Kiriyama was the leader, of sorts, of the area delinquents, Ryuhei and Mitsuru among them. Though by no means big—he couldn't have been taller than Shuya—Kiriyama could easily subdue a high schooler and even took on local yakuza. He had become a prefecture-wide legend. His father's being the president of a leading local enterprise probably helped, but there was more to his stature than that. (Shuya had heard rumors that Kiriyama was a bastard child. Uninterested, he'd never bothered to look into it.) Kiriyama had a handsome, intelligent face, and his voice, though not deep, was intimidating. His grades were the best in the class—the class leader for the boy's side, Kyoichi Motobuchi (Boys #20), spent late nights studying just to compete. Even in sports, when forced to participate, Kiriyama was better and more graceful than just about any of his peers. The only boys in Shiroiwa Junior High who could rival him in a serious match-up would be the former ace shortstop Shuya and the basketball team's ace guard Shinji Mimura. In every aspect, Kazuo Kiriyama was the perfect man.
But why then did this perfect man end up a leader of hooligans? Shuya couldn't begin to know the answer, though he could perceive in Kiriyama—a sense, almost tactile—something out of place. Shuya couldn't put his finger on it. Kiriyama never acted out in school, nor would he bully someone as Ryuhei Sasagawa and others sometimes did to Yoshio Akamatsu. But Shuya felt something was . . . lacking, perhaps?
Kiriyama frequently skipped school. The thought that he would ever actually study was preposterous. When he did show up for class, he just sat there, silent, his mind seemingly somewhere completely different. Without a powerful and meddlesome government insisting upon a compulsory education, Kiriyama might never have attended school at all. Or he might have come all the time, just because he felt like it. Shuya couldn't guess which. He had thought the boy would certainly pass on the school trip without a second thought, yet here he was. Kiriyama acting upon another whim, then?
Shuya was staring off at the lights in the ceiling, thinking about Kiriyama, when a sunny voice called his name and pulled him back to reality.
From the seat across the aisle, Noriko Nakagawa (Girls #15) offered something wrapped in cellophane. Small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, the pouch was packed full with little, light brown, round objects—cookies, probably. Light from the ceiling glinted along the surface of the clear, stiff wrapping like the sun over water. A neatly tied bow of gold ribbon held it closed.
Noriko Nakagawa was in Yukie Utsumi's group of mainstreamers. Shoulder-length hair framed a round and very girlish face, with striking eyes that were gentle and dark, almost black. She was petite, with a playful streak, the picture of an average girl. If anything about her merited special mention, it was her talent with Japanese,- Noriko was the best writer in class. (As a result, Shuya and Noriko talked relatively often. During breaks, Shuya would compose song lyrics in the margins of his notebook, and sometimes Noriko would ask to read them.) Noriko usually kept with Yukie and the other girls, but showing up a little late for the trip, she had been forced to take the open seat.
Shuya reached toward the bag, but stopped, raising his eyebrows in question.
Somewhat flustered, Noriko said, "Um, my little brother begged me to bake these today. I had these extra, and they're no good stale, so you and Mr. Nobu can have them, if you like."
Mr. Nobu was Yoshitoki Kuninobu's nickname. Despite his good-humored, goggling eyes, Yoshitoki could be surprisingly wise and mature. Referring to him as you would an adult seemed appropriate. The girls didn't often use the boys' nicknames—"Mr. Nobu" included—but Noriko did, and freely. She made it feel natural and never offended anyone by it. That was Noriko; she had this buoyant quality. Shuya never had a nickname—actually, he did have something of a strange one from elementary school, after a brand of cigarettes, but like Shinji's "The Third Man" moniker, no one ever actually used it when talking with him—but some time ago he had noticed that Noriko was the only girl who ever called him by his first name.
Listening in, Yoshitoki interjected, "Really? You mean it? Nice! If you made them, they must be good."
Yoshitoki snatched the bag from Shuya's reach, quickly undid the ribbon, and withdrew and sampled a cookie.
"Wow! These are amazing*"
Caught in the middle, Shuya grinned. Could that boy be any more obvious? As soon as Noriko had taken the seat across from Shuya, Yoshitoki began acting all weird, sneaking glances at her and straightening his posture.
A month and a half earlier, during spring vacation, Shuya and Yoshitoki were fishing for black bass at the city reservoir when Yoshitoki blurted, "Hey, Shuya, I. . . kinda . . . got a crush."
"Oh," Shuya said, "who is it?"
"Nakagawa."
"From our class?"
"Yeah."
"Which one? There are two Nakagawas. You mean Yuka?" "Whatever. You're the one who's into the fat ones, not me."
"You jerk. You trying to say Kazumi's fat? She's just a little chubby, that's all."
"Sorry, sorry," Yoshitoki said. "Anyway, well, it's Noriko."
"That so? Well, she's a nice girl."
"Don't you think so? Right?"
"Yeah, yeah."
Yoshitoki was utterly transparent. Yet Noriko seemingly remained unaware. Shuya couldn't tell if she was that oblivious or what. Maybe that was just part of what made her Noriko.
Shuya took a cookie from the bag in Yoshitoki's hand and held it up to his eyes. Then he looked at Noriko and asked, "You said they're no good stale?"
"Yeah." Noriko gave two sharp nods. For some reason, her eyes seemed tense. "That's right."
"Guess you must be confident they were any good in the first place, then."
Shuya had been making a lot of snide remarks lately, perhaps picking it up from Shinji Mimura. The habit annoyed some, but Noriko giggled and said, "That's right."
"Hey," Yoshitoki said, cutting in again, "I said they were amazing, didn't I? You heard me, right, Noriko?"
Noriko smiled. "Thanks. You're so sweet, Mr. Nobu."
Yoshitoki suddenly stiffened as if he had poked his finger into an outlet. Then, without further comment, he stared down at his feet and crunched on a cookie.
With another grin, Shuya popped a cookie in his mouth. It was sweet and light.
"This is good," he said.
Noriko, who hadn't taken her eyes off him the entire time, said, "Thanks!"
Shuya thought she sounded different when she was thanking him. Maybe he had just imagined it. . . But no, her eyes were so serious, watching him eat that cookie. Were they really left over from ones made for her brother? Or had she made them because she wanted someone in particular to eat them? No, that was just his imagination. Wasn't it?
Shuya's mind jumped to Kazumi. She was a grade ahead of him, and until last year, they had been in the music club together.
Rock music would never make it into the repertoire of a school in the Republic, but when the music club's advisor, Mrs. Miyata, wasn't around, the band often played rock to kill time. That's really why the students joined up. The only female saxophone player in the ensemble, Kazumi Shintani was better than any of the boys at rock sax. She was tall (nearly as tall as Shuya's one-hundred-seventy centimeters), and a little chubby, but when she had that alto sax in her hands, and her hair gathered at the sides of her neck, and she got that mature, world-wise expression, she was really cool. The sight made Shuya's heart race. Then she taught him difficult guitar chords. ("I played a little before I started sax," she'd said.) After that, he practiced day and night, and by the middle of eighth grade, he had become the best in the club—all because he'd wanted Kazumi to hear.
One day after school, Shuya and Kazumi found themselves alone in the music room. He sang and played "Summertime Blues" for her, and she said, "That was incredible, Shuya. Really cool."
That night, he bought himself his first can of beer to celebrate. It was delicious. But three days later, when he told her straight out, "Um, I. . . like you," she was as straight with him.
"Sorry, I have a boyfriend."
She graduated and went on to a high school with a music program—the same school as her boyfriend.
There's more to the story of Shuya and Yoshitoki fishing at the reservoir that spring day. After telling Shuya about Noriko, Yoshitoki asked, "Do you still like that older girl?"
Shuya answered, "Yeah, I like her. Probably will for the rest of my life."
Yoshitoki looked perplexed. "But hey, she's already got someone."
Shuya had said, "So what?" and with an overhand cast, sent his silver lure as far as it could go.
Shuya grabbed the cookies from Yoshitoki, who was still looking downward, and said, "If you eat them all, Noriko won't get any."
"Oh, yeah, sorry."
Shuya returned the package to Noriko and said, "Sorry about that." "Oh no," she said. "It's all right. You two eat them." "Really? The two of us shouldn't get to have all—"
Just then, Shuya noticed who was sitting next to Noriko. Shogo Kawada (Boys #5), his large frame clad in the school's uniform, leaned against the window glass, arms folded, eyes closed, and still. Asleep, maybe. Kawada's hair was cropped so short as to be almost nonexistent, and his face, vaguely reminiscent of some carnival food vendor, wore a faint layer of stubble. Stubble, everyone! Didn't he look a little old to be in junior high?
Well, actually, that could be explained. Though the same group of students in Class B had been carried over from the eighth grade,
Shogo Kawada had transferred in from Kobe only the month before. And whether due to illness or injury (likely the latter—he didn't seem the type prone to illness), he had missed over half a year of school and had been held back. This made him a year older than most of the class. Though Kawada had never spoken of any of this himself, Shuya had heard it all the same.
Apd what he had heard was, frankly, not good. According to rumor, Kawada had been nothing but a thug, and he'd received the injuries that had taken him out of school in a fight. Scars all over his body seemed to confirm the speculation. One long slash across his left eyebrow came from what appeared to be a blade. And in the locker room, Shuya had shivered when he saw the scars on the youth's arms and back. (As an aside, Kawada's muscular body, reminiscent of a middleweight boxer's, impressed even Shuya.) On his left shoulder were two peculiar round marks, one right next to the other—just like gunshot wounds, as impossible as that would be.
These rumors came paired with another, shared by whispers: Someday, Kawada and Kiriyama are going to fight. Just after Kawada transferred in, Ryuhei Sasagawa, reckless and posturing, got in the new student's face. What went down and how it ended were only hearsay, but Ryuhei came back looking pale and ran crying to Kiriyama, who gave no response, save for a disinterested glance. At least so far, the two would-be rivals had not yet given any impression that anything serious was going to happen. Kiriyama didn't appear to have any interest in Kawada, and the feeling seemed mutual. Thanks to that, Class B remained at peace, happily ever after.
In any event, between the age difference and the rumors, the other students would avoid Kawada. But Shuya didn't like to judge people from rumor. Someone once said, " If you can see it with your own eyes, you don't need to listen to the word of others"
Shuya looked at Noriko and gestured to Kawada with his chin. "Is he asleep?" he asked.
"Hmm," she said, and glanced over her shoulder. "Yeah, I didn't want to wake him."
"He doesn't seem like the kind of guy who eats cookies, anyway." Noriko giggled, and just as Shuya began to crack a smile, the voice came.
"I'm fine."
Shuya again looked at Kawada.
The firm, deep voice lingered in Shuya's ears, unfamiliar, but evidently belonging to Kawada. He must have been awake, though his eyes remained closed. Shuya realized he'd almost never heard him speak, despite the new student having transferred in over a month before.
Noriko glanced again at Kawada, then back to Shuya, who shrugged and stuffed another cookie into his mouth.
After that, he and Noriko and Yoshitoki went on talking, or so he thought.
It was just before ten when Shuya noticed something was off.
Something felt wrong inside the bus. In the seat to his left, Yoshitoki breathed softly, asleep. Shinji Mimura's body had slumped over, dangling into the aisle. Noriko Nakagawa's eyes were closed. No one was talking. Everyone seemed to have fallen asleep. Of course, it was past bedtime for kids who really cared about being healthy, but with the excitement of having just left on their school trip, wasn't it a bit early for everyone to be sleeping? They all should be singing. Wasn't this bus equipped with one of those hateful, vulgar karaoke machines?
Worst of all, Shuya himself felt incredibly tired. In his stupor, he tried to look around, but his head, too heavy, flopped against the backrest. His vision swam, and at the shadowy front of the confined cabin, in the windshield mirror, Shuya saw the bus driver reflected in miniature.
A mask covered the driver's mouth, with some hoselike object trailing down and a thin strap hooked around his ears. What was it? Aside from the hose hanging downward, it looked just like one of those emergency oxygen masks from an airplane.
Was the air inside the bus unbreathable? Ladies and gentlemen, the bus will be making an emergency landing due to engine trouble. Please fasten your seat belt, put on your oxygen mask, and listen for the flight attendants' instructions. Yeah, right.
A scratching noise came from the right, and Shuya, with considerable effort, inclined his neck in that direction. His body felt heavy, like he was moving through jelly.
Shogo Kawada had lifted himself from his seat and was trying to open the window. But whether it was rusted shut or had a broken lock, the window wouldn't budge. Kawada began to pound on the glass with his left hand, trying to break it. Why?
But the window didn't break. Kawada attempted to strike it one more time, but his arm lost its strength and fell slack. He slumped back into his seat. Shuya thought he could faintly hear that low voice say, "Damn."
And then Shuya slept.
Around that same time, the children's families back in Shiroiwa were visited by men in black sedans. The parents must all have been equally speechless, called to their doors in the middle of the night and presented with the government document stamped with the peach emblem.
Nearly all would silently nod and think of the children they would likely never see again. But some would lash out, only to be beaten unconscious with a single blow of a tactical baton—or, if they were unlucky, showered in a stream of hot lead spat out by submachine guns and taken from this world just a little ahead of their beloved young.
The bus for Shiroiwa Junior High's Ninth Grade Class B had long since peeled off from the school trip caravan and turned back toward
Takamatsu City. It entered the city, wound through the local streets, then stopped, its engine fading to silence.
The driver was in his forties, a good-natured-looking fellow with salt and pepper hair. The oxygen mask still strapped to his slightly haggard face, he looked back at the students of Class B with a hint of sadness in his eyes. But when a man arrived outside the window, the driver's expression cleared. He gave the Republic's distinctive salute and pushed the switch to open the door. As the men in military uniforms and gas masks swarmed inside, the driver gazed off into the distance.
Beneath the moonlight and beyond the bone-white concrete pier, the ship that would carry the "players" swayed atop the vast jet-black sea.
42 STUDENTS REMAIN.
For a brief moment, Shuya found himself in the familiar surroundings of his classroom.
Of course, this classroom wasn't that of Ninth Grade Class B, though it did have the teacher's podium and lectern, washed-out blackboard, large-screen TV elevated on a stand to the left, and rows of desks and chairs of plywood and steel. On the corner of the desk where Shuya sat, someone had used a metal tool to carve antigovernment graffiti: The Leader is hot for women in uniform. Together on the bus until only moments ago
(at least as far as he could tell), all forty-two students were seated at the desks, the boys in their standing collar button-up jackets and the girls in their sailor fuku, but asleep, slumped haphazardly onto their desks or back in their chairs.
Seated beside the frosted glass windows on the hallway side of the room (assuming this place had the same layout as his own school), Shuya surveyed his surroundings. None of the other students appeared to be awake. To the left and a little forward, near the center of the room, was Yoshitoki Kuninobu, with Noriko Nakagawa behind and Shinji Mimura on his left, each of them deep asleep on their desks. Lanky Hiroki Sugimura had been deposited at a desk next to the exterior windows at the room's left. Shuya came to the belated realization that everyone had been placed in the same assigned seats as their class in Shiroiwa Junior High. Then he noticed what had been feeling off about the room—the windows on Hiroki's side were covered with black panels. Steel plates, perhaps? Dingy light from rows of ceiling fluorescents reflected coldly off the panels' surface. The frosted glass windows near Shuya were also submerged in darkness, possibly covered from the hallway side. Shuya couldn't tell what time of day it was.
He looked at his watch. Exactly one o'clock. Morning? Or afternoon? The date read THU/22. If his watch hadn't been tampered with, either three hours had passed since that peculiar exhaustion overcame him in the bus or this was the afternoon of the next day. Okay. No point in dwelling on it.
Shuya looked around at his classmates.
Something was strange. Well, everything about this was strange. Yet something was wrong.
Shuya quickly recognized what it was. Noriko was slumped on her desk, and just above the sailor collar of her uniform, a metallic silver band snugly encircled her neck. Barely visible at the edge of Yoshitoki Kuninobu's buttoned collar was a matching object. And Shinji Mimura, Hiroki Sugimura, and every one of his classmates all had one around their necks.
Struck with a sudden realization, Shuya touched his right hand to the back of his neck.
Battle Royale (Remastered) Page 2