The School of Revenge

by Michael Richan

  “Next question,” Angela continued. “Five people have to share food meant for three. How do you decide to split the food?”

  What type of answer does she expect, I wonder?

  “I’d split the food five ways,” he replied. “No, wait. That might mean that they all die before more food arrives. I guess we’d have to decide which two people didn’t get any food.”

  Angela smiled at him patiently but with no hint of approval. She turned to look at the display, and made more notes.

  “The dog’s leg is bleeding,” she said. “You have no money for a vet. What do you do?”

  Damn! he thought. These are not the kind of questions we get asked at school!

  “Bandage it?” he asked, almost a question rather than an answer.

  “The pool of water in the center of the room keeps expanding. You’re against the wall, and your feet are beginning to get wet. Would you rather use a knife, or an axe?”

  A knife or an axe to do what? he thought. He fumbled an answer, saying axe, thinking he might use it to knock out a wall.

  “Your shirt is dirty, but you’re late,” Angela continued after he finished his answer. “Should you lie, or tell the truth?”

  Whoa! he thought. Time to slow down. How did they know? Or was the question a coincidence? The other questions might all be bullshit, and this one is the real test!

  “Tell the truth,” he said. Telling the truth is always the correct answer, isn’t it? he reasoned.

  The questions continued, each more perplexing than the last. After he answered each question, Angela read the machine’s display and made more notes. It seemed to go on and on.

  “Alright,” she said finally, placing the clipboard on the table. She reached into the briefcase and removed a small vial; she uncapped one end, exposing a needle.

  “Touch the needle here,” she said, holding it toward him.

  “Huh?” he asked. “Why?”

  “I need to type your blood,” she replied.

  He hesitated, unsure if he wanted to provide them any of his blood. The test itself had been unusual and weird; he couldn’t understand why they’d need his blood type as well.

  “It’s O negative,” Aaron replied.

  “How you comply is part of the test,” Angela said, her hand still holding the exposed needle.

  He reached forward and pressed the tip of his middle finger against the sharp point. Bracing for the pain, he pushed, feeling it puncture his skin. When he lifted it, a couple of drops of blood had slid down the needle into the vial below.

  Angela withdrew the vial and capped it, then slipped it back into the briefcase.

  “Alright,” she said, folding the machine back into the briefcase and locking it closed. “Come with me.”

  She led him back down the hallway and to the room where they’d heard Herrod speak two nights earlier. “Take a seat and wait,” she said.

  The chairs were still arranged as they had been before. Two other boys were sitting in the room, quietly waiting, both staring into their phones.

  Phillip wasn’t there, and he wondered if his friend had passed the test, or if he was still undergoing it.

  He sat in a chair equidistant from the other two boys. One looked to be a couple of years older than him, and the other perhaps a year younger.

  What if I didn’t pass the test? he thought. Maybe this is where they seat the losers.

  He waited. After a few minutes he heard footsteps, and Phillip appeared. Phillip sat next to him.

  “Well, that was weird,” Phillip said, sucking on the end of one of his fingers.

  “They asked for your blood?” Aaron asked.

  Phillip turned his finger around, showing Aaron the hole. “And what was up with all the bizarre questions?”

  Over the course of the next ten minutes, three more people entered the room and sat in the chairs; two girls and another boy. They sat quietly; the room was small, and anything they said could be easily overheard by the others waiting.

  After another ten minutes, Jeremy arrived with his clipboard and stood in front of them.

  “Good news! You’re all approved for the lottery!”

  Aaron heard a sigh of relief escape from several of the waiting kids. Even Phillip seemed relieved to have passed the tests.

  “Two things before we find out who will win the lottery and who will not. First, please stand.”

  There was the sound of metal chair legs scraping against the cement floor as all seven of the kids in the room stood up.

  “Raise your right hand like I’m doing,” Jeremy said. “And repeat after me.”

  “I swear on the lives of every living relative…”

  The entire group repeated the line.

  “…that I will keep everything I learn from the School of Revenge secret…and that should I ever divulge anything about the School, its instructors or methods…to anyone not part of the School…I will submit myself to the judgement of the school, and receive a harsh punishment.”

  Aaron repeated the words mechanically, like a robot, the way you’d repeat the pledge of allegiance. It was like being on a train that he couldn’t stop. Everyone else in the room was saying the words; no one was questioning or refusing.

  We’re all excited to win the lottery, he thought.

  “Now,” Jeremy said, moving to one of the kids in the room, “I’m passing out a piece of paper and a pen to each of you. I want you to list the names of the people in your life who deserve revenge, cold and sweet. List their full names, and write down what they’ve done to deserve it.”

  “Does this impact the lottery?” one of the girls in the room asked.

  “It does,” Jeremy replied. “The more names you give us, the better. The more specific reasons you give for each person, the better. Take your time, there’s no rush. Think it through, and do your best.”

  Jeremy handed Aaron a piece of paper and a pen, and Aaron turned to use the empty chair next to him as a flat surface on which to write.

  This’ll be easy, he thought, writing down Curtis and Dirk’s names first, then including Matt and Bob. Remembering earlier in the day, he added Ryan and a couple of the other members of the football team who had been jerks. Once he had the names listed, he went back and included the reasons.

  When he was done, he turned to Phillip, who was just finishing up his list. “I’m gonna guess your list is a lot like mine?” he asked.

  Phillip held up his paper. Curtis, Dirk, Matt and Bob were all on it — but so were a couple of other names Aaron didn’t recognize.

  “Who are they?” Aaron asked, pointing to the other names.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Phillip replied.

  Once everyone had finished, Jeremy collected all of the papers. He looked over each one as he did, nodding.

  “Alright, sit tight,” Jeremy said. “I’ll be right back.” He left the room, and they waited silently on the metal chairs once again.

  After five minutes, someone else entered the room. He was a man in his mid-twenties, with dark hair and a goatee.

  “Hello everyone,” he said. “I’m Benjamin. I’m pleased to let you all know that we had seven open slots for the school, and you’ve all passed the tests, and qualified for admission. Since there are seven of you, and we have seven open slots, there’s no need for a lottery. You’re all in!”

  Phillip turned to him, a huge smile on his face, obviously thrilled.

  Exactly seven, Aaron thought to himself. Convenient.

  “A session of our regular members is underway,” Benjamin continued. “I want you all to follow me; you’re about to get your first taste of what the School of Revenge is all about! Listen carefully, and remember the oath of secrecy you’ve taken. The school is very serious about the oath, so don’t test it.”

  He walked from the front of the room and out the doorway. One by one the seven kids in the room rose and followed him out. They walked in a line down the basement hallway, to a stairwell that rose up to the main
level of the library. Aaron was surprised to see the entire first floor had been gutted; with all of the bookcases gone, it was a huge, open space. Benjamin led them across the floor toward a room at the far end; Aaron remembered it as a small theatre, with steep seating.

  When they reached the theatre, Benjamin stood aside and let the others enter. The seats of the theatre had been removed, and it was filled with others, already seated on the cement risers. They filed inside, and Aaron and Phillip took the only remaining open spots, located in the back row.

  “Wow!” Phillip whispered to him. “There must be fifty or sixty people in here! They’re all part of the school?”

  “I guess so,” Aaron replied, staring down at the short stage of the theatre, where lights had already been placed to illuminate the space. There was an excitement building among the crowd; he could feel it.

  “Wasn’t this where they held lectures?” Aaron asked Phillip.

  “I guess so,” Phillip replied. “I never went to one.”

  “There used to be a curtain there,” Aaron recalled. “It’s gone now.” The back of the stage was exposed cinderblock.

  Whispering among the crowd stopped as two men appeared, pushing a long table into view. It was mounted on wheels, reminding Aaron of the rolling stretcher used by ambulances. On the table was a body, covered from head to toe with a sheet.

  Aaron felt his pulse begin to pick up.

  A tall woman appeared on stage, and the crowd began to clap. She was dressed entirely in black and had long fingernails painted red. Aaron turned to Phillip. They both shrugged, then joined the others in clapping.

  “Welcome,” the woman said. “My name is Madame Pritchard. Welcome to another session of the School of Revenge. I especially want to welcome today’s new students, seated among you. Seven new members of the School — seven new people about to learn what joy really is. You remember your first time here, don’t you? That’s right, you’ll never forget it! Well, these seven are about to get a taste of what happens here at the School, as are all of you!”

  Applause erupted again.

  Madame Pritchard pointed at the body on the table, and the two men who’d wheeled it in turned it and raised one end so that it was facing the audience. The sheet began to fall from it, and Aaron was afraid the body might fall off, too, but it remained, held fast to the table by straps.

  As the sheet descended, he was surprised to see it was Ryan, the backup quarterback from their high school team. His eyes were open, but he looked dazed, as though he were on some kind of drug. Large leather belts crossed his torso, keeping him pinned to the table. He was naked, and Aaron found himself turning to Phillip — Phillip was looking back at him, his mouth open in shock.

  “Can you believe this?” Aaron said, just loud enough to be heard over the clapping.

  “No, I can’t!” Phillip replied, turning his head back to the stage. Aaron wasn’t sure if Phillip was excited or concerned; he felt a mixture of both.

  Madame Pritchard held up a piece of paper and began to read.

  “You are here, today, Ryan Findlay, for crimes committed against members of this School, including abuse, humiliation, embarrassment, and mental torture; you have participated in cruel attacks; you have encouraged others to act abusively and stood by while members of this School were abused; you have acted with impunity and with casual disregard for the rights and dignity of others, all with the assumption that you were above the scales of fairness and inevitability of consequence. Today, Ryan Findlay, what goes around, comes around! The wheel turns, and we sentence you to EXACTATION!”

  The crowd erupted in cheers and began to stand. Aaron felt a low rumbling, as though timpani had begun to roll, filling the theatre with a frequency that felt as though the room was shaking. He and Phillip stood so they could see over the row in front of them.

  Madame Pritchard dropped the paper on the floor and smiled at the crowd, enjoying the applause. Her eyes closed, and she seemed to be relishing the moment, savoring each second. After a few moments passed, she slowly balled her right hand into a fist and walked next to Ryan. She looked to the audience, who were beginning to yell.

  What is she going to do? Aaron wondered.

  She drew back her arm and landed her fist in Ryan’s abdomen. Ryan’s head and face registered the hit, even though his body couldn’t move to convulse, strapped to the table. The crowd roared its approval.

  Aaron felt a twinge of disgust, but then he remembered Ryan the day before, calling him a loser and shoving him to the ground. He pushed the disgust from his mind, and allowed himself to enjoy what Madame Pritchard had just done. He found that it was easy to slip from disgust to enjoyment; the enthusiastic crowd around him made it even easier.

  Revenge, he thought. It does feel good.

  She balled up her fist again, and delivered another blow to Ryan’s stomach. The crowd screamed in response, approving the violence. She lowered herself, and punched at Ryan over and over, using his midsection like a punching bag. Ryan’s mouth began to hang open.

  Madame Pritchard stood, looking to the audience, thrilled by their reaction, raising her hands wide to accept their applause. After taking in the approbation, she paced back and forth in front of Ryan, glancing occasionally at the first few rows of attendees, sizing them up, absorbing their enthusiasm.

  “We’ve seen this kind of asshole before, haven’t we, students?” she yelled at the crowd. The crowd yelled back, becoming louder and louder. “A football player, am I right? Oh, it’s always the athletes, isn’t it?”

  The crowd cheered back again, even louder. In the small space of the lecture theatre the sound reverberated off the walls. Aaron was tempted to hold his fingers to his ears.

  “No less than a dozen of you out there have been attacked by this prick in one way or another. But even if he had never laid a hand on any of you — which, he most certainly has — his attitude alone makes him deserving of this!”

  She landed another punch in Ryan’s stomach. Ryan’s head lurched forward, his mouth open as if he intended to vomit, but nothing came out.

  “Backup quarterback, huh?” she continued. “Well, let’s just see how well he plays after this!”

  He didn’t know where she got it from, but suddenly Madame Pritchard was holding a long knife; it looked like a machete. The crowd began to go crazy, yelling and stomping on the cement risers. The rolling timpani in the background increased, creating a cacophony not unlike the encore at a concert; the yells and screams of the onlookers echoing back and forth.

  Madame Pritchard lifted Ryan’s right arm, holding it out from his body. Ryan seemed unable to control it or to stop her. She raised the machete, aiming it at Ryan’s wrist. She stopped, looking up to the crowd.

  The screaming intensified. Aaron looked at the others to his right and left; they were hysterical, yelling at the top of their lungs, demanding that the show continue.

  He looked at Phillip — his friend was yelling, too.

  He turned his attention back to the stage. Madame Pritchard seemed to be building suspense, waiting for the crowd to go crazy. He wondered if she might stop and drop Ryan’s arm, as though it was all just a tease. Instead he saw a delirious smile spread slowly across her face, and she brought the machete down hard, hacking into Ryan’s hand, causing a huge gash near his wrist.

  The crowd erupted anew, screaming for more. Pritchard raised the machete and brought it down again, landing on the same spot. Aaron thought he could hear bone cracking even above the din of the audience.

  Madame Pritchard raised the blade again and hacked, and kept hacking, until Ryan’s hand fell to the floor and the white bone of his arm was exposed. Blood poured from the wound, dripping to the stage. She reached for the severed hand on the ground.

  “Let’s see how many touchdowns he can throw now!” she screamed at the crowd while waving Ryan’s amputated limb at them. They responded by applauding and screaming right back at her, hysterical and feverish.

  She walk
ed the front of the stage in a slow march of triumph, eventually working her way back to Ryan’s left side, placing the severed hand on top of Ryan’s head. She raised the bloody machete to the crowd, who roared in approval as the timpani rose to a crescendo and the lights on the stage extinguished, leaving the room in the dark.

  The screams of the crowd continued along with thunderous applause. Aaron could feel Phillip applauding next to him.

  He felt an exhilaration he’d never felt before. He couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. Slowly he raised his hands and began to clap, too.

  When the lights came back on, the stage was clear and empty except for the blood on the floor. People began to file out of the theatre, flush with excitement as though they’d just seen a thrilling sports event or an amazing concert. They were smiling at each other, seeming to enjoy the fact that what they’d just witnessed was communal, and that others around them were enjoying it just as much as they were.

  “Should we leave?” Phillip asked Aaron, who hadn’t moved.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Aaron replied, rising and turning to walk out of the theatre. As they crossed the open space of the main floor of the library, several people shouted hoots and hollers, still amped up by what they’d just witnessed. Aaron followed them, feeling shock, unsure of how to process what he’d seen. He wanted to discuss things with Phillip, but not in front of the others around him. He followed them to the stairwell and through the basement walkways.

  “Goodnight,” Jeremy and Benjamin said as the crowd filed past and out, as though they were church ushers. “Goodnight. Goodnight.”

  When Jeremy caught Aaron’s eye, he said, “Hope you enjoyed it! Hey, could I talk to you for a moment?”

  Aaron was still too stunned from what he’d just seen to form a coherent reply. Instead, he let Jeremy usher him and Phillip to a corner.

  “We’d like you to come back tomorrow night,” Jeremy said. “We have a job for you. It’s part of your education, and it’s mandatory. Be here at 6, OK?”

  “OK,” Phillip replied enthusiastically. Aaron nodded.

  “I hope you enjoyed it?” Jeremy said.