Arrival

by Chris Morphew

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Your new laptop. Every student receives one when they arrive.’

  I took the bag and was suddenly reminded unpleasantly of my mum.

  Right after my parents told me they were separating, which was about a month after I’d figured it out for myself, Mum went on this gift-giving spree. Almost every day, she’d come home with some new DVD or video game or whatever. It was like she thought that if she gave me enough stuff, I’d be too distracted to notice or care that my family was disintegrating around me.

  And between the new bike, the new house, the massive TV in my room, and now this new laptop, it was almost enough to make me wonder if the people who ran this town were trying to pull the same distraction tactics.

  Mrs Stapleton walked outside and gestured for me to follow her. ‘As you may have heard, our external internet connection is down at the moment, but your computer will still be able to send and receive emails within Phoenix through our town intranet.’

  She stopped in the middle of the quad and looked around. A guy dashed past and she called out to him, ‘Peter, may I see you for a moment?’

  He rolled his eyes and walked over to us. ‘It wasn’t me, miss, it was Tank! He was trying to hit me with a bin, and –’ ‘Peter, what class have you got for first period today?’ asked Mrs Stapleton, interrupting him.

  ‘Um, English with Mr Larson.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Mrs Stapleton. ‘Peter, this is Luke Hunter. He arrived yesterday. Will you show him around?’

  ‘Sure, no worries, miss,’ Peter grinned.

  ‘I’m trusting you to be sensible here, Peter,’ frowned Mrs Stapleton.

  ‘Of course, miss!’

  Mrs Stapleton shot Peter a suspicious glance, but didn’t say anything more. She turned and went back into the office.

  ‘Luke, right?’ said Peter, moving off towards a building at the other end of the quad. ‘Let’s go find your locker.’ He was a tall, weedy guy with messy brown hair, and he walked across the school like he owned the place. He seemed like a weird choice for the show-the-new-kid-around job.

  ‘Don’t you need to know my locker number?’ I asked, following him.

  ‘Nah,’ said Peter. ‘They’re all in order of arrival.

  You’ll be after Jordan.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Whenever someone new comes, they just give them the next locker in line,’ Peter explained as he led me down a crowded corridor. ‘And everyone here is pretty new. I’ve only been in town for six months and I was one of the first to get here. That’s why Staples gets me to show you guys around, even though she hates me, because I’m practically the only one who knows where everything is.’

  We stopped right at the end of the corridor.

  ‘Huh,’ said Peter. ‘Look.’

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ve got the last locker.’

  ‘Does that mean something?’ I asked, opening the locker door. I pulled a pen and a notebook out of my backpack and stashed the rest of my stuff inside.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Peter. ‘I guess it means you’re the last one coming.’

  Chapter 3

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 6

  99 DAYS

  ‘What do you mean, the last one coming?’ I said, my hand tensing up against the locker door as someone pushed past me. ‘You just said there are new people arriving all the time.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Peter, ‘but I think this town is kind of invite-only. I mean, Shackleton built it for all the people who work at his company, right? And who else would want to live out here?’

  ‘So, what, you’re telling me this school knew in advance how many of us were going to be here and ordered that exact number of lockers?’

  Peter shrugged. ‘So?’

  Before I could reply, the bell rang and everyone started moving towards their classrooms.

  ‘This way,’ said Peter, heading around a corner and up some more stairs. ‘Larson’s an alright teacher. Hardly ever makes us do any actual work.’

  ‘Hey!’ called a small voice from behind us as we made our way along another corridor. ‘Hey, uh, you – wait!’

  A kid who looked like he was probably in Year 7 came running up to Peter. He was wearing a back-pack that was almost as big as he was and he had a panicked look in his eyes.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said in rush, ‘I have a history class in room nine and I can’t remember –’ ‘Back down the stairs,’ said Peter wearily. ‘Hang a right, then go down to the end of the hall.’

  ‘Thank you!’ squeaked the kid, running off again.

  ‘Honestly,’ said Peter, shaking his head, ‘I should be getting paid for this.’

  By the time we got to the English room, a bunch of other students were already waiting.

  ‘Hey, Weir!’ shouted a girl up the back as soon as we walked in. ‘Who’s that?’

  This girl was pretty and she knew it. She had wavy blonde hair and Days of our Lives make-up, and was sitting on a desk in front of two boys.

  ‘This is Luke,’ Peter called back. ‘Got here yesterday, I think.’ He was acting casual enough, but the way his eyes flashed between the three of them as we walked over made me wonder if there was something going on. He turned to me and pointed to each of them in turn. ‘Cathryn, Tank, Michael.’

  It wasn’t hard to see where Tank got his nickname. He was tall and wide, and clearly not the sharpest tool in the shed. He looked like he could easily roll right over the top of me. Michael, meanwhile, was hunched over a piece of paper, working on an elaborate drawing of two men in flowing white robes. He wore dark sunglasses and black nail polish and he was clutching his pencil like that drawing was the most important thing in the world to him.

  Michael seemed like the sort of guy who probably would’ve got beaten up a lot at my last school. But I doubted anyone was going to mess with him while Tank was around.

  For a minute, Peter looked like he was going to sit down next to them, but then he turned away and started moving across to the other side of the room.

  ‘Friends of yours?’ I asked, as we shuffled our way between two rows of desks.

  ‘Used to be, yeah,’ he said under his breath.

  There was a definite edge to Peter’s voice now, but I figured I should wait until I’d known him longer than ten minutes before I started hammering him with personal questions.

  We found two empty chairs and sat down. In the row behind us, a girl who looked like she might be Fijian or something was reading over a page of maths questions. She had black hair all done up in little braids and a look of frustration on her face. She was pretty, but not in a self-conscious way like Cathryn.

  ‘Hey, Jordan,’ said Peter, turning around to talk to her.

  ‘Something I can do for you, Weir?’

  ‘Just wanted to say that you’re no longer Phoenix High’s newest inmate,’ said Peter, waving a hand in my direction.

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Jordan, not looking up from her paper.

  Peter gave me a weary look. ‘She’s kind of in love with me,’ he whispered. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing, actually.’

  I raised an eyebrow at him.

  ‘No, seriously! She may try to hide her feelings behind that harsh exterior, but deep down I know she’s – ow!’

  I turned around. Jordan had just nailed Peter in the back of the head with an eraser.

  ‘See?’ he said, bending down to pick it up. ‘Text-book love-hate relationship.’

  Jordan just rolled her eyes.

  ‘This is going to bruise,’ said Peter, sitting up and rubbing his head. ‘Seriously, there’s a lump here. I should report you to Staples, Jordan. Violence against a fellow student, that’s not something we take lightly around here.’

  Jordan held up a hand like she was about to slap him. ‘Keep whingeing, Weir, and I’ll give you something to really cry about.’

  She was kidding, I think.

  Peter grinned at her and opened his mouth to say something else
, but at that moment Mr Larson walked into the room. He was wearing a shirt and tie and carrying a big plastic crate. He looked young for a teacher, but not someone you could just walk all over.

  ‘Morning, everyone,’ he said, putting the crate down on his desk.

  ‘Hey, sir!’ said Peter, sticking a hand into the air. ‘We’ve got another newbie.’

  ‘Oh yes, they told me about you,’ said Mr Larson. ‘Luke Hunter, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, bracing for the tell-us-a-bit-about-yourself speech.

  But Mr Larson just went straight on with the lesson. ‘You have impeccable timing, Luke,’ he said, reaching into his crate, ‘because today we are starting a brand-new book study.’

  Everyone else groaned as Mr Larson started handing out fresh copies of some novel – The Shape of Things to Come.

  ‘I’d like you all to read this in the next two weeks,’ said Mr Larson.

  ‘What?’ shouted Tank from the back. ‘Come on, sir! Be reasonable!’

  ‘However,’ Mr Larson smiled, ‘I realise that this is about as likely as Peter ever getting that haircut he so desperately needs.’ He pushed a button on his desk and a projector screen came down from the ceiling. ‘So today we’re going to begin by watching the movie adaptation.’

  The class cheered.

  ‘Let me warn you,’ Mr Larson continued, walking over to turn off the lights, ‘that this is only a starting point. You will need to read the book at some stage, and rest assured I will know if you haven’t done so.’

  The movie turned out to be pretty dodgy. It was this ancient black and white thing from the 1930s with lame special effects, but even a bad movie is better than doing a worksheet or whatever.

  A couple of boys wandered in about halfway through the lesson, muttering something about a mixed-up timetable. Mr Larson just handed each of them a copy of the book and pointed to some empty chairs at the back of the room.

  That was a good sign. Obviously this guy had a bit of perspective.

  But as the day went on, I realised that people showing up late or wandering into the wrong room were fairly regular features of life at Phoenix High. Like Mum had predicted, I was a long way from being the only new kid in this place. Even some of the teachers didn’t seem totally on top of things.

  Apart from that, though, Phoenix High wasn’t that different from the last three high schools I’d been at. The only other major difference was that, like the rest of the town, this place was obviously running on a gazillion-dollar budget, so everything in it was top-of-the-line.

  I ended up sticking with Peter for most of the day. After whatever had happened between him and his old friends, I got the feeling he was grateful to have someone new to hang out with. When the final bell went, the two of us grabbed our identical bikes and walked them back out into the main street.

  ‘What’s up with all the security guards?’ I asked as we passed another guy in a black uniform.

  ‘They work for Mr Shackleton,’ said Peter. ‘We have them here instead of cops.’

  ‘Instead of cops? Is that even legal?’

  ‘Must be.’

  ‘But doesn’t the government make sure there’s police everywhere?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t that a rule?’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Peter. ‘But it’s not as if we need both. Phoenix has, like, zero crime.’

  A bit further up the road, Peter stopped at the big fountain in the town square. ‘This is my stop,’ he said, thrusting a thumb over his shoulder at the tall, black building I’d noticed on my way in. ‘My dad’s finishing work early today and I’m supposed to meet him here.’

  I stared up at the building. ‘What is that place anyway?’

  ‘Shackleton building,’ said Peter. ‘Just offices and meeting rooms and stuff. Like our town hall, I guess.’

  ‘Pretty big town hall,’ I muttered. I knew I was probably starting to sound paranoid, but I couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to the building than that. ‘Is that all that goes on in there? Just meetings?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Peter said blankly. ‘Well, just that and the alien autopsies.’

  I rolled my eyes and his face broke into a grin.

  ‘Mate, just because a building’s big and black and shiny doesn’t mean there’s something suss going on inside.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ I said, slightly frustrated but trying not to show it. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s all good,’ said Peter. ‘But just try to relax, will you? I know Phoenix can seem a bit weird at first, but it’s an okay town once you get used to it.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, see you tomorrow, okay?’

  ‘Yeah, see you.’

  I flipped my mobile open for about the hundredth time that day. Still no reception.

  How long would it take Dad to start worrying that he hadn’t heard from us?

  I hopped on my bike and rode the rest of the way home, my frustration building. As soon as I got inside, I went into the kitchen and tried the landline. No dial tone. The lines were still down.

  Unbelievable. How much longer did they think this place could keep functioning without phones?

  Get a grip, I told myself. They’re working on it.

  Maybe Peter was right. Maybe I was just stressing out over nothing. This place wasn’t all bad. As far as first days at a new school went, this one had been pretty good.

  By the time I got to the top of the stairs, I was almost ready to take his advice and forget about the few little things that had been bugging me about Phoenix.

  But then I opened my bedroom door.

  Have you ever had one of those moments where all of a sudden you just know that something really, really bad is coming? One of those moments where, somehow, even though there’s no real sign of anything being wrong, you just feel it in your gut that there’s major trouble on the way?

  As I walked into my bedroom and glanced at my bed, I was punched in the face by one of those moments.

  Someone had been in here.

  Someone had come into my room and made my bed.

  Sitting on top of the pillow was a small, unmarked yellow envelope.

  And before I opened it up, before I even touched that envelope, I knew there was nothing but trouble inside.

  Chapter 4

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 6

  99 DAYS

  Hang on, I told myself, glancing around the room. Calm down. Maybe this is normal. Maybe we have a cleaning service.

  But no, nothing else in the room had been touched. My pyjamas were lying on the floor in the corner. A half-empty glass of water was still sitting on my bedside table.

  Whoever had been in here hadn’t been invited.

  I gritted my teeth and grabbed a textbook from my desk to defend myself. Because clearly their guns and meat cleavers would be no match for my Studies in Geography.

  I walked back out into the hall and started checking through the whole house room by room, trying not to think too much about what might happen if there actually was someone else in here.

  But the whole house was deserted. Nothing missing. Nothing even moved. And I couldn’t see any sign of someone forcing their way in.

  Except for the envelope sitting on my bed.

  I went back into my room and picked it up, turning it over in my hands. No name, no address. There was something small and solid sliding around inside. I tore open the envelope and tipped the thing into my hand.

  It was a USB memory stick. Expensive-looking. Silver stainless steel. There were two letters on the side that looked like they’d been scratched into the metal with a paperclip: J.B.

  Someone’s initials, maybe? The original owner’s?

  But why would they go to all the trouble of breaking into my house and delivering me a secret message or whatever, if the initials on the stick were just going to lead me straight back to them?

  I pulled out my new laptop and drummed my fingers on the desk as it started up. My mind was flashing back to every movie I’d ever seen about an apparently normal kid
being contacted by a secret spy agency or told they had hidden superpowers.

  Don’t be an idiot. It’s probably just…

  But I had no idea what it probably was.

  The computer finally finished loading and I plugged in the USB. A folder popped up on the screen, showing the contents of the stick. There was only one file on it:

  intSC1002A_lhunter.doc

  L. Hunter. So this was definitely meant for me.

  I opened up the file. It was a huge stream of garbled text, pages and pages of it, like someone had let their two-year-old loose on the computer and sent me the results.

  I tried opening the file up in another program.

  Nothing.

  Maybe this was all just a prank. Some stupid mind game that the kids at school played with new arrivals. But how could they have got inside the house?

  Then I remembered something: the principal, Ms Pryor, hadn’t been around today. Could she have had something to do with this?

  Yes, Luke, your new school principal (who you’ve never even met) took the day off school to sneak into your house and drop off a memory stick filled with gibberish.

  And make your bed.

  Right. That made sense.

  I closed my eyes and dropped back into my chair. This was going nowhere.

  But then I thought back to our computer studies lesson from that afternoon. We’d been given the whole period to turn some climate change data into a graph, but Peter had finished in about four seconds. Maybe he’d have more luck with this.

  Obviously a phone call wasn’t an option, but Mrs Stapleton had said that the town’s intranet was still working. I found Peter’s address in the town directory and emailed him about the USB, trying to sound as casual as possible, not wanting to give him another excuse to accuse me of worrying over nothing. I attached the garbled file and hit send.

  While I was at it, I tried sending an email through to Dad. It bounced straight back.

  I spun around in my chair and my eyes landed back on my neatly made bed. Somehow, those perfectly tucked-in sheets added a whole other layer of creepiness. I mean, why bother? Surely being a mysterious stalker was weird enough without being a neat freak as well.