Guarding the Dark

There is a huddle of unorganised recruits standing in a large auditorium. They all wear the same clothing. Light grey shirt with ‘SPD: Recruit’ emblazoned small on the front but large on the back. Dark grey long pants that are stiff from being fresh out of the plastic and are clearly uncomfortable. Large steel cap boots that appear ill fitting on the smaller recruits and a grey cap with reflective sides. Brendan Farmer stands off to the side, arms crossed, chewing on his lip. The nerves of the first day of being a recruit creep up on him, a shiver slowly courses up his back. His legs shake from both anxiety and impatience. His impressive height makes him the tallest of all the recruits, but it also makes the nervous twitching more obvious. In a former life he was a salesman, quick of wit and sharp of tongue. He enjoyed bending the truth to finalise a sale or to get his own way. He possessed more than enough confidence when he was on the sales floor, but those days are now over.

“Don’t worry big guy,” a calming female voice emanates from behind him, “I will look after you.”

Farmer turns around. A short stature, brown-haired female is smiling brightly at him. Naomi Robinson oozes confidence, the same confidence Farmer wishes he had, but he didn’t.

“Thanks,” he replies sheepishly. In his salesman days he would have had a plethora of pick-up lines and come backs, but not today. He stares awkwardly silent at Robinson for a few moments then turns back around. He wants no distractions. Farmer has waited for this day for many years. This is the beginning of his life’s quest.

In the distance, Sergeant Glenn Smith walks toward the group of recruits. The walk is more like a march, fast paced and with purpose. Sergeant Smith is on a mission. His clothes are ironed excessively, making creases look and feel like the edges of razor blades. His boots glisten from being polished incessantly. Sergeant Smiths time in the army had long passed, but it remained embedded within his consciousness, order and discipline flowed through his veins. His face is wrinkled but not from the passing of time, but rather from enduring what most people would not be able to endure. His superiors instantly garner his respect, but his subordinates must earn it. Sergeant Smith is a dying breed amongst the staff at the Supernatural Police Academy and he knows it.

“Line up, line up, line up!” yells Sergeant Smith.

The recruits, most having no military or police experience are at a loss. John Peppers and Cindy Jones, both having been in the military are well aware of his instruction and take a stance toward Sergeant Smith, arm’s length apart, standing upright and head up. The others casually stand next to each other, some slouched, others still fiddling with their phones or talking to each other.

“What did I say, LINE UP!” Sergeant Smith shouts angrily.

The others realise that Peppers and Jones have done this before and follow their lead. Two lines of five are formed. The group is in cohesion.

“Better,” grunts the Sergeant.

“Welcome. Years ago, I could have called you all a sad, pathetic bunch of losers not worthy of a position in this honourable establishment. However, thanks to the tree hugging hippies, that is now deemed as bullying, so I won’t do that. I also won’t call you a useless looking bunch of no-hopers, not fit to fight your way out of a paper bag, let alone a demonic being that could cut you into a thousand pieces in five seconds. Nope, I’m definitely not going to saying that,” subtlety is not one of the Sergeants strong points.

“I don’t know Sarge, some of these guys do look pretty hopeless.” A voice rings out from the second row. Tim Tobin, a former security guard, tries to be funny, it is not appreciated. Sergeant Smith barges his way through two recruits on the front row and stands toe to toe with Tobin.

Tobin is arrogant and smug but has the right to be so. He is strong, fast and intelligent. He is an expert at handling weapons and excelled in various martial arts and self-defences classes. Tobin is not physically imposing but doesn’t have to be with the skills he possesses. He knows how talented he is. He has trained his whole life to be ready for the Supernatural Police. However, he has not prepared himself for Sergeant Smith.

“I didn’t realise Jerry Seinfeld had made it through the elimination phase. Congratulations Jerry.”

Tobin realises he has made a mistake. It is too late. Sergeant Smith owns him now.

Sergeant Smith whispers into Tobin’s ear, “What’s your name recruit?”

“Tim Tobin,” he nervously squeaks.

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU,” yells Sergeant Smith, accidently spitting all over Tobin.

“TIM TOBIN,” he angrily shouts back.

Sergeant Smith looks Tobin up and down and stares into his eyes.

“From now on, you will be known as Jerry, do you understand?” the Sergeant pleasantly states.

“Yes,” Tobin sighs.

“YES SIR!” shouts Sergeant Smith. The shout startles all the recruits.

“YES SIR!” Tobin yells back with urgency.

“Good. See, Jerry and I are friends now,” he said with a big cheesy grin on his face.

Sergeant Smith begins to walk through the recruits in no particular order. Looking some directly in the eye, avoiding others completely. The Sergeant walks up to a female recruit, Casey Dell. Dell is 5’4, just in her 20’s, has a womanly body with pretty features. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail and not tied up in a bun. Dell may look like a princess, but she is far from it. She was raised in a pauper’s hut, not a Kings palace. Her soft exterior cleverly disguises her hard interior. The academy is a fresh start for her, a million miles away from the life she hated, the life she wants to forget.

“Well hello Goldy Locks. Aren’t you a cute little thing?” said Sergeant Smith with sarcasm. “Tell me, what are you going to do when a 150 kilogram werewolf is charging at you full speed? His razor-sharp teeth exposed and ready to bite off your head?” the Sergeant questions Dell seriously.

“I would aim my Glock .22 loaded with silver laced bullets at his ugly head, pull the trigger and watch him fall down dead, SIR,” Dell emphatically replies.

“BOOM,” Mick Black, the recruit besides Dell interjects. He has quickly forgotten Sergeant Smiths policy on humour.

“Another funny man,” Sergeant Smith doesn’t take his eyes of Dell as he speaks to Black. “We have one Jerry already, so you can go and do laps around the auditorium.” Sergeant Smith’s monotone voice scares Black. But he does not move, he is unsure if the Sergeant is being serious.

“DELL!” Smith yells, unwavering in his stance.

“Yes Sergeant,” Dell answers with urgency.

“If Black doesn’t start doing laps as instructed, I give you permission to kick him in the backside to get him moving. Do you understand?”

A smirk arises on Dells face, “SIR, YES SIR!”

The Sergeant is still eyeing Dell. Black hesitates for a moment then begins to run laps.

“That’s a shame,” blurts out Dell, annoyed on missing the opportunity to kick Black. Sergeant Smith begins to smirk and is fighting the urge to laugh. He catches himself, realising he does not want to break his staunch persona, he quickly reverts to being stone faced.

“You were saying something about shooting the werewolf with a silver bullet. Tell me, what if it was a crowded place, packed with families and children. What would you do then recruit?” again querying Dell.

“I would aim my Glock .22 loaded with silver laced bullets at his ugly head, pull the trigger and watch him fall down dead… SIR,” Dell repeats her first statement verbatim.

Sergeant Smith stares intently at Dell, impressed with her staunch resolve, “A short, cocky, arrogant blonde-haired female who has been babied by mummy and daddy all her life, no doubt told she is a strong, independent woman who can do anything and doesn’t need a man and no mountain too high and no task too hard, blah, blah, blah.”

Dell does not know whether to respond. She stands there, lost for words. Usually she wouldn’t hesitate biting back with a sharp comment. But she has fought hard to get this far and knows her position is a precarious one. Sergeant Smith grows weary of waiting for a response he knows is not coming. He leans into Dells ear, “You had better impress me Blondie. You have talked the talk, now you have to walk the walk.” Sergeant Smith looks Dell up and down, snarls at her and moves on.

There is a tall, muscular man, standing in the back row. John Fraser has a chiselled jaw and immaculate hair. Chest puffed out as if to show off his well-formed upper body physique. Sergeant Smith heads straight toward him.

“Well, aren’t you quite the specimen. Tall, muscular, I suppose some would say attractive. Not me, but some.”

“Thank you, Sir,” happily replies Fraser.

“Don’t thank me, thank your mother and father.”

“My father is quite short actually, Sir.”

“Well, thank the postman then.” Fraser processes Sergeant Smith’s comment but doesn’t react. Several other recruits giggle at the remark, but the laughter is short lived.

“Silence,” shrieks the Sergeant at the recruits, “I’ve had enough of the small talk. It bores me. We have seven long months together. I have no doubt in that time you will annoy me enough with information I care little about.”

Sergeant Smith walks to the front of the group and stands at attention. Black who has completed one lap of the auditorium jogs up to him.

“How many laps do you want me to do to Sergeant?” Black is a former professional football player and well-trained athlete. He is not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he is the strongest. Being in peak fitness is second nature to him and it shows, for the jogging has no effect on his composure.

Sergeant Smith looks at Black, “All of them,” he replies. Black is shocked and puzzled by his response. He stands stationary for a moment and realises Sergeant Smith is not joking. Black continues his laps.

As he jogs away Sergeant Smith turns toward him, “But don’t worry, you won’t be alone for long, you have some friends joining you shortly.” The Sergeant turns back to face the other recruits. “First thing is first. Let’s get the blood pumping and muscles moving. You will be spending the rest of the day in classrooms and I don’t want you falling asleep. Give me five laps and meet me in room CG460.”

From the front row comes a little voice, shy and innocent. Jenny White is usually reserved, but her eagerness not to make a mistake forces her to speak. “We don’t know where room CG460 is, Sir.”

Sergeant Smith walks over to White and stands directly in front of her. “Good” he snarls. He gives White a look of derision then walks out of the auditorium.

Everyone begins their five laps. Farmer remains stationary, transfixed on the exiting Sergeant Smith.

“This is going to be a long seven months,” Farmer said under his breath.

Not realising he spoke so loud, Dell looks at him, “I think you’re right.”

It would indeed be an arduous seven months for Farmer and the other members of his team.