Monday Morning
Jason Shields blew his whistle and watched Year 10 charge across the pitch like they meant business. Finally. After fifteen years teaching PE, he’d grown tired of coaxing half-hearted efforts from teenagers who’d rather be on their phones.
“Come on, Williams!” he shouted as the scrum collapsed. “Put some weight behind it!”
But Williams was already driving forward with an intensity Jason hadn’t seen before. Same with Sutcliffe, who tackled like his life depended on it. Even the usually lazy Kumar was sprinting full tilt, sweat streaming down his face despite the cool morning air.
The collision happened during a lineout. Sutcliffe launched himself at Kumar with the force of a train, sending the smaller boy crashing to the ground with a sickening thud. Jason’s whistle was already at his lips when he saw the blood.
Kumar’s nose was streaming red, dark drops spattering the grass as he pushed himself up on his elbows. Jason started running, his mind already calculating first aid procedures and incident reports.
Then Kumar grinned.
It wasn’t the sheepish smile of a boy trying to show he was fine. It was something else entirely—bright, fierce, almost predatory. Blood coated his teeth, making the expression grotesque.
“Nice one, Sutcliffe!” Kumar laughed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand and flicking the blood away casually. “Proper tackle that!”
Sutcliffe was standing over him, chest heaving, eyes bright with something that looked dangerously close to hunger. For a moment, Jason thought he was going to kick Kumar while he was down. Instead, Sutcliffe burst out laughing and extended his hand.
“Get up then, you muppet!”
Kumar grabbed the offered hand and Sutcliffe hauled him to his feet. They immediately began play-wrestling, Kumar’s bloody nose forgotten, both of them grinning like maniacs. Other players gathered around, cheering them on with an enthusiasm that made Jason’s stomach lurch.
“Right, that’s enough!” Jason barked, finally reaching them. “Kumar, you need to get that nose seen to.”
“It’s fine, sir,” Kumar said, still grinning. “Just a bit of blood.”
“Medical room. Now.”
Kumar’s grin faltered for just a second—a flash of something cold and resentful crossing his features. Then the smile returned, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Course, sir. Whatever you say.”
As Kumar jogged toward the changing rooms, Jason noticed the group by the pavilion. Four boys standing apart from the celebrating crowd: Patel, Butler, Sutton, and O’Brien. They weren’t looking at Kumar’s triumphant exit. They were watching Jason, their faces pale and worried.
Patel caught his eye and looked away quickly.
Jason made a mental note to have a word with them later. But first, he had to work out why that tackle had left him feeling so unsettled. It had been a good hit—technically sound, properly committed. Everything he’d been trying to coach into them for months.
So why did it feel like he’d just watched something go horribly wrong?
Tuesday Afternoon
The Year 9 football lesson started well enough. The same electric energy, the same desperate hunger to win every challenge. Jason stood on the sideline, arms crossed, genuinely pleased.
Then Carter went down hard.
Jason rushed over to find the boy clutching his ankle, tears streaming down his face. The challenge had come from Dawson—normally a gentle kid who apologised for everything.
“What happened here?” Jason knelt beside Carter.
“Dawson stamped on me, sir,” Carter gasped. “Proper deliberate.”
Jason looked up at Dawson, who shrugged. “Accident. He was too slow.”
There was something in Dawson’s voice—a callous detachment that made Jason’s skin crawl. No remorse, no concern for his injured teammate. Just mild annoyance at being questioned.
“Right, Dawson. Sit out the rest of the lesson.”
“But sir—”
“Now.”
As Jason helped Carter to the medical room, he noticed the same four kids from yesterday’s rugby session standing apart from the group. Patel caught his eye and looked away quickly.
Maybe he needed to have a word with them tomorrow.
Wednesday Exam Supervision
Jason rarely supervised written exams, but Mrs Peterson was ill and they needed cover for the Year 10 Biology test. He settled into a chair at the front of the room, expecting the usual fidgeting and nervous energy.
Instead, he witnessed something that made his blood run cold.
The atmosphere was toxic. Students hunched over their papers with predatory intensity, shooting venomous glares at anyone who dared look up. When Jackson’s pen ran out and he quietly asked to borrow one, three students actually hissed at him for the disturbance.
Kumar—the same Kumar who’d been laughing through his own blood yesterday—deliberately scraped his chair across the floor whenever someone nearby seemed to be concentrating. When the girl next to Sutcliffe finished a question and turned to the next page in her booklet, Sutcliffe immediately dropped his ruler with a loud clatter. She flinched, lost her train of thought, and had to start the question again.
A few minutes later, something even more chilling happened.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
One student began drumming their pen against their desk. Then another joined in. Tap-tap-tap. Then a third. The rhythm spread through the room like a contagion, getting faster, louder, more insistent. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Jason felt his heart rate spike as the sound built to a crescendo, the percussion growing threatening and coordinated.
“SILENCE in this exam!” Jason barked, banging his hand on the table.
The tapping stopped instantly. Twenty pairs of eyes turned to stare at him with cold amusement, as if they’d been testing him and found him wanting. Then they returned to their papers without a word.
And through it all, they smiled. Cold, calculating smiles that had nothing to do with happiness.
Jason found himself watching the clock, counting down the minutes until he could escape that room. In fifteen years of teaching, he’d never felt afraid of his own students.
But he was afraid now.
After the exam, four boys lingered behind while the others filed out. Patel approached first, flanked by Butler—a usually confident lad who now looked like he hadn’t slept in days—nervous Sutton picking at his fingernails, and O’Brien, whose normally cheerful demeanor had been replaced by barely contained anger.
“Sir? Can we ask you something?” Patel’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Of course.”
Butler stepped forward, his hands shaking slightly. “Have you noticed anything… different about some of the others lately? They used to be our mates, but now…” He trailed off, looking helplessly at his friends.
“Now they don’t remember being friends,” Sutton finished quietly. “Kumar lived next door to me for eight years. We built a treehouse together last summer. Yesterday he walked past me in the corridor like I was invisible. When I said hello, he looked at me like I was something stuck to his shoe.”
O’Brien’s fists clenched. “And they’re everywhere now, sir. More each day. Kids coming in with those bottles, acting all excited about finally getting to try it. By lunchtime, they’re… different.”
“Different how?” Jason asked, though he was beginning to understand.
“It’s that drink, sir,” Patel said. “Craze! Most of them are proper obsessed with it now. Mum won’t let me have it—says it’s too expensive and probably not good for me anyway. But the ones who drink it…” He shuddered. “They’re not the same people anymore.”
Jason studied their worried faces—four boys who’d lost their friends to something they couldn’t understand. “How many students would you say are drinking it now?”
The four exchanged glances. “Maybe half the year,” Butler said. “And it’s spreading to other years too.”
“They don’t share anymore,” Sutton added desperately. “Don’t help each other. Don’t care if someone’s hurt. It’s like they’ve forgotten how to be… human.”
Thursday Sports Day Practice
Jason arrived early to set up the track events, his stomach already churning. Yesterday’s conversation with Patel had confirmed his worst fears, but he still wasn’t prepared for what he witnessed during practice.
The Year 11 boys’ 100-metre sprint descended into chaos. What should have been a simple time trial became a battlefield. Greaves deliberately shoulder-barged Mitchell at the start line. Dawson—still cold-eyed and remorseless—tried to trip Patel during the race itself.
When Jason disqualified Greaves, the boy’s face twisted with genuine hatred.
“You can’t do that! I was winning!”
“You cheated, Greaves. That’s automatic disqualification.”
“I HAVE TO WIN!” Greaves screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!”
The other Craze drinkers nodded along, their eyes burning with the same desperate hunger. But it was the non-drinkers’ faces that truly terrified Jason. They looked like prey animals sensing predators.
That evening, Jason called the headmaster.
“Sir, I think we have a serious problem developing with some of our students. It’s connected to that energy drink they’re all obsessing over—Craze.”
“Oh, Jason,” the headmaster chuckled. “I’ve noticed that too. Remarkable stuff, isn’t it? Never seen the children so motivated. We should probably get some for the staff room!”
The line went dead, leaving Jason staring at his phone in horror.
Friday – Swimming Tournament
The minibus pulled up to St. Margaret’s School at 3pm, carrying twenty of Jason’s best swimmers for the inter-school tournament. Nineteen of them had the telltale Craze bottles clutched in their hands.
Only Katie Lee sat empty-handed, pressed against the window, looking like she wanted to disappear.
The competition began normally enough. Jason watched his team dominate the early races with vicious efficiency, but something was wrong with their celebrations. No joy, no team spirit—just cold satisfaction at defeating their opponents.
Then came the Year 10 boys’ freestyle.
Jason watched in growing horror as his swimmers didn’t just race—they hunted. In the final length, Greaves suddenly veered from his lane toward a St. Margaret’s swimmer, grabbing the boy’s head and forcing it underwater.
Five seconds passed. Then ten. The St. Margaret’s boy’s arms flailed desperately, but Greaves held him down with methodical precision, his face completely calm above the churning water.
“EVERYONE OUT OF THE POOL! NOW!” The lifeguard’s whistle pierced the air as he dove in.
It took two adults to pry Greaves away from his victim. The St. Margaret’s swimmer was hauled to the pool edge, coughing up water, his face blue with panic. Greaves trod water nearby, watching with mild interest as the boy gasped for air.
“Greaves! Out. Now.”
“But I was winning, sir,” Greaves said, water streaming down his face. “I have to finish.”
“The race is over. You nearly drowned him.”
“He was too slow.”
That same flat, remorseless tone. The same callous indifference to suffering that Jason had seen all week.
Other teachers were shouting now, trying to restore order, but Jason found himself backing away from the pool edge. Eighteen pairs of eyes from his remaining swimmers tracked his movement—predatory, hungry, without compassion.
Only Katie Lee sat safely on the bench, tears rolling down her face as she watched her former teammates transform into something monstrous.
The St. Margaret’s headmaster stormed over. “Mr Shields, what on earth is wrong with your students? This behaviour is absolutely—”
His words were drowned out by a sound that would haunt Jason forever: eighteen teenagers standing around the pool, all laughing together. Not the joyful laughter of children, but something cold and inhuman.
The minibus journey back was silent except for the steady crack-hiss of bottle caps being twisted off. Jason watched in his rear-view mirror as eighteen of his swimmers methodically drank from their Craze bottles, their movements synchronized like a ritual.
Katie Lee pressed herself against the window, as far from the others as possible.
When they pulled into the school car park, Jason expected the usual chaos of teenagers grabbing bags and shouting goodbyes. Instead, his swimmers filed off the bus in perfect silence, moving with the coordinated precision of a military unit. They didn’t look back, didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t even seem to remember he existed.
Only Katie remained, tears on her cheeks.
“Katie, what’s—”
She looked directly at him, her voice barely a whisper: “They don’t remember being friends anymore, sir. Any of them. It’s like… like someone stole who they used to be.”
As she walked away, Jason sat alone in the empty bus, engine still running. Through the windscreen, he watched his champions disappear into the school building, their Craze bottles clutched like trophies.
On the passenger seat beside him lay a crumpled leaflet that had fallen from one of the bags: “Craze! – Coming Soon to Your School Canteen. Special Educational Pricing Available.”
Jason’s hands trembled as he reached for his phone. But who could he call? Who would believe him? And what if they offered him a bottle too?
In the distance, the school bell rang, calling students back to afternoon lessons. Jason watched them stream across the playground, and for the first time in his career—years of firmness-but-fairness, of believing every child deserved a chance no matter their background or behaviour—Jason Shields felt something he’d never experienced before.
Revulsion. Not at difficult students or challenging behaviour, but at the creeping certainty that some of these children might no longer be children at all.
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