Nightmare Academy

by Frank Peretti

  “But we'd have to prove that before anything can be done about it, so we're investigating, but not officially.”

  “That is where things stand, yes.”

  “I'm sort of impressed,” said Sarah.

  “Morgan,” said Nate, “we're here, but we don't know where to look. Margaret Jones told the kids the academy's up in the mountains, but there are a lot of mountains around here.”

  “Haven't you heard? The Dartmoor

  Hotel was imploded just yesterday.

  It's gone. Demolished”

  “Oh, yes! About Margaret Jones! Your information was very helpful. I haven't been able to go through official channels, at least officially but some friends in the right places have filled in some blanks. She might be in this area.”

  That did impress Sarah. “I want her, Morgan.”

  Morgan nodded with understanding. “You'll be the first to know.”

  “In the meantime . . .” Nate unfolded a U.S. Forestry map of the Idaho panhandle. “We've got a few zillion acres of national forest to comb through. . . .”

  Elisha, confined to her room, prayed for hope, hoped in God, and did all she could with soap, a washcloth, and a hair dryer to get the grass stains out of her burgundy blazer. Having a vicious brawl on the lawn wasn't good for the Knight-Moore uniform, and she had to please Booker—or at least not make him mad—at the three o'clock meeting.

  The door opened, and Cher came in, not at all her usual, bubbly self.

  “Oh, Sally! I'm so sorry! I heard about Jerry!”

  Elisha was trying to hold herself together, carefully brushing the elbow of her blazer. “We just have to pray they'll let Jerry out and not hurt him—” Her voice broke and she stopped, concentrating on the sleeve of her blazer, trying not to remember the images of Alvin Rogers out of his mind.

  “Maybe if Mr. Booker wins.”

  “Wins?”

  “You know, gets his way, and everybody does things by the rules. Maybe then things can be the way they were.”

  “Cher . . .”

  “Mariah.”

  “Mariah? Can't you just settle on one name?”

  “Britney wanted to be Cher, and Madonna wanted to be Britney.”

  “Why can't you just be yourself?”

  “Why can't you?”

  Elisha had no answer for that one. “Good question.” Back to her original thought, “But . . . Mariah . . . I'm not so sure things can ever be the way they were. They were never any particular way in the first place. They weren't supposed to be.”

  Alice/Marcy/Cher/Mariah sat on her bed, fear in her eyes. “Alex is still mad. He's still talking to Mr. Stern and Mrs. Meeks, trying to get his way, trying to get Mr. Easley back and get rid of Mr. Booker.” She sighed, and then admitted, “But I hope Mr.

  Booker wins. Things might still be weird, but at least I'd feel safe.”

  Elisha didn't need for Mariah to explain. She felt that way herself. It was a little bizarre, but for all the harshness of Booker's class, there was still a sense of security there, like standing near the edge of a high, precarious cliff, but with a safety railing all around you. You could hate Booker all you wanted, but if you played the game his way nobody else could threaten you. No one else could mock you or strike you. You could set your books and handbag on the floor and trust they would remain there even when you turned your eyes away. Booker was a tyrant, but his class had boundaries, it had order, and many of the kids could sense that. That was why they hated Booker but still showed up for his class every day, in their uniforms. It was one small island, maybe the last, on this whole campus that felt safe. “So would I.”

  Mariah jumped up from her bed and started pawing through her dresser drawer. “So one thing's for sure: I'm going to be in uniform!”

  Elisha examined her blazer. Not perfect, but it would have to do. Out the window, she could see the roofline of the mansion through the trees. I won't leave you here, Elijah. God help me, I won't leave you here.

  The low rumble of the monster machine stopped. Just like that. Elijah sat up from a catnap and listened. The stillness was so total it was scary. He checked his watch. He'd been waiting here for two hours.

  Well, he thought, this is a fine mess. Bateman and Chisholm hadn't come back, and he was beginning to think they never would.

  He decided to take a much closer look at this room to learn about it. It was only about ten feet long, maybe eight feet wide. The ceiling was a little low, maybe six and a half feet. Only one flat, recessed light fixture illuminated the room. The walls were wood paneling, the kind one sees in cheap motels or outdated restaurants—not very attractive, but definitely more homey than concrete. The floor was bare, white linoleum, a little cold to the touch. He looked under the bed. Clean and bare under there. What about the bathroom?

  He opened the door and looked inside. It was a little bigger than a phone booth. You had to squeeze around the sink to get to the toilet. The walls were plain white.

  He stepped back into the bedroom.

  It was blue.

  Whoa, hold on, wait a minute.

  He blinked and looked again. Blue. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, even the bedspread, were blue. He waited to see if his eyes would adjust to the light. He looked in the bathroom again, then into the bedroom. It was still blue. He went to the other end of the room and looked back toward the bathroom. It still looked blue from this angle.

  He repeated his previous action, stepping quickly into the bathroom and back out again, but the room stayed blue. He felt the walls and floor. Blue paint, blue linoleum. The bedspread was blue on both sides. Even the sheets were blue.

  He sat on the bed to think a moment. Was he wrong about the wood paneling? Was his memory out of whack?

  Just to be sure about everything, he walked over and tried the door. It used to be locked, but it wasn't locked now. The hallway outside was wood paneled, just as the bedroom used to be . . . or just as he thought the bedroom used to be.

  But wait. He didn't remember the hallway having wood paneling. He remembered bare concrete, pipes, wires, tubes, mechanical sounds, an electric hum, dim lighting.

  Did he come this way in the first place? Had he gone through a different door?

  He looked back in the bedroom again. It was still there, still blue. He opened the door widely, then removed his blazer and placed it at the bottom of the jamb to keep the door from closing all the way. Keeping an eye on the doorway, he stepped slowly and carefully into the hall. Nothing changed.

  He ventured down the hall. He did not remember coming this way, or going past these doorways on either side. Were they more bedrooms—or cells—like his? He tried one of the doorknobs.

  The door opened. The room inside was dark. He felt inside for a light switch, found one, and flipped the light on.

  It was a bare little room with a chair and table. On the table was a burgundy blazer. There were grass stains on the elbow and shoulder, and a torn seam down the back. He drew closer, unable, unwilling, to believe it.

  The tears, scuffs, and grass stains were unmistakable. His six KMs were still in the inside pocket. He quickly checked the opposite pocket. A crumpled sheet of notebook paper was still there, the paper upon which he'd written the navigational coordinates he'd calculated. He unfolded it, and read his own hand­writing:

  45 degrees, 6 minutes N

  120 degrees, 10 minutes W

  They were not the coordinates he remembered. No, no, the latitude was 47 something . . . the longitude was something like 115 . . .

  He sat in the chair to think, afraid to move another step.

  It's a head trip, he thought. They're messing with my mind. This is what they did to Alvin Rogers. But how are they doing this?

  Directly in front of him, through the open door, he could see the hallway. It no longer ran to the left and right, but extended straight ahead, as if this room were at the very end of it. It had pink-flowered wallpaper, white wood trim, and a beige carpet.

  At a quar
ter to three, Elisha and Mariah were ready, uniforms cleaned and pressed, hair neatly done, hearts . . . hopeful? Yes and no.

  “I just don't want to be afraid anymore,” Mariah said as they walked toward Booker's classroom. “I mean, people are good. The kids are good. But they do things that . . . well, that aren't good. I don't know why. But I never know what to expect, and I just want to feel safe.”

  “I just don't want to be afraid anymore,"

  Mariah said . . .

  Elisha checked her watch. They had just a few minutes to spare, maybe just enough to say . . . something, anything. She stopped and touched Mariah's shoulder, getting the wide-eyed little blond to look her in the eye. “Mariah, I have to tell you something. If everybody on this campus shows up in a uniform and agrees to follow the rules, then we might be safe for a while. Maybe our rooms will be safe. Maybe I can talk to somebody in charge and get Jerry out of the mansion. But you have to understand, if Mr. Booker and all the other teachers keep teaching there's no right or wrong and all the kids keep believing it, then there's nothing to keep all the trouble from starting up all over again. If there's no right or wrong, then all Mr. Booker has is that yardstick until someone comes along with a bigger yardstick. Do you understand what I'm saying? We're buying some time, maybe, but that's all.”

  “But people are good. Everybody'll do what's best.”

  “Is that what you've seen?”

  Mariah found no words, but just started walking again.

  They hurried down the sidewalk, just as other kids were doing. There were plenty of uniforms around. Britney/Cher and Madonna/Britney were looking sharp, and so were Warren and his friends, but . . .

  No. Elisha's heart went sick.

  Ramon was wearing a sleeveless tee shirt, jeans, chrome necklace, and an arrogant smile.

  Brett was wearing jeans and untucked flannel shirt.

  Rory and his gang—Booker's cops—were wearing whatever they wanted, and all of them were wearing their ties—as headbands.

  “What's happening?” said Mariah, the fear back in her voice.

  Elisha couldn't believe what she was seeing. “I don't know.” She didn't say it but thought, Something terrible has happened.

  They went into the classroom. Because all the students were showing up in the room at the same time, the place was getting quite full. All the desks were taken, even Elisha's, and kids were standing around the sides of the room. Elisha and Mariah found a spot against the rear wall and tried to blend. There was an ominous quiet in the room. No joking, no talking, hardly any looking around. Elisha could see fear in many of the faces—fear of speaking, fear of questioning, fear of the next minute.

  Rory, Jamal, Tom, Clay, and ten other guys—all of them toughs—were lined up against the back wall, some with arms folded, some with thumbs perched in their pant waists, commanding respect and fear simply by how they looked back at everyone.

  Tonya was quite casual, in ragged denim shirt and feeling good about it.

  There was an ominous

  quiet in the room

  Samuel was wearing a black tee shirt with a heavy-metal rock band image on the front.

  Brett's friends from dorm D—including Tom Cruise—were wearing their uniforms, but in any wrong way they could think of. Some had their blazers on backward. Some had blazers above the waist, but jogging shorts below. Marvin, the one Booker had scolded and fined for not having his shoes, was in sandals.

  And every one of them was wearing his tie around his head.

  Like Alex. He was standing in the back, arms folded, flanked by Rory and his guys, dressed in jeans and a clean, bloodless tee shirt. He still looked battered, but he looked proud. He was waiting.

  The room was full now. Full and quiet, like a gang of friends waiting to surprise somebody.

  At one minute to three, they heard familiar footsteps approaching. The door opened, and Mr. Booker burst into the room with his usual, regal flair. His gait slowed, however, as he looked about, until he came to a full stop halfway up the center aisle. From the center of the room, with a fist on his hip, he slowly turned, studying the crowd, taking note, meeting any eye that dared to return his gaze. He nodded and raised an occasional approving eyebrow whenever he saw a uniform, but any approval he might have granted was obliterated by the rage and disgust building in his glaring eyes and reddening face. He drew a breath as if he would say something—

  Then he saw his privately paid cops all standing with Alex, headbands made from their ties, and he actually flinched, visibly shocked—more shocked and disturbed than Elisha had ever seen him. Seconds passed, and he could say nothing—something else Elisha had never seen. He just stood there staring at Alex, with quick little glances around the room. Elisha knew he was counting uniforms and non-uniforms. She'd already made a quick count herself and knew the news was bad. Booker was receiving that bad news right now, in deadly little doses.

  Finally, Alex spoke. “It's over, Booker.”

  Booker found his tongue, addressing Rory and the cops. “Gentlemen, we had an arrangement.”

  Rory shrugged and nodded toward Alex. “He's got friends with keys to the cash box. He cut us a better deal.”

  Stern and Meeks, Elisha thought.

  “You can't do this,” Booker argued, and his voice sounded weak.

  Alex walked forward, flanked by Rory, Tom, Jamal, and Clay, the Big Four. “Can't? You say I can't?”

  “You . . . you can't!”

  “I say I can. You know how it works, Booker! Come on. Let me hear you say it.”

  Booker was actually scared! He was backing up the aisle while Alex and his guys kept coming at him. “I'm sure we can reach a consensus here, a fresh viewpoint . . .”

  Booker conceded, noddinq quickly.

  "Power. It's, it's all about power.”

  Alex made a little beckoning gesture right under Booker's chin. “Come on. Say it.”

  “I don't—”

  “SAY IT! What's it all about, Booker?”

  Booker conceded, nodding quickly. “Power. It's, it's all about power.”

  Alex gleefully completed the slogan, tapping his chest. “And now . . . I have it.”

  They'd reached the front of the room. Booker was hemmed in against his desk. He cried out to the rest of the kids, “Are you going to let this happen?”

  Tonya was the first on her feet. “We don't respect you any­more!”

  The whole room exploded in yells, taunts, jeers. The non­uniforms were all on their feet, shaking their fists in the air, cursing Booker, filling the room with deafening noise. “No Respect! No Respect! No Respect!”

  The uniforms were looking about, wide-eyed, hesitant, undecided—it was all so sudden, so brazen, so frightening. Some stood to keep from being different. Some sat, not knowing what else to do.

  Alex and his toughs, egged on by the crowd, alive with new energy and madness, grabbed Mr. Booker and dragged him down the aisle toward the door. Alex had Booker's yardstick in his hand, waving it about like a trophy—and like a threat, which excited the crowd even more. As they went outside, the rest of the toughs followed, and then the mob, non-uniforms rushing, uniforms carried along—rushing, crushing, thundering and hollering—out the door like water through a breached dam.

  By the time Elisha and Mariah got outside, the mob had surrounded Booker. He was trying to run, tripping, falling, and crawling on the ground, trying to get up, knocked down again, crawling again, covering his head with one arm as Alex and the Big Four kicked, poked, slapped, and shoved him, and as members of the mob got their licks in. Some of Rory's toughs came running from the cafeteria with cases of stolen pop, spreading the cans through the crowd. The kids shook the cans and then popped them open, spraying soft drink all over the deposed teacher, cheering wildly with each blast.

  Warren and his friends followed at a distance, stunned, confused, speechless. Other kids in uniforms stayed close to the building as if hoping they could blend unseen into the walls.

  Th
e new Britney and Cher, though in their uniforms, jumped right in with the mob, getting in a kick or two and ecstatic when they got cans of pop to shake up.

  Mariah was wailing and crying, and Elisha just held on to her to keep her from losing it altogether.

  Oh! Here came the other teachers and staff: Fitzhugh, Johnson, Bateman, Chisholm, and even Mrs. Wendell the librarian, running from different directions, shouting, waving their arms, making threats.

  “Stop this!” Chisholm yelled, totally indignant. “Stop this at once!”

  “Aren't you ashamed of yourselves!” shrieked Ms. Fitzhugh.

  “Who's going to clean up this mess?” Johnson demanded.

  But the kids were a mob now, beyond words, beyond threats, beyond control. They enveloped the teachers, attacking, slapping, punching, spraying pop then hurling the cans, without reason, without mercy. Chisholm ducked, his arms over his head as pop cans bounced off his body Ms. Fitzhugh caught a can right in the face, breaking her glasses. Mr. Johnson threw a few punches, but the toughs throwing punches back were bigger than he was.

  Then came the turning point, and Elisha saw it happen. She saw it when Chisholm's expression went from outrage to terror; when Booker, tattered, bruised, and soaked with soft drink, bolted and ran for the iron gate; when kids around the field and against the buildings, seemingly on the same cue, began tearing off their burgundy blazers and whipping their ties and scarves around their heads.

  The universe had flip-flopped. The adults were not in charge. They were running for their lives, heading across the field toward the big iron gate, Booker in the lead, Chisholm following, Bateman running and helping the limping Ms. Fitzhugh. Mrs. Wendell had kicked off her shoes so she could run—Tonya found one of them and threw it at her. Johnson lagged behind the others, heroically giving the kids a target for their blows and pop cans so the others could escape.