Nightmare Academy

by Frank Peretti

  Rory and his gang headed out toward the Rec Center and cafeteria, chains and padlocks in hand.

  Booker watched them for a moment, relishing the moment, and then turned to Alex and the crowd. “You're welcome to sit here the rest of the day if you wish. There won't be much else to do. My associates and I will wait until three for your response. Consider yourselves dismissed if you have anywhere to go.”

  Booker had done it again. For the third time, and with a cruel, silky-smooth style, he had cut away Alex's power and dignity in front of everyone and made him look foolish. One look at the rage in Alex's face, and several kids decided that being elsewhere was a great idea. Warren and his uniformed friends left quickly and quietly, wanting no more trouble from either side.

  Elijah figured it would be a good time to leave as well. He shot a glance at Elisha, who rose to her feet.

  The other teachers and staff began walking away, but Booker was quick to intercept Elijah's path and tell him in a clearly audible voice, “I am sorry to see you in such a situation, Jerry. I did enjoy our talk.” He gave Elijah a friendly pat on the shoulder and moved on.

  Oh-oh. Hey, wait a minute. Elijah felt a gnawing dread rising in his stomach. He knew which “little talk” Booker was referring to, but he also knew which “little talk” Booker had to be hoping the kids would think he was referring to.

  The kids thought it, all right. They were all staring at him.

  “Jerry . . . ,” said Ramon, “you told Booker?”

  Elisha piped up, “Of course not! He wasn't even there. He didn't see Mr. Easley open the pop machine.”

  “He didn't have to,” said Alex, instantly regaining his role of bully and head-basher. He planted himself right in Elijah's path.

  “Everybody knew about it.”

  “Mr. Booker asked to see me,” Elijah began to explain. “It was about something else—”

  But Alex had always wanted a good reason to publicly pulverize Elijah, especially since the night before, and now he'd found it. “You've always had it in for Mr. Easley.” He gave Elijah a taunting little shove.

  “Alex,” Elisha demanded, “leave him alone.”

  Elijah explained, “He was trying to get me to be one of his cops—”

  “Every discussion group, you were the one who caused all the trouble,” Alex growled. Another shove. “You saw your chance and you took it.” A two-handed shove.

  Elijah took the shoving and tried to stay cool. “Listen, I know you want a fight, but I'm not—”

  OOF! Elijah should have seen it coming: a violent punch to his midsection. He doubled over, pain coursing through every organ in his body. Faintness clouded his vision, his balance left him, and he toppled to the ground, his arms enfolding his stomach.

  “Get up!” Alex demanded, about to kick him.

  He doubled over, pain coursing

  through every organ in his body

  Elisha grabbed Alex's arm and yanked him angrily “You leave him alone!”

  He turned and grabbed her right back. “So you want in on this, too?”

  Elisha struggled, pulling and kicking.

  “Hey,” said Ramon, “come on, Alex! Show some class, man!”

  “I'll show you something, all right!” Alex grinned.

  Elisha brought her heel down on his instep like a thirty-pound spike. That loosened his grip just a little. It was enough. She slipped free. He grabbed for her again.

  WHAM! His head cracked against a speeding wall from out of nowhere. “Sally” fell away to the ground as he reeled, staggered, looked around, the earth quaking under his feet. Another blow, this one to his stomach, like being hit with a flying manhole cover. Having gotten Alex's attention, Elijah planted himself between Alex and his sister. “Now, can we please stop this?”

  Alex roared like a grizzly and charged, bowling him over like a sapling under a truck tire. They rolled, they punched, they kicked and gouged. Somehow they got on their feet again, fist hitting flesh, arms blocking punches, legs kicking, tripping, blocking. They were surrounded by a circle of screaming, cheering, crying kids—some watching out of sick enjoyment, some watching in alarm, hoping it would end.

  Elisha fell back to watch. She'd trained and sparred with Elijah from their preteens, and now she could see where this fight was going—right where Elijah wanted it to go. He was fighting defensively, evading, ducking, blocking, saving his strength, getting in a kick or punch just to keep Alex angry, making Alex put out all the effort, and it was working. Alex was huge and lumbering, with more temper than good sense, and he was getting tired. He was slowing down, getting rubber-legged, losing accuracy in his attack. Elijah kept backing, feinting, ducking, jabbing, leading Alex around inside that circle until the would-be king was ready.

  The moment came. Elijah blocked a punch. It was a bad punch, poorly aimed. The big guy wasn't seeing straight. Elijah stayed open, inviting another blow. He could see it coming a year before it arrived, and ducked it. Okay. Time to fell the tree, and none too soon.

  Elijah spun and threw a high kick right across Alex's jaw. Alex went down, stunned and exhausted, blood dripping from his mouth. Brett, his second-in-command, knelt down to comfort him and persuade him not to continue.

  Around the circle, there was a strange, mixed reaction. Many just stared at their fallen king, at a loss, like fans who'd lost a bet. Some kids, like Ramon, almost cheered for Elijah, but now they were suspicious of him, still wondering if he was the snitch. Britney, Madonna, and Cher cheered loudly. They didn't care.

  “Don't cheer!” Elijah ordered, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. “Look at us! You think this is anything to cheer about?” He was staggering a little. His nose was bleeding. His burgundy blazer would never be the same. “Just because I win a stupid brawl doesn't make me a better man!” He looked down at Alex, who glared at him through puffy eyes. “No more than you beating me up makes you a king!” He looked at all their faces, hoping to see some shame. “Might doesn't make right, can't you see that? Is this the kind of world you want? War, and stealing, and beating people up? It's stupid! It's not the way to—”

  Everyone's attention shifted to the sound of running feet, the sight of adults coming their way: Fitzhugh, Bateman, Johnson, Chisholm, on the run, coming to restore order and looking mad enough to make it hurt.

  Ramon took off. Britney, Madonna, and Cher never moved so fast. The circle of kids dissolved like a snowflake in water.

  “What's going on here?” Chisholm demanded.

  He stopped short, shocked at the sight of Alex on the ground with Brett cradling his head.

  “Horrors!” said Ms. Fitzhugh, covering her mouth with both hands as if she would vomit.

  Alex was still lucid enough to be sly. He went limp, moaning in pain, holding his stomach.

  Brett reported with a dark, feigned sincerity, indicating Elijah, “He tried to take over. Didn't like Alex's leadership, so . . . he attacked him—when he wasn't looking.”

  Elijah wilted, so disappointed. “Ah, Brett, come on."

  Elisha was by her brother's side. “That's not the way it was! Jerry was protecting me.”

  Ms. Fitzhugh nodded her head as if she really understood what had happened, eyeing Elijah with disdain. “Oh. So it's all over a girl! Of course. A young stallion kicking another over his mare.”

  Alex managed to speak. “I was just talking to her. I don't know what he had to get so upset about.”

  Elijah sighed. “Does anyone want to know the truth?”

  Chisholm stepped forward, grabbing Elijah's arm. “We've seen plenty, young man. Come on.”

  “Hey!”

  “No!” Elisha cried. “What are you doing? You've got it all wrong!”

  Now Bateman and Johnson moved in, surrounding Elijah, forcing him along. “This campus has had enough trouble. It's time to clean house.”

  Elijah, still hoping to find an ounce of reason in any of these people, spoke calmly, “You're making a mistake. If you'll just let me explain my side o
f it . . .”

  Elisha grabbed Mr. Johnson's arm. “Will you listen to me? He's innocent! He was defending himself! He was defending me!”

  Johnson sneered at that. “Right. It looks like it.”

  Ms. Fitzhugh grabbed Elisha by the arm and held her back. “And you, young lady, are going to your room and staying there.”

  “What are you doing?” she cried, watching them take Elijah away like a prisoner. “Where are you taking him?”

  She heard an ominous clanking of steel, and then, as if by itself, like the jaws of a patient, sinister monster, the big iron gate began to swing open.

  “Will you listen to me? He's innocent!

  He was defending himself!

  He was defending me!”

  A searing pang of fear coursed through Elisha like deadly voltage. She knew, she just knew that something horrible lay beyond that gate. “NOOO!”

  She broke free from Ms. Fitzhugh's grasp and ran after her brother. “No, no, don't take him! He didn't do anything!”

  Johnson turned back and blocked her path. He grabbed her, held her. She broke his grip, got around him. He grabbed her by her blazer and held on even as she kicked him, slapped at him, tried to get away.

  Ms. Fitzhugh caught up and also took hold of her. “That's quite enough, young lady!”

  Bateman and Chisholm took Elijah through the gate and the big iron jaw began to swing shut with a low, electric hum.

  With one last twist of judo, one final kick to a shin, Elisha broke away from Fitzhugh and Johnson and ran for what opening remained. “Jerry!”

  Through the bars of the swinging gate, Elijah, being hurried along by his two captors, looked over his shoulder and called, “I'll be all right.” Then he mouthed the words, “You go! Go!” as he nodded toward the unseen road.

  The heavy, electronic latch clanged into place the instant Elisha reached it and she fell against the iron bars, gripping them, wishing, praying she could pass through. “Take me! Don't take him, take me!” The bars were cold, cruel, immovable. The gate didn't even rattle when she tugged at it.

  The two men were hurrying, nearly dragging Elijah up the long walkway He looked over his shoulder one last time to give her a reassuring look, to let his eyes say, “I'll be okay,” and then, like a curtain closing on the final act, the limbs of overhanging trees closed over the sight of him and he was gone.

  As Fitzhugh and Johnson hemmed her in against the bars, she reached through as if she could grab her brother and pull him back, any pretending banished by her anguish. “Elijah!”

  They grabbed her, tightly Weakened by despair and sorrow, she let them take her away.

  11

  THE MANSION AND

  THE MONSTER

  ELIJAH COULDN'T HELP BUT B E EASC1NATED, looking up at the towering white facade of the mansion as Mr.

  Bateman and Mr. Chisholm led him down a concrete stairway and through an imposing, oversized basement door. When the metal door clanged shut behind them, a deep rumble rolled up and down the tight, dimly lit hallway like an echo in a mine tunnel. They were deep beneath the mansion now, and Elijah could sense the weight of rock, concrete, and the multistory structure stacked above him.

  This was no ordinary hallway. It seemed to Elijah they were in the heart of a huge machine. Thick clusters of electrical wire ran along the ceiling; waterlines, gas lines, air lines, hydraulic lines, and tubing of unknown purpose ran along the base of the walls on both sides. There was a low, electrical hum ringing in the walls. He could hear compressed air moving, water running, fluid surging. “Wow,” he said. “What do you guys do down here, anyway?”

  They didn't answer, but took him through a doorway into a small bedroom, a slightly nice prison cell. They pushed him down so that he sat on the narrow bed, then let go. “Stay here until we come for you,” said Chisholm. He pointed to another doorway at one end of the room. “The bathroom's through there.”

  “But . . . what's supposed to happen?” Elijah asked. “I mean, do I get to talk to someone, or explain things, or what?”

  They didn't answer him. They went out the door, locked it, and left him alone.

  All around him—in the walls, in the air, in the floor—was a low, steady rumbling life, much like being aboard a ship or an airliner. This building isn't just sitting, it's running like a big machine. It is alive.

  If this mansion's a monster, he thought, then I'm in the stomach.

  Nate and Sarah landed in Coeur d'Alene, in the northern panhandle of Idaho, and parked the airplane in front of Resort Aviation, an aviation service center providing fuel, aircraft rental, scenic tours, and generally anything having to do with aviation or traveling aviators. Inside the office, a young gal with curly blond locks was working behind the counter. Rental rates for Cessnas and Pipers were posted on the wall; navigational charts, airport directories, and tourist brochures were on display. Occasionally, the chatter of pilots would squawk from a radio at the far end of the counter, tuned to monitor the airport frequency.

  This building isn't just sitting, its

  running like a big machine. It is alive.

  “Hi,” said Nate. “We'd like to tie our plane down for a few days.”

  “Are you the Springfields?” she asked.

  That scared them. For secrecy's sake, they hadn't called ahead. How did she know their names?

  “Is someone expecting us?” Sarah asked.

  “Your ride's here now.”

  She pointed out the window toward the parking lot. A black car was waiting. The man behind the wheel gave them a subtle wave.

  It was Morgan.

  They acted pleased to see him to hide the fact that they were alarmed. They hurried out the door and climbed into the car.

  “What is it?” Sarah demanded. “What's happened?”

  “Easy,” said Morgan. “No bad news yet. But it's time for a face-to-face. Go ahead and bring your luggage. I got us some rooms.”

  The motel was small, one-story built thirty years ago. The rooms were simple: one bed, two chairs by the window, a small television, a bathroom with a stained sink and a drippy shower.

  For secrecy's sake, they hadn't

  called ahead. How did she

  know their names?

  Sarah took the bed, aching and tired. Nate and Morgan sat by the window after closing the blinds.

  “Okay,” said Nate, “what've you got?”

  “It's a government project,” said Morgan. “And then again, it isn't.”

  Sarah sat up straight. “Morgan! Our children are missing! We've been hopscotching across the country chasing an academy that's never there. We don't need: don't know, might know, can't know! Give us some facts we can work with or let us get some sleep!”

  Morgan took her lashing in stride, and pulled out a document. “This might help explain it. It's last year's budget report from the Department of Education.”

  Nate took a look at it. Sarah flopped back down on the bed and waited to be impressed.

  Morgan guided Nate to the third page of columns and figures and pointed to a small, obscure item: Educational Research Grant "Here's a tidy little expense that's been slipping through unquestioned for the past five years. The president was never told about it, and neither was the current secretary of education.”

  Nate was impressed, and spoke out loud for Sarah's benefit. “Twenty million dollars.”

  “Per year.”

  Sarah raised her head. “That's government money?”

  “Our money” said Morgan. “Your taxes, my taxes.”

  “Wow!” said Nate, actually happy tapping the paper. “A fact! A real fact!”

  Morgan explained, “Five years ago, the previous president—and several of his cronies in Congress—allotted these funds for research in global education, and part of the program was to set up special laboratories to test their theories with volunteer students.”

  Now Sarah was sitting up, almost impressed. “The campuses that aren't there anymore.”

&n
bsp; Morgan nodded. “Exactly. It all looked very legitimate.”

  Nate asked, “So why aren't the campuses there anymore?”

  “Why isn't the Light of Day Youth Shelter there anymore?” Morgan asked rhetorically.

  “Why was Alvin Rogers murdered?” Sarah asked.

  “Why is the mysterious redhead, Margaret Jones, going by so many different names?”

  “And why were our kids taken away without warning, without a trace?” Sarah said with an obvious bitterness.

  “Somebody's up to no good and hiding it well,” said Nate.

  “Even from the president,” said Morgan. “Whatever this project was supposed to be, it's turning out to be something else. He and the secretary of education had their suspicions, but with no solid facts, he couldn't order an investigation without looking foolish and drawing vicious attacks from his enemies in Congress, not to mention the media.”

  “And so the facts are all buried,” said Sarah. “Cleared and reforested, plowed under a farmer's field . . .”

  “Imploded.”

  Nate and Sarah looked at him strangely.

  “Haven't you heard? The Dartmoor Hotel was imploded just yesterday. It's gone. Demolished.”

  By now, Nate and Sarah were getting used to such information—almost. They needed a moment to digest that.

  Morgan continued, “But if we can find an actual, operating campus and find out what it's really being used for, then maybe we'll get that investigation authorized and stop this monster in its tracks.”

  “Hmm,” Nate mused. “A monster.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You'll have to read my daughter's English paper.”

  “Anyway,” Morgan continued, “this whole thing is a government project in that it's receiving government money, but I would say it's not a government project because it's a renegade, carrying out a secret agenda that could be entirely illegal, to put it mildly.”