The Punishment Club

by D. A. Maddox

  The screen flickered. The first Tamara saw of him was his breath, a gray cloud of cigarette smoke she could practically smell over cyberspace. But when it parted, there he was—bleary eyes, yellow teeth, salt-and-pepper goatee and all.

  “I’ve read it,” he said, his vocal cords ravaged but articulate enough to communicate supreme disinterest. “So what?”

  “Smoking is illegal, Vince,” she said, knowing how he enjoyed fencing with her, wanting him to be happy. “I could report you.”

  “Oh, but I trust you not to, Ms. Gibson. You’ve been very patient, just sitting there. Been online for—oh my, one hundred and eight minutes, thirty-five seconds, and counting. And you begin by threatening a man dying of lung cancer?”

  He’d been “dying” of lung cancer for six years, by Tamara’s count. “Sure, I’ll begin with that. And how are you, Vince?”

  “I’m good. But I take it you’re not. You only call me when you’re … frustrated, Ms. Gibson.”

  Good. He wanted the details right away. “I need you to cross-reference every last name on those lists with another list—one I can’t access, Vince. Are you interested?”

  “Naturally. But I can’t say for sure if I’m more than that until you explain.”

  “Chesapeake Bay University, Maryland Chapter, for starters. I don’t know if we’ll need the Virginia hub yet.”

  “Faculty, administration, or—”

  “Yes. And students, Vince. Come on. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Oh, my,” he said, taking a long drag, clouding the screen again. Did he do that on purpose? “Transitional school locations are protected information, Ms. Gibson, where the identities of said transitionals are concerned. It’s not public domain.”

  “Is that a problem, private dick?”

  He snorted. “It’s illegal, Ms. Gibson.”

  “How much?”

  “What did they pay you?”

  Tamara closed her eyes, shook her head. He had been working this past hour. Studying the case she’d lost this morning. “Fifty thousand dollars per family,” she said, telling the truth.

  “That’s low for you.”

  “I felt strongly about this case, Vince. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “You can’t save them,” he said, a hint of tenderness creeping in. Odd. “They’re already done.”

  That was true. It was a wrench to admit it to herself, cases like these, but also factually accurate.

  “I’m not trying to. I’m trying to take someone down. Again—how much?”

  “To stick it to the government of these here United States?” he mused, considering. “I wouldn’t mind sticking it to them. One family’s share. Yes, that would be sufficient—to begin.”

  “And if we nail them?”

  A moment passed. He teased her with time. “Two shares,” he said, tapping ash. “Half of what you made.”

  “Go get ’em, Vince,” she said, then closed the conversation window.

  ****

  “Hope this doesn’t bother you,” Cassidy said, looking around for a snack table—something—to set her tray on. The desk she considered off limits since there was only one of it and two of them. “I’ll turn around if it does.” For her, dinner was half an apple in three slices, green beans, a lump of potatoes (or she hoped that’s what they were), and a small Salisbury-style steak in brown gravy.

  “Pfft.” Emma Jo waved it off, staring down at her tray. “I occupy the same world as you. Personal choice. Don’t worry about it.”

  Cassidy tried taking a knife and fork to it. The tray wobbled against her knees. “Okay, this is a pain. Suppose we could use the cot, kneel in front of it…”

  “Here,” Emma Jo said, standing with her tray in one hand, holding out her other hand for Cassidy’s. Cassidy gave it over, and Emma Jo took them both to the desk, one at either end. She then tried to move her cot—presumably to make the end of it their second chair—only to find it bolted to the floor. She put her hands on her hips, rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll stand. Come on, Cassidy. You get the chair tonight.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “No biggie. I can hold this—ahem, ‘veggie loaf’—in my hand anyway. If we have to do this again, next time standing’s your job.”

  Cassidy took the chair. “Thank you.”

  “You okay?”

  Cassidy considered it. Thought of herself essentially asking for discipline earlier tonight. She recalled herself more or less taking charge in the Dare Dungeon, not really wanting to dwell on the memory. And she thought, in spite of everything—no matter how mercilessly they’d been given their medicine tonight—no one had actually been mean to them.

  Well, Veronica had yelled in her ear. Once.

  You got eaten out by two strange women, she thought. In front of people with cameras. In front of Emma Jo.

  God, this is awkward.

  “I think so,” she said, tentatively starting with the potatoes. Confirming them. “You?”

  Emma Jo shook her head. “Between us, my ass still hurts and I’m scared to death, Cassidy.”

  That was surprising. She seemed so fearless, but…

  “Well, me, too,” she said at length. “Those things can be true and you can still be okay, right? We’re here. We should be scared. I’d be more worried about you if you weren’t. How’s that thing?”

  Emma Jo’s jaws didn’t look so much like they were eating as exercising. “Not bad, I guess,” she said with half a mouthful, then swallowing and picking between two teeth with a finger. “So. You, um … like girls? I mean, that kind of came out right in front of everyone. I’ll shut up if I’m being nosy.”

  Cassidy shrugged. “I like guys and girls. Never done much about it, anyway. And you don’t eat meat. We still okay?”

  “Yeah, of course,” Emma Jo said. “And you don’t swear. Damn.”

  “And you do. Rats.”

  They shared a laugh, then finished most of the rest of their dinner in companionable silence. Eventually, Emma Jo broke it. “If you had to date one of the boys, who would you pick?”

  “We hardly know them, but if we’re playing ‘Who Would You Do?’ I guess I’d go for Peter. You?”

  Emma Jo didn’t answer directly, but instead said, “That works for me,” sliding her tray under their door through the slot at the bottom, her carton of almond milk scrunched flat, as ordered.

  ****

  Peter was worried. Lights had gone out an hour ago, and Buddy had hardly moved. His tray remained on the floor, untouched.

  Outside their cell, there were still muffled hints of conversations. Some prisoners still up. Whispers from the doors, even murkier hints of it through the walls. He supposed at some point this would all become white noise and he’d be able to sleep through it. He just wasn’t sure if he could pull that off in only two days—not that he wanted any more practice than that.

  Buddy rolled over in bed and faced him. Finally, he spoke.

  “You said in a text you play music. What do you play?”

  This made Peter so happy—so damned relieved—he wanted to stand up and jump, throw a fist in the air, whoop, bang the door, and let everyone know. Instead, he sat up. “If it’s brass, I play it. Instrument of choice is sax. I’m a jazz man.”

  Buddy sat up after him. “Yeah, I’m a band geek, too. More of a ‘had to pick something’ thing for me, though.”

  “Could have been worse. You could have been dork-estra.”

  Buddy slid off his cot, sat cross-legged on the floor in front of his tray, and began eating like that shit was not hours cold. “Sorry about earlier,” he said. “I’m okay now. Just needed some time to settle into this reality…”

  “Dude,” Peter said with feeling, coming down and mirroring his posture, then leaning forward to put a hand on his shoulder, “you and I have had a day, bro. It is all good, right?”

  “All good,” Buddy admirably tried, then added “dude,” like it was part of a new language he’d just s
tarted.

  “How about it, Buddy? What’s your jam?”

  “Reading,” he said, making it an apology. “Run a book club when I can.”

  “No shit,” Peter said. “Give me a name.” His older sister Mandy was all into this kind of thing. Couldn’t shut up about it, really.

  “Alternate Realities,” Buddy sighed. “It’s—”

  “No way!” Peter exclaimed. “You’re goddamned Alastair What’s-His-Name!”

  “Alastair Drake,” Buddy said, rather taken aback. “Peter, what—”

  “My friend, you are Internet-famous!” Peter said, cackling. “Help me, Mom, I’m locked up with a celebrity!”

  “Maybe,” Buddy said, returning his attention to his tray. “Don’t get too excited, Peter.”

  Peter couldn’t help himself. If Buddy let him tell, Mandy was going to positively shit herself.

  Buddy said, “Think we’re both about to become a lot famous-er tomorrow.”

  ****

  Tomorrow, when it came, began for Kevin Carter at four-fucking-thirty in the morning—same time as the lifting of curfew every day. He checked himself in the mirror, found his bowl cut hair in perfect order, like the rest of himself, and threw on casual clothes. He didn’t have class until nine.

  If Sierra was right, things were about to start happening. If she was wrong, or if she overslept, there would be no one at the Tree of Knowledge—not at this hour on a fucking Saturday. Grumbling, not very hopeful (nor especially quiet out of simple consideration for his roommate, who was a light sleeper), he lumbered over to the window, hauled it open, and leaned out. He didn’t have his contacts in yet.

  But there she was, looking his way. She waved to him cheerfully, gestured for him to come over. Between his legs, the creature stirred.

  Session one wasn’t scheduled to start until nine o’clock, same time as his first class.

  But prior to that—hours prior, no one knew exactly when—the continuous broadcast of Cassidy Harper and Emma Jo Swanson (and the man-pussy and his equally negligible friend) would have been available live to anyone with a subscription. There were things that had to happen before session one. Sierra hadn’t said what they were, but she’d promised him they’d be entertaining.

  The show would either begin soon, or it was already underway.

  Kevin Carter hurried outside.

  Chapter Ten

  March

  “All right, America!” Gloria said brightly, holding up a steaming mug of coffee with a repeating show logo wrapping all around. She turned it slowly for the camera, revealing the four new Consequences inmates one at a time. These were stills from the cover shoot, the best ones Kersey had gotten—all bright-eyed and blushing, with the letters strategically placed over their genitalia. “It’s, oh gosh, five-oh-five in the morning. Who’s up?”

  She was in an old Hell’s Angels jacket (borrowed from a museum), spandex, and reflector sunglasses. She had an actual mic on the desk today, but it was only for appearances. The functional mic was attached to her jacket collar—but this one, minus the silver globe at the top, was a perfect facsimile of a phallus, veins and all, and rested on two rubber testicles which were flattened at the bottom.

  “You know I am, Gloria,” Buck said when the camera panned his way, “and in more ways than one. We have an outstanding background montage to share with everyone today. Court renderings from our resident artist, Dusty Brush, clips from preparatory school, college application vids, and a little something extra to help our audience understand why these four need a serious attitude adjustment!”

  “You cannot mean—?” she said, feigning surprise.

  “Oh, but I do,” he teased from behind the zip-up leather face mask with holes over the eyes, nose, and mouth. “Actual footage of the crime! And then…”

  Back to Gloria now. “Preparation and grooming,” she said, stroking the mic until it curled up closer to her lips. “That’ll keep things interesting before the first session—sponsored by our partners in justice, Loving Long Time Personal Care Products.”

  Buck leaned in closer to the camera. “Feeling grubby, America? Somewhat overgrown? Well, Loving Long Time’s cutters, powders, and oils—made for him and her—will have you feeling shiny and new in no time…”

  ****

  Again, with the buzzing. Buddy bolted up in bed while, across from him, Peter rolled over and groaned. Several doors opened. The whole hall outside of their door echoed with noise.

  But not their door. Not at first. When the first shock was over, Buddy listened intently: soft footfalls stepping out.

  “Did they forget us?”

  “Hope so,” Peter said, his voice thick with sleep. “Don’t remind anyone, okay?”

  And now heavier footfalls. The soles of hard shoes. Over the toilet, no light yet broke through the thin window. Buddy went to their door, peered out through the chicken-wired glass. Male guards escorting male prisoners out. No sign of Nurse Reyes-Garcia.

  What the hell is going on?

  But, turning his head right, then left, he noted that not all of the cells had emptied after all. Only a few had, in fact. Bizarre.

  When the hall was clear, he almost returned to his cot. Right before he did, the door that led back out in the direction of intake opened again. And there came Nurse Reyes-Garcia, flanked by Officer Kersey, who pushed a camera on a rolling tripod in their direction. In her other hand she carried an empty plastic bag. She, in turn, was followed by a line of inmates Buddy had never seen before.

  “Better get up, Peter,” he said, backing away, hugging himself. “I—I think it’s starting.”

  Red jumpsuits, not green. Women, and all of them older than him.

  ****

  “Give me your glasses, Miss Swanson,” Officer Garcia said. “They will be returned to you undamaged. You will have them back in time for your breakfast fruit smoothie and toast, but you will not need them now.”

  She took them off, folded them closed, and offered them. Her hand trembled.

  Out in the hall, she was relieved that the green jumpsuits—the men—who had been lined up along the wall at least wore handcuffs. Those she could see (for she could hear several others) were laughing freely amongst themselves, muttering things, pointing with their bound hands. And the young cameraman behind the senior officer, leaning his chin over the top and leering at her, looked expectant.

  Officer Garcia did not take her glasses. Emma Jo glanced back to Cassidy, who only shrugged.

  “Please, Miss Swanson,” he said, “do not be such a clit twit. Say, ‘Yes, Officer Garcia’ or ‘Yes, sir,’ when you give them to me. That is all you will say, unless I ask a question that requires you to answer in the negative. Your day is beginning, and we shall follow all protocol until it has ended, just as before.”

  Emma Jo first put her hands to her sides. “Yes, sir,” she said, then offered them again.

  He took the glasses and pocketed them. “Come out into the hall, please. Walk slowly so that Officer Grant may keep you in frame as he withdraws ahead of you. The show is live, ladies, and I will require that neither of you make a botch of things in the beginning. Take your hat off and hold it, please.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. Behind her, Cassidy followed suit without being told.

  Up and down the hallway, the chain gang—men in their thirties, forties, and beyond. A low grumble of lustful appreciation. Behind a few of the doors where prisoners had not been let out, faces up against the glass.

  “Hi, boys,” the eighty-ish woman said from behind hers. “Happy Good Behavior Day.”

  ****

  “Side by side, ass bitches,” Officer Kersey growled without looking up from her camera. “Let’s have Resident Two-oh-One on the left, Two-oh-Three on the right—and so help me, Two-oh-Three, if you start with the crying again, I’m gonna ask my boss if I can slap that ass myself. Don’t … fucking … move.”

  Side by side they stood as instructed with hats in hand, staring down the shrinking hor
izontal well of the protective custody resident hall, silent under the appraisal of their special guests.

  “Have a care, Buddy,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said, not unkindly. “Officer Kersey hasn’t laid a hand on any of my man-pets in months, so I am inclined to allow her when she makes the request. Do try to compose yourself.”

  Buddy made himself breathe normally. Waited.

  “So,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said, “it is October the first. At the start of each month, we reward our inmates who have received no reprimands with certain privileges. Typically, this means more outdoor time for recreation, extended visiting hours for those who receive such company, things like that…”

  ****

  “But today,” Officer Garcia continued, circling the young women as he explained, as they remained stock still, “also happens to be your special grooming day. Fortunate timing.”

  “For them,” Officer Grant chipped in, still behind the camera, cocking his thumb to the inmates in the hall. “Don’t know if our fresh chickadees will agree.”

  “Fair point, but no matter,” said Officer Garcia. “On your way to grooming, I am going to permit one man at a time to remove a single article of clothing from just one of you, which he will then place in this bag…”

  Emma Jo closed her eyes, already feeling the burn, fighting panic. Keeping quiet.

  ****

  “Whom the resident chooses and what they choose to remove, I have no way of predicting,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia confessed. “It will, I daresay, be a popular wager for the home audience. And how many are watching at present, Officer Kersey?”

  She leaned back from the camera viewfinder and tapped a button. “Coming up on fifty-eight k, boss. It’s early.”

  Fifty-eight thousand people were watching this? Buddy felt faint.

  “Yes,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia agreed. “And on the other coast it is three hours earlier still. You boys are already popular.”

  Hooray for popularity, Buddy thought. Always knew it was overrated.