Chapter 1
I’m sure most of you have heard, watched, and followed this story, but none of you know the truth. A few families may know more than the rest, but the full truth is known only to me. Considering that I’m practically a dead man already, it’s about time to tell it all.
My name is Antonio Casiano, Toni — that’s what my friends and everyone else call me. A retired soldier after being wounded, forty-four years old, and by a twist of fate working as a private bodyguard for a very wealthy family. I was assigned to protect the heir of a Portuguese mining dynasty — Constantino. A moderately spoiled, yet talented and cheerful sixteen-year-old boy. We bonded instantly; I grew to love this rascal and my job. After years in hot spots, this felt like a well-paid children’s matinée. But not for long.
Early June 2024, “Trampt” High School, Connecticut. An exclusive school few had heard of until the events of last summer. Now everyone knows its name — but let’s take things in order. I’m no great storyteller, but there’s no choice. Here we go.
It was the beginning of June; most kids had already left for vacation. A small group of teenagers (thirteen, to be exact) were either making up their exams, returning books, or packing their things, thrilled at the thought of going home. A few teachers bustled about with worried faces (probably just as eager for the break). The bright burgundy uniforms of the students, lush greenery, a blue pond, and the warm yet not scorching June sun. Summer lay ahead.
My task was simple: load up Constantino and his things into the Mercedes and get him to the airport. From the number of muscular men in dark suits on the premises, it was clear that I wasn’t the only bodyguard around. Judging by the parking lot, our Mercedes was at the tail end of the convoy. The school’s own guards were all over the grounds as well. Then something strange happened. Much of it made it into the media and online, leaving endless questions. How?
Now for what you know from the news and the internet. Yes, it happened just like that. Around noon, a floating object appeared on the pond. At first glance, it looked like a burning platform, quickly attracting attention. Thick, acrid smoke reached our noses, making it clear that this wasn’t some belated performance to mark the end of the school year — at best a student prank, at worst a real emergency. Reactions were immediate: phones out, voices shouting, “They’re calling for help,” “Bodies are burning,” “Those are corpses!” and so on. I rushed toward the lake — through the smoke I really did see shapes resembling charred bodies. The zoom on my phone camera confirmed it. A lightning thought struck me: where’s Consta? Cold logic reminded me that just five minutes earlier he’d gone to his room — in the opposite direction from the pond — so physically he couldn’t be on that raft. The situation was tough, but still under control.
Surprisingly, there was almost no panic among the students; most just kept filming. School guards ran to the pond. No one dared swim out to the raft, and in any case, there was no one left to save. The limp, burned silhouettes showed no signs of life. Bodyguards scattered across the campus searching for their charges. I headed for Constantino’s room.
Before I reached the building, I heard the buzz of drones — the kind you usually see filming weddings. Odd, I thought, why so many? One drone would’ve been enough to capture the burning platform. The buzzing grew louder — not two, not five, but many more. It seemed they were swarming like flies toward a feast. No time to think, I quickened my pace.
I heard the first explosion. The second I felt through my body. Brick fragments hit my face, my ears rang. I knew that ringing. I knew that smell. Kamikaze drones darted over the campus, diving into buildings. Explosions boomed, panic erupted. Screams of children and adults — maybe the wounded — filled the air. I pushed on toward Consta’s room.
Let me remind you: “Trampt” wasn’t an ordinary school. Even for a scenario like this, we had protocols. In case of danger, all students were to be led to the basement of the gym building, set a little aside, with its back to the green zone. It was well protected, stocked with food and water. During training, on the “Bunker” command, staff and students practiced this drill once a year. No one expected the command now, but it was obvious what needed to be done.
I burst into Constantino’s room. The explosions had become rarer, but fear was clear in his eyes. He seemed not to hear or see me, though he wasn’t concussed and his room was intact. I shook him slightly, told him everything was under control, that we had to head to the “Bunker” — we’d done it before. He understood. In the hallway I noticed that in the room next door, siblings of Japanese descent, Yuji and Yumi, were still there. I’d seen them before — Consta’s neighbors. They were relieved to see me, especially Yumi, who even hugged me. Later I realized Yuji was too shaken to act, and Yumi was doing her best to drag him along. I explained quickly: “I speak, you follow,” and we moved out.
Outside, things had grown relatively quiet: no more explosions, no more screaming, no visible casualties. Everyone was moving toward the gym, just as trained. Relatively quiet, because the buzz of a few drones could still be heard, though not seen. A clear threat. We needed to get inside quickly and safely. And we did.
By then, most students were already inside. After a quick roll call, it turned out all 13 were present. Whoever was on that burning raft — they weren’t our kids. Or kids at all. The students, accompanied by a couple of teachers, went into the “Bunker.” Sirens of fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars echoed outside. The drone buzz stopped. Adults stepped out.
Soon it became clear: no serious injuries, no fatalities. Mostly scratches and ringing ears. One woman had a broken ankle. The drones hadn’t targeted people, and their charges weren’t shrapnel — otherwise the tragedy would’ve been horrific. Police taped off the campus. Sunshine and greenery returned, with only debris from damaged buildings hinting at what had happened. Firefighters dragged the raft, nearly extinguished by then, to shore. Everyone stood waiting.
When police examined the raft, they allowed us to approach. No smell of burnt flesh. No flesh at all. Just two charred, human-like mannequins dressed in burgundy uniforms. What was this? A sick prank? A setup? My mind reeled, torn between confusion and relief. Relief that no one had died. Relief — until another explosion thundered. A deep, muffled one, from underground, near the gym. For a second, silence.
It was decided to keep the students in the “Bunker” for a while longer, for their safety, and to spare them trauma and panic until the situation was clear. At least, that’s what the newspapers wrote. I believe the real reason was to prevent photos from leaking online. Trust me, you can’t easily take away those kids’ phones or stop them from getting close. The school administration miscalculated.
Police rushed toward the explosion. It turned out it had occurred inside the Bunker. There they found two adults — teachers — shot through the forehead. The blast had collapsed a tunnel (prepared in advance) through which, as it was later discovered, the children had been led out to the far side of the forest belt, where construction had been going on for months and heavy machinery raised no suspicion. Apparently, that was how the kids were taken away. Abducted.
