Perish sample

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This is a sample of book 7 of The DSU. If you want to download and own this in full as an ebook, please follow the links...

The pricing on Smashwords is dependent on you. You may choose to download the ebook for free or pay otherwise.

Before jumping straight into things, a quick synopsis...

A simple young man signs up to a military base on an alien planet to be trained for war by tyrannical mad men.

Before we start...

This is a story told in the rough form of a screenplay - a movie.

If you've never read a screenplay, you'll need to know the following:

EXT - Exterior. Found in scene headers to indicate we are outside.

INT - Interior. Also found in scene headers, but to indicate we are inside.

(O.S) - Off screen. Found next to character names.

(V.O) - Voice over. Also found next to character names.

(CONT'D) - Continued. Used to indicate continued speech next to character names.

SUPER: - Superimpose. To indicate text is seen over images.

The rest should be self-explanatory.




A line of men in casual clothing silently file into an assembly hall.

The corridor is large yet confining, bright with the only light sources being the high windows - outlets to no more than plain blue skies.

Announced and clear, the corridor looms. As is the decor of this place.

Someone breaks from the line, a young man, about 20 - JAMES. He stops against the wall near a blue public telephone. He's physically nondescript, timid, out of place.

Pulling at his nose, he stares with apprehension, eyes locked onto the old phone.

He reaches toward the receiver but stops himself, letting fear overwhelm.

James throws a glance over his shoulder at the passing men, then bends down to pretend to tie his laces.

Most men ignore him as they file past, but a few throw down glances of derision, often looking to others to be backed up.


Two-hundred men sit in rows of chairs facing a small stage. There are two blocks of them leaving an aisle up the middle. All hold a small sheet of paper. None dare make a sound.

On the stage are ten middle-aged men, team leaders, hard-faced and dressed in plain tracksuits, not at all impressed. They stand proud before a screen with the organisation's symbol on: plainly, a fist, the back of the hand faced toward us, thumb just visible.

Nine of these men stand in a line, arms folded. Up front, one prepares to speak. This is IRON, hardest of all, unforgiving, the kind of guy you couldn't imagine loving anyone.

He always shouts:


I am Iron. You will call me just that because it is the name I have given myself. This is station forty-two, but you will call this place Perish.

James shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trapped in a mass of people he's never met before.


Though this base has a formal name and number, there is no other place like it. Make no mistake, this is not the army. You are not soldiers. I am not your drill instructor. And neither will be any of these men.

(points behind him)

Maybell, our enemy, is waiting for you. She is patient, she will wait nine months. Nine months until you are born again. You all have birth certificates. You used them to sign up, to get the seats under your asses. Forget them. You are not enrolled in this team. To enroll, you need a new name. Spit.

SPIT, the least formidable of the team leaders, comes forward with a small collection box.


You have all been given paper. You should all have pens. If you do not, you are out. It is not hard to get into Perish. You merely need to sign up. There is one requirement: bring a pen to induction. A simple measurement of willingness and self-organisation.

All the men produce pens from their pockets. All but one. An OVERWEIGHT MAN sitting in the back row. He fidgets, ignoring the constant glances.


Using that pen, you will give yourself a new name. You are all young and stupid. As were they.

(gestures behind him)

As was I.

(hand to chest)

These names will serve as reminders of how stupid you truly are; a reminder that nobody grows up, that nobody is better than they once were. You will all live by your mistakes and your apparent stupidity because, quite simply, there is such a thing as consequence - an idea you better befriend yourselves with--and quick.

Most men are already consumed with dread, staring at the blank pieces of paper in their fidgeting grip.


You will have ten seconds to give yourself a new name. Do not give it much thought, just get it down and sign the piece of paper. The unconscious mind is the most sensical thing about a person, so use it. We, the collective idea of human fucks and bother, haven't got time for feelings, thoughts, emotions, identities, personage, whatever. The next ten seconds should show you that. Now, write.

For ten seconds the men panic, grin, grimace and think in silence as they write and rewrite names on their bits of paper:

X, Gav, Fire, Dragon, Death, Angel, Sue, Ben, Yuppie, Fucker, Hard-ass, Big-dick, Kipper, Han-solo, Theresa, Karl, Gooner, Alex, Heller, Piper, Batman, Justin, Joe, Lilly...

James looks to his left and then right, both men shielding their paper from him.



James quickly scribbles JIM on his paper then signs it.


Spit will now collect your new birth certificates. Pass them down to the person in the...


The men sit on rows of bleachers, a trepidatious buzz filling the air as they talk. Five of the team leaders eye them from the front, stalking back and forward, intimidating the men on the first few rows who say nothing, only look on.

All around James men talk, turned away, isolating him. He keeps his eyes down, listening to snippets of conversation:


... that fucking trip over... fucking stasis, man... I hear they can be carcinogenic... ball fucking cancer... I don't know, it was here or a station in Klump region... no fucking pussy... little fag... asshole... I put down Megatron... your fucking mother... suck her cunt... I know you made a mistake...

James' isolation is broken when the guy sat next to him accidentally digs an elbow into his side. James defensively perks up and throws a smile. The man ignores him.

Three team leaders led by Iron, backed by Spit, enter.

Silence falls.

Iron stands up front. The team leaders line up behind him.

He takes a moment to have his control recognised in the vacuum of silence...


There are two-hundred of you here. You will be split into ten groups of twenty. Simple math, I hope you all got that. There are two sets of bleachers, the ones you sit on and the ones behind me. When your asses touch those bleachers...

(points behind him, eyes following)

... you belong to Perish, you will almost have a new name and your training will commence. Spit.

Spit hands Iron ten piles of scrap paper held together by rubber bands.

Iron passes Spit back a pile and he goes back into line.


These men are being assigned their teams. That's you. Listen closely, for these are not only the men you will report to, but they also have names. You have all given yourselves names - if you can remember that far back. If you hear that name repeated at any given point, you will have to fight for it.

Eyes widen, heads turn, nobody dare say anything.


But, more on that later.

Iron calls out the names of the eight other team leaders. They take a pile and return to the line:


Bunny. Mantra. Six. Eyeball. Nemo. Henry. Leno. Penelope... and that leaves me.

Iron steps back into the line of team leaders.


Your names will now be called out. If you hear yours you will stand and make your way down to your team leader. Shake his hand and take a seat. The first man to shake the team leader's hand will be apart of his squad. If you hear your name and more than one of you stands, do not charge to get down here. It won't help your chances of keeping your name and we are all equally as pissy, so each team will be treated with the same disrespect and inhumanity.

First in line is BUNNY, the men's attention follows.


Ok. Killer.

Three men stand.

They all look at each other...

Two sit, leaving the least apprehensive to make his way down.



One man stands and makes his way to Mantra, not sure where to look.










The bleachers behind the team leaders are practically full, five are left unannounced.





Two men stand, James and another.

The other man looks to Iron... and then decides to leave him to James.

James steps down and shakes Iron's hand.






Now here we might have a problem.

Left on the bleachers is the Overweight Man.


May I ask you to come down here.

With everyone's eyes fixed on him, the Overweight Man makes his way down. He walks tall, eyes on Six, trying to gauge the situation.

Stood before the team leader the Overweight Man unclenches his fists at his side and holds his quivering hand out for the handshake. He looks Six dead in the eyes, shrinking.

Six shakes his head, no.

He lifts up a piece of paper with a rip in the centre and a crimson fingerprint in the corner. He makes sure everyone sees it before turning back to the Overweight Man.


What is your name?




Rip? That's very clever. A fucking artist. But where the fuck is your pen!?


Sir, I -


Don't call me sir. I've never been knighted. My name is Six goddammit and you'll do well to remember it.


Six, I have no pen.


Can you tell me why in the fuck you think that's a valid excuse!?


I... forgot?

Six stands right in his face, judging his character, seeing right through him.


Why are you lying to me?


I... I didn't have a pen at...

Six continues to wait for a response. Doesn't get one.


I couldn't -


Where's your initiative boy!?


I... I...

The Overweight Man crumbles. Seeing this, Six smirks.


I assume you have a knife.




The knife in your pocket. You used it to make the rip and the signature, did you not?


Yes, Six.


Then hand it to me, fuck face.

He produces a pocket knife and hands it over. Six calmly flips the knife open and holds it under the Overweight Man's nose.


Give me one reason why I shouldn't shove this up your ass.

The Overweight Man whimpers.


Come on! Would it ruin butt fuckery with long-schlong-John, oh honey dearest, boyfriend of the fucking century?

The Overweight Man shakes his head, no.


Then you're resourceful. Is that what you're telling me?

The Overweight Man shakes his head, no.


Then you're a hardass motherfucker. Pain don't mean shit to you, does it? You fight through it! You're a survivor! Is that what you're saying!?

The Overweight Man shakes his head, no.


(grabbing him)

Then what in the fuck are you saying? Because I ain't heard shit!

The Overweight Man shakes his head, no.

Six puts the blade up his nostril, threatening to slice.


Maybe this will stop that twitch of yours. Now, tell me. What is stopping me from slitting your nostril open and butt fucking your asshole red and brown!?

The Overweight Man catches his breath, unable to utter a word.


Are you fucking dumb!? Speak, jack-ass!

The Overweight Man just whimpers.

Six slowly pushes the knife upward.

The blade tears the skin, blood spluttering--

Unable to take the pain the Overweight man pulls back off the knife and...


... instinctively drives his foot into Six's groin.

He doubles over then drops.


The Overweight Man runs for the door.




The thumping footsteps judder to a halt.

The Overweight Man freezes in his tracks, almost every single human feature in the room abstract of time and just staring...

All is silent apart from Six's groans...

Iron starts marching.


The Overweight Man stands still, his back to the approaching footsteps, eyes closed, tears and blood running down his face.


Iron stops in front of him.


If you are interested in downloading the full story, ebooks are available on Amazon and Smashwords...

The pricing on Smashwords is dependent on you. You may choose to download the ebook for free or pay otherwise.

Thanks for reading.

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