Devil's Den

by Jeff Altabef

  Her eyes burn. “No.”

  “What are these other missing students like?” I ask Denise. “Can you describe them?”

  Eddie jumps in. “I can do better than that. I have the flyers.” He bounces from the living room and into one of the bedrooms.

  “Flyers?” I ask.

  Denise frowns. “Every time someone goes missing we make flyers and post them around the neighborhood. We’re making them for Megan.”

  “Have any of the others been found?” asks Kate.

  “No.”

  Eddie returns with five flyers. He shows them to me—four young women and one man. All five are knockouts, even the guy. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. There’s no way this is a coincidence. I hand the flyers to Kate.

  “All five go to your school?” I ask.

  “Yes,” says Eddie. “And they’re all good people and good students. Everyone was on the honor roll.”

  When Kate hands the flyers back to me, I take a picture of each one with my phone and show Eddie and Denise the screenshots of the van and the three assailants’ faces.

  Eddie gasps. “These guys kidnapped our Megan?”

  “It seems that way. Does anyone or anything look familiar?”

  He scrolls through the photos, Denise hovering over his shoulder. “No,” he says but he hesitates and his face squeezes together as if he’s stuck on something. “What’s this?” he asks as he shows me the phone.

  “That’s a pendant one of them was wearing. We don’t know what it means yet.”

  Eddie shows it to Denise. “I’ve seen that before,” he says.

  “Where?” asks Kate.

  Eddie taps his knuckle against his forehead three times, each one progressively harder. “It’s in here somewhere. I can’t think when I’m nervous. I’m no good under pressure.”

  I take the phone back and give them my number. “Call me when you remember and be careful with those flyers. If anyone calls you with a lead, let us know right away. Don’t start investigating on your own.”

  They promise to be careful and Kate and I leave. When we enter the hallway, Kate’s pissed. “I can’t believe that school hasn’t said anything about all those missing students.”

  “It’s worse than that. Someone at the school is selling these kids. Five missing students are too many, and did you see them? They’re all beautiful and smart. Someone wants the best and they’re getting tipped off. We’re going back to school.”

  The day has ripened into a good one, clear skies and warm air. Busy people hustle along the streets. I set a leisurely pace on our walk to the school, unsure what we’ll do when we reach it.

  The walk frees my mind to sort through this insanity. Moving helps me organize things, put puzzle pieces in their rightful places. But I’m struggling. How could a teacher sell out his or her students? Have we fallen so far that such a thing is even possible? Or is this simply the case of a bad apple, a leech who sucks the goodness from humanity? Just another parasite like so many we’ve been afflicted with from the beginning of time.

  We cross a busy street and the school appears on the next block. School was an empty place for me. The classes and subjects bored me, and the teachers showed no interest in me. The only positive thing about school—it provided some respite from my mother, but to be honest, she spent most of her days making and selling drugs with the Monarch gang. And nights, when school was out, were the bad times when the demons came back. I used school mostly as a place to pass time and sneak moments with Kate.

  “What’s the plan?” asks Kate.

  “A good question. We can start with the principal and try to wring the truth out of anyone we find. But they’ll call security in no time and chase us away. We might get lucky, but all we’ll likely accomplish is to tip off the scumbag.”

  We’re less than a block from the parking lot. Time is running out, but I finally get an idea and make it sound like I knew it all along. “We should start here.”

  Kate pauses. “Here?”

  “Sure. Whoever’s selling out those kids must be getting cash to do it. What do people spend extra money on?”

  “Cars. Guys like fancy cars.”

  “True, and this seems like something a guy would do. I don’t see a woman selling out these kids, but you never know. I’m a feminist at heart, so I’m open to all types of bad guys even if they turn out to be bad women. Let’s check out the staff parking lot and see if anything stands out.”

  School has already started. A bored guard sits in the hut by the entrance. Kate shows him her identification card and makes up a story about having a meeting with the guidance counselor about Megan.

  The guard looks like a banana with arms and legs. His pointy head practically hits the top of the hut and his skin is even tinted yellow. I immediately dislike him. He earns a particularly nasty place in my heart when he leers at Kate. He hesitates to take the identification card from her hand, so he has more time to check her out while running his eyes slowly up and down her body.

  I can kill him. Literally, in ten seconds. I want to snap his scrawny banana-like neck. The cretin wouldn’t even realize what’s happening until after he’s in hell, where I’ll eventually find him. Then I’d take my time with him.

  Caesar appears next to the hut. Usually, he’s just a voice in my head, but sometimes he shows himself. His fatigues fit tightly over his barrel chest and strong build. A mischievous smile sparkles in his black eyes. He splashes gasoline all over the hut from an orange can. When it’s empty, he tosses it to the side and strikes a match. He looks at me with a devilish grin and says, “Banana Flambé,” before he flicks the match onto the gasoline. The hut instantly blazes, and banana boy erupts in flames.

  “Steven.” Kate breaks me from the daydream.

  The guard has already scanned the card and handed it back to Kate. He waves us in without a word. He doesn’t ask about me or even look at me. I might as well be invisible, which, under the circumstances, is good. He also doesn’t think it’s weird that we’re walking in the parking lot instead of the front door. He’s that tuned out. He’d be useless if a terrorist attacked the school or if a disgruntled shooter showed up. Most of these security guards end up useless when they’re actually needed. They barely go through any training at all.

  Maybe I’ll visit him later. Explain simple decency and persuade him to find a job closer to his own skill set—something involving sewers or waste disposal. Or maybe Caesar has it right and I’ll douse the hut with gasoline and light it up with him inside. That sounds about right.

  We walk into the parking lot and toward the school, which gives me enough time to shake the guard from my mind. The school, a standard government building built fifty years ago, has a brick facade that’s crumbling in places. Holes and cracks dot the pavement. The half-filled lot was built to accommodate students and teachers. Now only teachers and visitors use it.

  When I went to school, high school lasted until twelfth grade. The Originalists’ government passed the Better Education Act a decade ago, capping public education at tenth grade. All those who move on have to pay their way. Most drop out. Some continue to vocational school, while others eventually attend colleges by way of corporate sponsorships. They sacrifice a decade of earning, but at least they have a chance at making it out of the lower districts. A chance, even if it’s only a slim one, is better than no chance at all.

  I scan the parking lot. Teachers don’t make much. Aging American economy cars fill the lot. Nothing catches my eye.

  Kate points toward the main entrance. “That’s where the principal parks.”

  We head in that direction. A third of the cars have dents. Every vehicle has to be five years or older. A handful of electric ones catch my interest, but they look like relics handed down from prior generations. When we reach the first row, two cars stand out: a silver German sedan and a blue Japanese model. Both look remarkably better than the others in the lot.

  The sign in front of the silver one re
ads “Principal” and the one in front of the blue one, “Vice Principal.” I examine the silver one first. It’s older than it looks, probably five years old. It’s been freshly washed and well taken care of.

  I run my finger along one side. “What do you know about the principal?”

  “Not much. I think he’s relatively new. He has a family, a wife and two young kids. His wife is an accountant or something like that. I saw them at the science fair. He looked happy.”

  The front seat of the car looks neat, but the back seat is messy. Food wrappers litter the floor and a drawing of the family that must have been sketched by one of the principal’s small children lies on the seat: four people all smiles; the dad is the tallest and they all hold hands. Nothing about the sedan tickles my intuition, so I move to the blue coupe.

  Newer than the German car, the Japanese one looks to be three years old and not well used. Probably just coming off a lease, which would be the best time for someone to buy a newish car if they had recently come into money and didn’t want anyone to notice.

  I imagine the conversation. “Nice ride. How can you afford something so new on our salary?”

  The response would be halted and hurried. “I got this great deal because the car was coming off lease. My uncle owns this dealership and I just received an inheritance from my great aunt, so...”

  “What do you know about the vice principal?”

  “Nothing. Never met him.”

  A yellow legal pad sits on the front passenger seat. I can’t make out the notes, so I use the camera on my phone and zoom in. He’s written “Eros” and beneath it a username, “Sam Steele.” The username sounds fake. I Google “Eros” on my phone and a hundred different choices pop on my screen. I scroll through them until something clicks—a website for single men. The website appears exclusive, like you’d have to pay a substantial amount to join. My intuition screams at me as I show the website to Kate.

  “I’ve never heard of it.” She pulls a picture of the vice principal from the school website on her phone: a middle-aged man with a flabby face, thinning straw-colored hair, shifty eyes. Underneath the picture is the name, “Brad Drudge.”

  I speed dial Mary.

  She answers on the first ring. “I don’t have much yet, Steven. The van’s registered to a shell company that’s owned by another shell company. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to hide who owns it, but I’ll find out. I’ve got facial recognition running on the kidnappers, and I’m searching the symbol through some databases.”

  “I’m sure you’re zipping through it, but that’s not why I called. I’ve got another favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Five students have gone missing from Megan’s school this year. I don’t think it’s a coincidence. Can you check out the vice principal? See if he’s walked into any money recently. His name is Brad Drudge.”

  “Sure, that’s easy. What’s the school district?”

  I tell her and hang up.

  Kate asks, “So you think this guy sold out my Megan?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Looks like you’re a little more sure than just maybe.”

  Without thinking about it, I’ve carved a line along the side of the fancy blue coupe with my knife. The demons start grumbling and it’s best if I give them something, even if they’re not fully satisfied.

  I shrug, bend low and slash the rear passenger tire. This will have to do for now. Once Mary gets back to me, the demons will want more, much more.

  “Want to get something to eat?” I ask Kate. “I’m famished.”

  Megan’s body aches. Sweat slicks her face and shoulders. She bends down and digs out another rock and tosses it onto the ever-growing pile. Used to a cityscape, the open space disorients her. Working in the middle of a vast field, among freshly plowed rows of soil, she can’t fix her bearings. Off to her left in the distance, a wooden fence pens cows in a pasture. To her right, green swaths filled with verdant plants line up neatly in rows. She has no idea what plants. Unlike astronomy, horticulture never interested her.

  She sees no buildings, street signs, food stalls, or anything familiar. Only dirt, plants, cows, and space — lots of empty space. She feels insignificant in all this open space, like she’s no more than a kernel in a vast cob of corn. She doesn’t like it.

  Six other Angels dig rocks out of the field with her. She knows they’re Angels because they all wear yellow jumpsuits. Two have green armbands like her, while the other three have purple ones. Everyone’s hair is cut short, and all six young women are beautiful in their own way. They all seem about the same age as her, and they all toil in the field, clearing rocks from the dirt. None of them looks surprised or even put off by the work. In fact, they seem oddly content.

  At least Amy, who is now called Autumn, is working in the field with her. Her jumpsuit has a purple armband. Megan doesn’t ask her what that means because she suspects the truth and doesn’t care whether Amy is a virgin or not.

  Two men in crimson jumpsuits stand nearby. She recognizes one of them—Frankie, the leader of the group who abducted her. As she watches him, he taps a long electric prod against his hand. As if he senses her eyes on him, he turns and glares at her, sending a shiver up her spine. There’s more than anger in that look. He wants her, and he’s not afraid to show it. He even blows her a kiss when no one else is looking.

  Amy, now called Autumn, whispers to her. “I don’t like the looks of that one. He keeps staring at you.”

  A different Angel named Petal joins the conversation. She’s tall, dark-skinned and has beautiful emerald eyes. “Frankie’s a sinner. You’d do best to avoid him. I heard he spent last night in a confessional.”

  “A confessional?” asks Megan.

  “It’s where people go who sin. You don’t want to spend a night in there. He bothers other girls. Some don’t mind, but I think he’s a creep. You shouldn’t worry about him though. He won’t touch you. You’ve got a green armband. That would make Mother angry and no one wants to make her angry. Some of us aren’t as lucky.” Petal pulls a rock the size of her hand from the dirt and throws it on the pile.

  Petal’s jumpsuit has a purple armband and Megan wonders if Frankie has tried something with her. From the angry look on her face and the force in which she threw the rock, it appears likely.

  Megan joined this group four hours ago and, in that time, they’ve barely made progress in the field. The recently upturned dirt looks ready for planting, but there must be a better way to remove rocks. Surely there’s a machine that could finish this task in no time.

  She tried to talk to the other Angels when she joined the group. Amy hugged her but no one else wanted to chat. Now that Petal has warned her of Frankie, maybe she’s opened a door Megan can walk through. “So, why are we digging for rocks anyway?”

  Petal shrugs. “Mother wants us to.”

  A different Angel joins them. She introduces herself as May. “What Petal should have said is that we’re called upon to do chores and sacrifice for Mother and for God. That way He’ll talk to us and we’ll be fulfilled. And we can have visions.” May’s face lights up. “You’ll see. Nothing is better than when we get to speak directly to Him. It’s impossible to describe.”

  Talk to Him?

  Megan can’t be sure, but she thinks Petal rolls her eyes and huffs.

  An electric truck motors through the field toward them. When it stops, Buck jumps from the driver’s seat and waves at the Angels. “Come on. Mother waits for us with lunch and a prayer session.”

  All the Angels but Amy and Megan raise their faces to the sky and chant, “Praise be to Mother,” and head for the truck.

  Megan and Amy follow along. Megan’s the last to enter the open bed of the pickup, which is a mistake because Frankie sits next to her, electric prod in his hand, a hair’s breadth away from her leg.

  When the truck moves, Frankie leans close to her. His breath smells of onions. “I’m not done with you yet, bitch. We’re going to
have lots of fun, you and me. You’ll see.”

  One of the symbols on his suit has been stripped away. He used to have three crosses like Buck, and now he has two.

  Megan tries to scoot away from him, but she has nowhere to go.

  He snickers.

  The truck stops in front of a white, wooden church, a short distance from where Megan had met Mother earlier that morning. Apparently, The Farm is organized around a small village of buildings. Beyond the village, fields, cows, an apple orchard, and more tracts of green stretch into the distance.

  The simple church has a steeped roof and a large cross cut into the front in thin slits. They remind Megan of slits used in castle towers so archers could protect the castle from angry hordes of invaders. Are they afraid of invaders? Doesn’t seem likely.

  Buck appears at the back of the truck, and everyone jumps out. Frankie leads the group inside, while Buck lingers in the back. The dirt road leading out of The Farm is a good half-mile away, and the road stretches another half-mile before it intersects with a small country road, and freedom. Two guards in red jumpsuits man a gate that blocks the country road from the dirt path. She could skirt the gate on foot if she ran fast enough, or she could sneak over it if the guards weren’t looking.

  Buck steps close to her. His voice sounds sincere. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’ll never escape that way. Besides, in a day or two, you won’t want to leave. I know it’s hard to adjust to a true reality, but give this place a chance.”

  “I’m not staying a day or two. I’ll find a way out of this place, and you won’t stop me.”

  He grins. “I like you, Stubborn Spring. That’s what I’ll call you. I suggest you have lunch first. Hard to run without food in your belly. You won’t get far.”

  “Wow, aren’t you Mr. Helpful?” Megan smirks and follows the others inside the church.

  The building is empty—nothing but a large room with oak floors and a steeple ceiling. Tall rectangular windows are spaced out evenly on both long sides of the building. Where the altar would normally sit, a massive, oak cross hangs from the ceiling, suspended by white rope.