tahara, Mr. Kondo, and Mr. Nomura. All right, show them what’s in the bag.”
The insincere soldier called Tahara grabbed the zipper on the hallway side and tugged it open. A red liquid covered the interior.
With the zipper only partway open, one of the girls in the front row screamed. Others quickly joined in, the soprano chorus swelling over a backdrop of confused exclamations and clattering desks and chairs.
Shuya gulped.
Then he saw it, inside the half-open bag—the teacher in charge of Class B, Mr. Hayashida. No, the former teacher. No, the former Mr. Hayashida.
His cheap, blue-gray suit was soaked in blood. Only the left half of his black-rimmed glasses (the source of his nickname, “Dragonfly”) remained. Unsurprising, given that only the left half of his head was still there. Behind the single lens, the red marble of an eye stared languidly at the ceiling. What was left of his hair was mottled with a gray jelly that must have been brain matter. His left arm, watch still on, spilled out from the bag, as if relieved to be free of the confines, and dangled off the front of the podium. Anyone in the front row would have been close enough to see if the watch’s second hand still moved.
“All right, all right, all right, quiet, quiet.” Sakamochi clapped his hands, but the girls’ shrieks persisted. “Quiet, please! Really, you all—”
Suddenly, Kondo, the baby-faced soldier, drew his sidearm.
Shuya thought the soldier was going to fire a warning shot at the ceiling, but instead, Kondo seized the body bag with his free hand and dragged it off the platform. He then lifted Mr. Hayashida’s body so that the teacher’s head was level with his own. He looked like a hero in some sci-fi monster movie battling a giant cocoon-spinning worm.
The soldier put his gun to Mr. Hayashida’s head and squeezed the trigger twice. The teacher’s head blew apart, insides spraying out, the energy of the high velocity round scattering bits of brains and bone in a bloody mist that fell upon the faces and chests of the students in the front row.
When echoes of gunfire subsided, Mr. Hayashida didn’t have much of a head left at all.
The soldier tossed Mr. Hayashida’s body beside the podium. The screams had stopped.
42 students remain.