Raleigh's Prep.

By James Noll

When Topher, Michael, and Kenneth find a mangled body on the Rugby Field of their new "school," Raleigh's Prep., they decide to investigate-- something they later understand to be an unfortunate decision.

Raleigh's Prep. is more of a juvenile detention center for the delinquent children of the fabulously wealthy, and most of the "students" there are guilty of one crime or another. The former headmaster, the aptly named Mistress Chainwrought, used this to her advantage, performing ungodly experiments upon her poor wards, knowing that the rest of the world, including their parents, had forsaken them. The trio's curiosity leads them deeper and deeper into the darkest recesses of the school, discovering the horrid results of Mistress Chainwrought's work.

As the school year proceeds, more students are murdered, and the boys make enemies, both among the dangerous student population and the things lurking out in the woods. After a bleak winter, they realize that investigation is futile. If they want to live, they'll have to escape. Then, in the middle of a deadly blizzard, Kenneth is kidnapped . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Noll
• Release date: Nov 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452498553

James Noll

James Noll has worked as a sandwich maker, a yogurt dispenser, a day care provider, a video store clerk, a day care provider (again), a summer camp counselor, a waiter, a prep. cook, a sandwich maker (again), a line cook, a security guard, a line cook (again), a waiter (again), a bartender, a librarian, and a teacher. Somewhere in there he played drums in punk rock bands, recorded several albums, and wrote dozens of short stories and a handful of novels.

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Raleigh’s Prep.

Book 1 of the Topher Trilogy

By James Noll

Published by PULP USA, LLC

Copyright 2012 James Noll

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Pounds of Flesh

1

Zorn saw the dead body first. He stopped jogging out of fear that his heart would explode, turned toward the middle of the Rugby field, and noticed a large pile of rags lying on the fifty yard-line.

There, he gasped. Middle . . . of the . . .

He waved a weak finger in the direction of the field. Topher stopped a few feet away and jogged in place, regarding him venomously. He squinted against sun rising over the campus and illuminating the grass and surrounding woods. Something sat in the middle there, a lump really, but a rather large lump, and also rather wet and dark and sticky looking, and totally motionless. Was that the bottom of a shoe? Morning roll hadn’t been called yet. He’d heard about boys sneaking alcohol through some of the gate guards. Perhaps someone had snuck out after midnight room-check?

What is it? Gertrude (whose real name was Kenneth) asked.

The putrid smell hit them at the thirty-yard line. It reminded Zorn of the time the meat freezer in his basement died just after hunting season. An entire deer spoiled, filling the house with a rotten stench that languished in his nose for days. Sometimes he’d merely turn his head quickly and there it was: rotten flesh. But there would be no more deer hunting, not anymore. His basement was now burned to the foundation with the rest of his house. Mother was dead, father was dead.

The boys pulled their shirts up over their noses. They surrounded the mound of rags at three points.

I don’t know which is worse, Zorn commented. My body odor or the odor coming off that mound.

That’s no mound, Topher replied.

Zorn leaned forward, holding his shirt over his nose. He squinted for a moment, then his eyes went wide and he stood straight up.

That’s a finger! He cried, his voice muffled.

Where? Where? Gertrude demanded.

All three bent forward at the waist, feet rooted to the ground, trying to investigate with their eyes while keeping their bodies the maximum distance away.

Oh, I see, Gertrude said. Can you tell who it is?

Not for all the blood, Topher replied, peering. He’s wearing a Merton’s jacket, though. See the patch?

A Society member? Zorn said, his voice raising a notch.

Gertrude began to back away.

Gertrude? Topher snapped.

There are flies on his— he turned his head and waved a finger at the body. On whatever part that is. His face went ashen. Flies spawn maggots, he added. Then he trotted off toward the edge of the track, fell to his knees, and threw up. Topher and Zorn stayed next to the body, respectfully ignoring his moment of indelicacy.

What do we do? Zorn asked.

It appears we must do nothing at all, Topher grumbled, nodding in the direction from which they came.

Zorn frowned and followed the nod. A battered pickup truck, primer gray with calico patches of maroon rust, was bouncing over the fields toward them at top speed.

Oh no, Zorn whispered. Mr. Floyd.

Mr. Floyd was the groundskeeper. Though the boys had only been at Raleigh’s for a few weeks, they’d heard rumors about his meanness, and his drunkenness, and his mean drunkeness. And now they were about to experience all of it first hand, beginning with being bounced along in the payload of his pickup, hands bound with plastic zip ties. Gertrude looked miserably out at the passing fields. He had been hit hardest by the whole ordeal: the accident, the fire, the trial and incarceration at Raleigh’s. His family was tightly knit and, unlike his friends’, still alive. He had promised his mother there would be no more of the shenanigans that landed him at the school in the first place, and now, after only three weeks, he was somehow tangled up in the death of another student. There were no second chances at Raleigh’s Prep.: any student caught breaking any rule was subject to the sternest possible punishment. In some very few cases that meant some kind of beating or flogging in The Courtyard, but for most it meant one thing and one thing only: Expelled. And being expelled meant jail.

Real jail.

With cells, and murderers, and prison food, and prison rape.

Not that there weren’t murderers at Raleigh’s, but at least they were wealthy murderers.

Topher watched Gertrude for a while, looking for signs of mental instability. Would he cry? Was he angry? The latter was more his worry than the former. Gertrude was easily a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier, even without the furs and beard. He’d once seen him lift an entire keg over his head in a drunken rage and throw it through a sliding glass door.

Zorn broke his reverie by elbowing him in the shoulder. Topher shot him a reproachful look. He tried to rub his arm, but found the zip ties would not allow anything more than an uncoordinated shrug. Zorn frowned and jerked his head at Gertrude. Topher raised his eyebrows. Zorn raised his own eyebrows, then jerked his head at Gertrude again, twice. Topher rolled his eyes and sighed.

Fine. I’ll do it.

Are you all right, Gertrude? He cried over the wind.

Gertrude continued to stare at the passing fields.

Hey! Topher barked. I asked you a question.

Gertrude said nothing. Topher kicked him.

Topher! Zorn scolded.

I’m sorry, Topher replied. I can’t abide insolence.

Just leave him alone, then, Zorn said. I’ll talk to him later.

Topher agreed and braced himself for the leap Mr. Floyd’s pick up was about to make from the fields to the utility path. The payload bounced, sending them all a few inches into the air with startled cries. Zorn ended up on the floor.

Damn your hide, Mr. Floyd! Topher cried, beating on the window with his fists.

Mr. Floyd shot them a glance, then whipped the window back.

You mind yourself there, boy, he shouted over his shoulder. You three in a heap a’ trouble already.

He slammed the window back and locked it into place.

The man is a moron, Topher cried to the wind.

Gertrude nudged him with his foot.

Here comes the campus, he yelled.

Topher noted that his friend still would not look at him. He craned his neck to see how fast they would get there. Who would be awake in The Courtyard at this hour to witness their arrest? What a wonderful rumor that would create. Whispers in The Grotto: The new kids were caught eating a dead student! His standing with the older boys would skyrocket. Especially if they were all flogged or beaten.

Do you think that ass, Brimstone, will be awake at this hour? He wondered aloud.

Why do you ask? Zorn replied, still on the floor. He stretched his legs by resting his feet on the top of the tailgate.

He wants somebody to see us, Gertrude said, his voice flat. He wants to be associated with the murder.

How do you know it was a murder? Topher demanded.

Gertrude finally shot him an incredulous look. You saw the body, he retorted. "How could that not be a murder?"

Perhaps he had a virus, Topher proposed. Maybe he died of natural causes, and then was eaten by wild dogs. Did I not tell you of the bloodcurdling howl I heard this morning?

The pickup emerged from the utility road and stopped parallel to the opening to the forest.

It doesn’t matter, Gertrude grumbled. We’ll be expelled before breakfast.

Mr. Floyd opened the door and got out, his boots crunching on the gravel. He surveyed the grounds, peered into the early morning light. Topher heard a few voices floating from The Courtyard, but nothing else. The groundskeeper turned and snarled, Get out! Get!

He yanked Zorn out by his wrists and shoved him aside, then did the same to Topher and Gertrude.

Line up against the truck, he ordered.

The boys backed up, shooting each other wary glances with shaking eyes.

Aren’t you going to bring us to the headmaster? Topher squeaked.

Shut up, Mr. Floyd growled. Now listen. I’m gonna ignore the fact that you boys was out of your rooms before Morning Roll. Tell me what you seen out there in the field.

A bloody cor . . . Zorn began, but Mr. Floyd backhanded him across the face before he could finish. The crack echoed in the morning. Crows in the nearby trees cawed in complaint and flapped away into the distance. A red welt swelled on Zorn’s cheek.

Now listen to me very closely, Mr. Floyd repeated, breathing hard. His breath smelled sharp, like rotten apples. Tell me what you boys seen out there in the field.

Well, Topher said. I believe Zorn was trying to tell you that we saw a dead body befo . . .

Mr. Floyd backhanded him, too.

You, he snapped, his flat, blue eyes fixing upon Gertrude, who shrank back a little. Tell me what you seen out there in the field.

Certainly not a dead body, Gertrude replied. He shut his eyes tight, waiting for the blow. The birds in the trees awoke and sang, and a strong breeze whooshed through the leaves. Gertrude opened one eye. Mr. Floyd was smiling at him, a terrible sight considering the brown condition of his teeth.

That’s right, he grumbled. He raised his chin at Gertrude. This one here’s the smartest one of ya’ll. Now listen, I’m gonna tell you boys what you seen out there. You ain’t seen nothin, got it?

Mr. Floyd pulled a hunting knife out of a sheath on his belt. He waggled it menacingly.

Now, if you go ‘round spreadin’ any rumors, he muttered.

He grabbed Gertrude by the forearm and pulled him toward him. Gertrude clamped his eyes shut again and turned his head. He felt a pull on his wrists and he cried out, then his arms were released and his hands dropped to his sides. When he opened his eyes he saw Mr. Floyd busily sawing at the zip ties that held Zorn’s wrists, too. Topher was next, and then all three were standing there, free, looking at Mr. Floyd with creased eyebrows.

Get outta here, Mr. Floyd spat.

The boys didn’t move.

I said GET! Mr. Floyd barked.

Gertrude looked at Zorn, who returned the glance. They took a few cautious steps away from the truck, waiting for some kind of trick. Mr. Floyd glared at them, twirling the knife in his hand. Zorn reached over and grabbed Topher by the sleeve and pulled, and all three trotted away toward the campus.

Mr. Floyd watched them cut across the grass and head up the brick path that led to The Courtyard. When he was sure that they weren’t coming back, he limped to the driver’s side door and eased himself inside. The pick-up started with a throaty roar. He put it in gear and spun the wheel around, heading back the way he had just come, back to the field, back to the mangled corpse

2

I’m hungry, Zorn said, patting his belly.

Today's sausage day at The Grotto, Gertrude informed him. I love sausage day.

Oh, Zorn muttered. The thought of sausage links brought to mind the corpse on the field, particularly its— Perhaps just a fruit cup then.

Topher was silent as they regained The Courtyard, which unsettled his roommates. When Topher was silent it either meant only three things: 1. that he was about to vomit, 2. that he was plotting some kind of tomfoolery, or 3, that he was plotting to vomit as a measure of tomfoolery. It was just such the combination that landed them in Raleigh’s in the first place, only in that case it wasn’t vomit and tomfoolery, but arson and accidental death.

Gertrude began to wonder about his family again.

I wonder if my parents have built the new house yet, he said.

Hardly, Zorn replied. They’ll have to wait for the check from the insurance company first.

Oh dear, Gertrude sang. At least that’ll allow father’s wounds to heal. How long does it take skin to grow back?

It would make an excellent research project, Zorn noted. I once burned my calf on the tailpipe of a moped. My doctor prescribed this greasy stuff. I was supposed to rub it on the burn for two weeks, and so I did, but all it did was make the skin melt more. I got a violent infection, and my leg nearly fell off. It took a full two months to recover.

Father’s in an oxygen tent, Gertrude intoned. He’s fed intravenously.

They could now hear the bellowing of the Assistants as they hounded the other boys out of their rooms, screaming at them to get to breakfast. The bottom side doors to Merton and Croix dorms opened up, and two boys, one in each exit, appeared. They were dressed in the standard uniform of the Assistants: shiny black shoes, black pants, and brown, crisply ironed button-up shirts. Their hair was clipped short, and each one was supplied with a whistle, which they blew incessantly, red faced and angry, in order to get the peons to do their bidding. None were armed, though some carried little homemade blackjacks as they were not the most popular students at the school. The door to Burleigh’s flew open, and Topher saw their Assistants, Brimstone and Burr, stomp out into The Courtyard, screaming at their hall-mates to exit the dorm immediately, maggots, and get to chow.

Just fall in with the crowd, Topher muttered, and they did exactly that, falling in with the mass of adolescents nearly trampling each other to both get to The Grotto to eat and to get away from the menace of their Assistants.

I’m quite sure that he knows who we are, Topher finally said, when he was sure they’d escaped detection.

Gertrude’s father? Zorn asked. "He knows exactly who we are. He was the reason we were sent to this . . . this place. Weren’t you at the trial? It was quite dramatic."

I’m aware of Mr. Hughes’s roll in our internment, Topher growled. I was referring to Mr. Floyd.

That can’t be right, Gertrude said. We’ve only been here less than a month.

Yes, but Mr. Floyd is everywhere, Zorn countered. He could probably tell us the time and date of your last bowel movement.

What? Gertrude wheezed.

Zorn’s right, don’t doubt it, Topher added. It's uncanny. Did I tell you Mr. Floyd approached me the third day after our arrival? ‘Six thirty in the evening,’ he growled. ‘Tuesday.’ It took a while before I understood exactly what he was talking about, but when I did I shuddered for nearly an hour straight.

Then he knows exactly who we are, Gertrude whimpered. He glanced timidly at Topher. Among other things.

Absolutely, Zorn replied.

The question I propose is this: why did he let us go? Topher said.

Maybe he didn’t see the corpse? Gertrude offered.

"How could he not see it? Zorn said. It was right there in front of him, despite Topher’s, er, best efforts to draw away his attention."

I don’t know what happened, Topher replied. My buttocks usually have a mesmerizing effect upon people, particularly adults.

Perhaps, then, he didn’t understand that the corpse was a corpse? Gertrude offered.

Don’t be an idiot, Gertrude, Topher snapped. What else could he think it was?

A pile of rotted squirrels? Gertrude suggested. Odious little vermin, them. I was once attacked by squirrels when I was three years-old. Nearly bit off my thumb. See the scar?

He presented his thumb to them for inspection.

I thought that was a badger? Zorn asked, peering at a tiny white line just below the nail.

Gertrude pulled his hand back. I was also attacked by a badger, he said. But not until I was six. An altogether different story. I was mostly to blame.

You told me you swatted it with a walking stick.

Well, yes, but when it leapt at me I compared it to several unfavorable things, Gertrude explained. I believe the beauty of the metaphor was lost in the violence of the moment. I was forced to run for my life.

The corpse was neither a pile of deceased squirrels, nor was it a pile of deceased badgers, Topher insisted.

Actually I'm not held in high regard by mammals at all, it would seem, Gertrude continued.

Shut up! Topher said. What we found was obviously the body of a dead student. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't there something in the Code of Conduct about being punished severely if one is found near the mangaled body of a student?

If there isn’t, there should be, Zorn said.

A pensive quiet settled over them.

Are rodents mammals? Gertrude finally asked.

The gold dome of The Grotto loomed ahead atop a short incline, growing larger and more mythical as they approached. Pillars framed the wide wooden doors, and marble benches were bolted into the concrete next to them. Zorn’s belly growled at the thought of the impending feast.

If the exterior of The Grotto was a romantic approximation of a gothic medieval cathedral, the interior resembled more of a late nineteenth century booby hatch—bred for antiseptic insipidity, draconian utility. Beige tiles covered the floor, and the walls (beige also) weren’t brick, or wood beams, or anything else stylish, but simple drywall. Even the windows—streaked with lime, the warped panes bubbled and cracked—were square. The iron bars bolted into the bricks rusted red.

Look, Zorn said as they joined the queue. It’s I, Dennis. Hello, I, Dennis!

He waved at a tall, skinny boy in the middle of the line wearing black, celluloid pants that crinkled when he walked. He wore a matching shirt and a black plastic helmet, and it all shone dully in the buzzing overhead lights. His proboscis was angular and prominent, his cheeks sallow and sunken, and his Adam’s apple protruded like a painful tumor.

Topher had never been very impressed by the helmet, though everyone else seemed to think it implausibly magnificent. I, Dennis’ Adam’s apple, however, unnerved him, bobbing like it did whenever he spoke, or breathed, or did nothing. It was like it had a mind of its own.

I, Dennis let them cut in line behind him.

So, Dennis, Gertrude said, eyeing a camera I, Dennis had mounted onto the back of the helmet. Are you still, er, still modifying your body?

His eyes skittered up and down the back of the trench coat. The camera jerked in symmetrical polygons, making little mechanical sounds as it moved, eerily following Gertrude’s every movement. I, Dennis turned around, blessing them with his white, scar-puckered countenance.

Zorn recoiled, Gertrude’s eyes popped open, and Topher said Yeesshh!

Hello, Zorn. Hello, Kenneth, he greeted. He nodded at Topher and his Adam's apple bobbed and Topher jerked his eyes toward the ceiling. Gertrude beamed. It was rare that anyone referred to him by his given name. How are you both?

Dear Lord, Zorn