Academic Assassins (7 page)

The tumble of laundry droned throughout the room, a dry heat emanating from the lumbering dryers' turbines like the decrepit breath of the living dead.

“Out of your civvies, kiddies,” Grayson shouted. “Whatever you wore from the outside goes in your own box. Even your sneakers. Is that understood?”

The clothes we came in were dumped into a cardboard box with our names stenciled across the side—
PENDLETON, SPENCER: #347678
.

“Open your mouths,” Grayson ordered. “Lift up your tongue. Blow your nose so we know you're not hiding anything up there.”

Babyface pressed his finger against his nostril and really put his lungs into it. A backlog of snot burst out from his nose, popping like an exhaust pipe.

“Hold out your hands,” Grayson said. “Wriggle your fingers.”

We gave Grayson our best spirit fingers.

“Spread your toes.”

We wiggled our toes.

“Grab a set of clothes.”

We each took a set of faded green pants and a shirt. A pair of white canvas sneakers. No shoelaces—so we couldn't strangle anyone, I guess.

Grayson inspected our getups. “You two'll fit right in.”

First the hair, now our clothes. Babyface and I were blending together, more and more. It was getting harder to tell the two of us apart.

Without any explanation, Grayson ambled out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

Silence. Suddenly we had no adult supervision. I exchanged glances with Babyface, silently asking—
What do we do now?

Babyface saw his opportunity. “We've got to bust out of here before—”

The door's rusted hinges shrilly ground through the room.

A resident dressed in an orange creamsicle jumpsuit waltzed in, hair buzzed just like ours. I turned away and focused on the dryer in front of me, hypnotized by the whites spinning
within—like ghosts caught in a tornado.

“Welcome to Kesey,” the resident said.

That was a girl's voice.

I looked up to find a buzz-cutted girl standing in front of me, sporting her very own dog collar. She smiled, an uneven row of teeth budding up from behind her lips. One of her upper lateral
incisors curled around the central incisor, as if it wanted to push its neighbor out of the way.

I watched both of her hands ball themselves into fists, cracking her scarred knuckles. They were never hands to begin with. Nothing but a pair of hammers. And at that very moment, all I could do
was wait for them to punch my lights out.

The girl bear-hugged me.

Tight
.

Her meat hooks for arms wrapped themselves around me and squeezed.

Not quite the move I had expected.

She held on, burying her face in my shoulder.

“You're gonna be so happy here.” I heard her muffled voice against my clavicle. She pulled back, still gripping my shoulders, and gazed at me with a pair of glazed eyes.
“Trust me. You'll love it.”

Babyface cleared his throat. “Who're you? The welcome wagon?”

The girl blinked at him, as if she had just realized there was someone else in the room. “Call me Buttercup. I am your
Peer Facilitator
.”

I found it hard to believe that Buttercup was capable of facilitating much of anything beyond punching her fist through your face with those hammer hands of hers.

“Hey.” Babyface turned to see if the coast was still clear, whispering—“How about you
facilitate
our getaway before that drill sergeant comes back?”

Buttercup clamped her hand around the back of Babyface's neck and lifted him off the ground like an un-housetrained puppy who just peed all over the carpet.

“It is my responsibility to help new residents adjust to their surroundings,” she said with a sunny can-do attitude as she carried Babyface toward the dryers. She popped the door
open, a gust of heat escaping out, and shoved Babyface inside. She slammed the door, Babyface pounding his fists against the glass.

There was no way she could get away with something like that.

There's just no way….

Buttercup turned back to me and beamed like a girl who'd just won first place at the spelling bee. “Merridew wants to make sure you have everything you need for a comfortable
transition to your new home.”

The basement door screeched open and Grayson waltzed back in. Buttercup immediately stood at attention.

I bolted for the dryer and yanked on the door. Babyface tumbled out, gasping for air, his cheeks flushed red. “What was that?” he coughed. “What just happened?”

“All good here?” Grayson asked behind my back, as if he were testing Buttercup.

“The little one had an accident, sir,” Buttercup responded.

Grayson hadn't seen anything. What did it matter to him if a few feathers got ruffled while he looked the other way?

“Why don't you show these two to the residential ward?” Grayson suggested. “Introduce them to their new friends.”

“Yes sir,” Buttercup said. Then, to us—“Whatever I can do to help welcome you to Kesey, please—do not hesitate to ask. I'm here for you!”

I couldn't tell for sure, but I think she winked at me.

R
esidents don't dwell in cells,” Buttercup cheerfully explained as she escorted Babyface and me down the Yellow Brick Road. “You
will each be living in your own
cohabitation pods
.”

The hallway narrowed. I looked up and spotted yet another surveillance camera zeroing in on me, like a vulture hovering above a bit of carrion, biding its time before swooping down and pecking
out my eyeballs with its autofocus beak.

Buttercup stood before a pair of doors and nodded at the camera. As soon as she heard an electronic buzz emanate from within the doors, she pushed them open.

I winced at the brightly lit, antiseptic, whitewashed walls. My nostrils began to burn at the whiff of disinfectant lingering in the air.

“Welcome to the Ant Farm,” Buttercup said over her shoulder. The two of us shuffled after her, entering a cavernous hive of exposed chambers.

There were no bars separating the prisoners—sorry, I mean “residents”—from the starch-uniformed Men in White. Six-by-eight feet, these cinder block stalls should have
been called
Port-o-Pods
. There was more elbow room in a lavatory. The walls were painted in a blindingly sterile white, while the floors were the sickly greenish color of frozen baby
upchuck. Each had a cot bolted to the floor. A single stainless steel sink jutted out from the wall, along with a toilet.

“This is your pod.” Buttercup nodded at me. “Go ahead. Step on in.”

I obliged, turning around and putting one foot forward.

THWONK
.

I was suddenly puckering up to an invisible wall. Stepping back, I could see the vague imprint of my lips hovering in the air just a few inches in front of my face.

My eyes slowly focused on the imperceptible partition directly in front of me.

Three inches of see-through Plexiglas. We were ants living within our own personalized transparent plastic habitat.

“Kesey has two housing units,” Buttercup said. “Each ward holds fifty residents. Girls are in the Hive, while you gents are here. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Cool” wasn't the first word that came to my mind.

Behind each Plexiglas pane, I could see a resident isolated inside.

Curled up in a ball on his cot.

Perched on top of his sink.

Walking in circles.

Playing patty-cake with an invisible pod-mate.

These kids were on permanent display: in a museum of horrors, each exhibit a different diorama of juvenile delinquency.

How did I get myself stranded in this savage reservation?

“From six
A.M.
to ten
P.M
.,” Buttercup said, “residents are free to roam the gallery. But whenever you hear…” She
glanced at the wire-encased clock hanging over the set of double doors and started to count down under her breath:

Three…

Two…

One.

The loud metallic rattle of a school bell overwhelmed the ward.

“…That bell,” Buttercup shouted over the clamor, “it's time for headcount.”

The Plexiglas panels slid back simultaneously, releasing the ants. The bell cut off as abruptly as it had started. Even after it had stopped, the dull pulse of its ring throbbed through my
ears.

Then I heard it.

“Fresh meat, fresh meat, fresh meat…”

The catcalls started with a single voice ominously intoning over my head. But as more green-uniformed ants crawled out from their pods to get a good look at the newbies, the mantra gained
momentum—
“Fresh meat, fresh meat, fresh meat…”

All were wearing dog collars.

Babyface and I were suddenly surrounded by a crew of oranguteens. Some sniffed us. Grabbed at us. Even scavenged through our uniforms.

“Whatchou got?” a scrawny ant asked. “Got any bubble gum for me?”

“How about a cigarette?” another pleaded. “Just one cigarette?”

“What about some lighter fluid, man? Got any razor blades on you?”

The ants picked Babyface up from the floor and flipped him upside down, shaking him by his feet to see if anything worth snatching fell out from his pockets.

“Put me down!” Babyface shouted. “Let go of me!”

Suddenly the ants were all talking overtop each other, demanding—

“I know you got a candy bar on you, don't you?”

“What about some breath mints?”

“You holding any matches?”

“Tell me you've got a pen.”

“A paper clip?”

“You got a knife? I know you've got a knife….”

The horde tightened around us. Swallowed us. Reaching. Grabbing. Yanking.

We were trapped.

The chorus echoed through the ward—
“Fresh meat. Fresh meat. Fresh meat…”

Grayson kept his distance, leaning against the gallery wall beside Buttercup and watching on. “See the hungry look in their eyes?” he shouted. “You smell like the outside to
them.”

Outside
.

The life we used to have before getting locked up. These ants were willing to suck the marrow from our bones, for just one last hint of the outside world.

This place is beyond bonkers, I thought to myself. I've got to get out of here before these ants eat me alive.

There
. Just off to the side of the gallery. The doors we had entered through were still open. I could duck under the cover of frantic ants, make my way through the door before Grayson
could stop me.

I turned to Babyface, engulfed by the swarm of ants. Too late to save him.

“Fresh meat…”

No time to waste.

“Fresh meat…”

Time to run.

“Fresh meat…”

I took a deep breath as if about to plunge underwater and sank into the scrabbling ants, vanishing within the mass of grabbing hands.

Now you see me, now you don't.

I crawled across the floor on my hands and knees as far as the crowd covered me. Once they thinned out, I still had about ten steps between me and the exit.

No time to hesitate. I picked myself up and dashed for the doors.

“Runner!” The call came from over my shoulder. Grayson was racing after me, keys rattling at his hip. “We've got a runner!”

The low-pitched buzz of the door droned through the air as it began to close on its own. I had about three seconds to slip through before it sealed shut.

Three—

Almost there.

Two—

Not gonna make it.

One—

Jump!

I executed a swift swan dive. My ankle banged against the doors just before they closed, sending the rest of myself into a tailspin across the outer hallway floor.

Grayson's shoulder slammed against the other side of the door. He pounded his palm on the window, his muffled voice seeping through—“Open the door!”

I scrambled back onto my feet.

What do I do now?

Quick: Assess your surroundings.

I was in a hallway. Concrete floors. No windows. Just one slender corridor that lead to a different end of the building.

Where to now?

The yellow-painted line reached toward another set of double doors.

That way!

My ankle stung. I couldn't put too much weight on my foot without it ringing in pain, but then I heard the low-pitched buzz of the door unlocking behind me.

Hurry!

I hobbled down the hall as Grayson rushed after.

What do I do what do I do what do I do?

No time to think twice. I plowed through the next set of doors.

There were fifty girls. Maybe more. All wearing the same orange creamsicle uniform, all wearing dog collars. Each barricaded within her own Plexiglas cavity.