Chapter Two
Maths and Blood
The lessons were strange. Usual year eights were rowdy. Yelling, screaming, talking and throwing things. But as I entered my classroom (5 minutes late, I might add) thirty silent pairs of eyes turned noiselessly to me.
"You are five minutes late," a curt, sharp voice said sternly, thankyou, captain obvious, "Lunchtime detention."
I turned to the teacher. She was young, sharp and cold.
"On my first day?" I exclaimed, and instantly knew I had made a mistake.
"Do not argue with the staff, Mr Hall, now sit." I swear her eyes turned red when she said that. I'm not a big liar, and I stick to my word. Her eyes flashed red, and it's the truth.
I did not argue, but, stunned by her sudden change of eye colour, walked to an empty seat and blacked out.
Today I still cannot remember any of the lessons at Hornwell, but I have odd flashes when I dream about Nuclear Wars and how to assemble a CBU-58A/B bomb. To tell the truth, the only lesson I can remember was boringly interesting.
Maths.
I yawned as my mathematics teacher, Mr Pfer, droned on about something.
"If a vat of blood is filled to halfway, and the vat is 478 litres large, what is half?"
I sat up straighter. My ears were playing tricks on me, for sure!
A student by the name of Farl (how dammed cruel were parents these days?) shot his hand into the air like a bullet from a rifle.
Mr Pfer pointed at Farl. "Yes, Mr Carlson?"
"Half of four hundred and seventy eight is exactly two hundred and thirty nine, sir." Farl Carlson sounded like a robot.
"Half of that?"
"One hundred and nineteen point five." Farl answered automatically, as soon as the question had passed Mr Pfer's lips.
I knew somehow that if he had asked any other student, they would have answered in the same voice.
Like robots.