The Topher Trilogy

Chapter 3 - The Secret Room-1

CHAPTER 3 The Secret RoomTopher was uncertain about a lot of things. Physics and chemistry, instructions on shampoo bottles. He was uncertain about politics and s*x, about technology and fashion. He was uncertain about the future of the environment, about the legitimacy of reality programming, about calculus and James Joyce’s place in the literary pantheon.

But there were many more things of which he was certain. (He was a teenager, after all.) The sky was blue, naked women were awesome, and pickles should never be fried. Video games rotted the brain, bacon flavored ice cream was the devil’s work, and . . . naked women . . . . Initially, he was certain Gertrude’s parents had shown the three of them mercy by commuting their sentence to Raleigh’s Prep. All of the delinquent children of the fabulously rich were sent there at one point or another: Chad Mitchell after he curb-stomped his maid’s son; Mark Bauer after he drunkenly plowed into that family in the minivan. The Chad Mitchells and the Mark Bauers and, for that matter, the Tophers, the Zorns, and the Gertrudes of the world were the reason for the invention of the word “affluenza,” and while many derided the idea, he thought it an apt diagnosis. How on earth could he be held accountable for any of his behavior when all his parents had ever done was thrown money at him and given him anything he wanted?

But Chad Mitchell, he’d gone to Raleigh’s Prep and nobody ever saw him again. Everybody just assumed he served his time and moved on with his life. Mark Bauer, too. But that wasn’t the case, was it? No. Not at all. Their parents had bought off the judge, promised that Raleigh’s would straighten out their children, and sent them packing, but not with the intent of reforming them. No. Not at all. Chad and Mark never served their time, they never moved on with their lives. The reason nobody ever saw them again was because they really were never seen again. They were sent to Raleigh’s to die. Topher knew it. Knew it for certain, just like now he knew that the mercy bestowed upon him by Gertrude’s mother and father was no more than a trick, and that the punishment they would suffer was not five years of prep school but death. A horrible, sad, painful, and undignified death.

He was also certain that the human versions of the beasts that had chased them out of the woods were students at Raleigh’s Prep, and that they would reveal themselves by bearing the wounds delivered them during what he now thought of as The Battle of Chainwrought Den.

“We’ll simply find them out and make a list,” Topher said. “Then we’ll hunt them down one by one, and rid this school of its supernatural filth once and for all.”

When they reached the playing fields, Mr. Floyd, in a rare show of benevolence, threw them out of his truck with a “Get!”, and so they did. They ran back to their dorm room. Now Gertrude sat on his bed and worried his fingers. Crews lurked by their door. Zorn paced back and forth, wild eyed and fanatic.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “Kill them! Kill them all!”

“That’s the spirit!” Topher chortled. “Now, it’s first necessary to figure out who struck whom and how. I, for instance, brained at least a dozen of the bastards with my noble mace.”

He hefted it in his hands, stroked the stalk with his palm.

“Topher, please,” Gertrude said. “We don’t know whether or not any of those poor creatures are fatherless.”

“I didn’t mean to insult them. I just meant it in the sense that they are horrible and despicable.” He leaned the mace against his desk.

“Either way. They’re already horrid beasts. Why rub it in?”

“Fine. What should I call them? Adorable balls of fluff?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. How about ‘critters’?”

“Critters they most certainly are not,” Zorn said. “That implies some sort of cuteness.”

“Badgers are critters,” Gertrude said. “And I’ve never met a cute badger.”

“Squirrels are critters.”

“Oh shut up!” Topher spat. “Squirrels are in no way similar to werewolves.”

Zorn said, “I believe these are werepyres.”

“I,” growled Topher. “Brained at least a dozen of the beasts. So we should be on the lookout for lads with horrible head wounds.”

“I definitely caused some damage to the incubus that attacked me, if that is possible,” Zorn said. “Grabbed him by the William Johnson I did, and didn’t let go until I’d squeezed it to pulp.”

Gertrude wondered if they should be on the lookout for a boy with a mangled p***s.

“How will we check?”

“The incubus isn’t a shape shifter,” Topher said. “Zorn only managed to disfigure a ghoul. Plus, didn’t you say Crews already killed it?”

“I threw at least half a dozen werepyres into the surrounding thorns,” Zorn said. “So be on the lookout for anybody bearing minor dermal abrasions.”

The next morning the boys were up much earlier than usual. Even Zorn rolled out of bed at a decent hour. They gobbled a cold breakfast at The Grotto and set out to begin their search.

“There’s a Badugby game this morning,” Gertrude informed them. “Everybody’ll be at the stadium. Are you a fan?”

“Of Badugby?” Topher replied. He shrugged. “It’s an interesting concept. I think one has to be here a while, you know, sink down into the boredom and drudgery before he grows weary enough of life to watch live sports for entertainment.”

Gertrude sniffed.

“I love it.”

“Yes, and you also like listening to smooth jazz. Anyone with as much bad taste to purposefully listen to someone rocking the clarinet would certainly enjoy something as inane as Badugby.”

Gertrude ignored him.

“I prefer Dilque’s Demons,” he said, turning to Zorn. “How about you, Zorn?”

“Oh, I’m a fan of Trinkle’s Timberwolves. Their uni’s are so natty. I’m a sucker for anything gray or green, or any combination of the two. It’s why I love the sea.”

“But you can’t swim,” Topher said.

“So? I can’t enjoy its symbolism? It’s notion of the ocean that strikes me as romantic, not the actual physical properties of the water.” He took a deep breath, as if inhaling some far off ocean air. “Aaaahhhhh.”

The stadium was full. Fall in the north was often chilly, particularly in the mountains. The arena itself seemed to attract the most biting of the arctic air, and its design made for a fairly effective wind tunnel. All of the students, therefore, wore thick coats, heavy knit caps and gloves, which made it difficult, if impossible, to discern one person from the next. For some reason, everybody decided to wear neon ski gear that day, and the colors—the greens, the reds, the yellows—were blinding.

“It’s best that we split up,” Topher said. “The better to investigate a voluminous amount of afflicted.”

Gertrude agreed, but Zorn wasn’t convinced.

“Doesn’t that conflict with your Scooby Doo Axiom?”

“Yes, but one can’t live his entire life based on a cartoon featuring a drug addled hippy.” He skipped away before anyone could disagree. “Don’t be afraid to remove items of clothing should it be necessary.”

He decided to first sit amongst the boys in the stands to try and blend in. He found a clear spot in the middle of the middle section, swiped the seat free of dirt and grime, and sat primly down. The crowd immediately erupted, buffeting him with cheers and cries and thighs.

“Good Lord!” he yelled, swatting at the surrounding legs with his hat. A cannon exploded, signaling some sort of success on the field. He screamed and thrust his head between his knees. When it became clear that they were not under attack, when the students around him sat down and calmed themselves, he sat up and surveilled the stands. Hmm. Figuring out who was normal and who was a wounded wereperson would not be as easy as he thought. First, he had no formal training in the matter. Nobody did, as far as he knew. Perhaps this would be a new career opportunity? For when he escaped? Second, almost everybody at Raleigh’s Prep played Badugby. It was a dangerous, violent game, and these were dangerous, violent boys, therefore the stands were populated with scores of young men who had been physically maimed to one degree or another. A few were missing parts of their earlobes, many had fresh scalp wounds, and nearly all of them sported scrapes, contusions, cuts. Add to that the presence of known bruisers and the emotionally disturbed, and Topher felt the mission impossible. Third, oh dear lord, there wasn’t a third reason; this whole thing was ridiculous. He gave up around the middle of the first period and decided to watch what was going on on the field.

Badugby was a game that operated similarly to Australian football, only with fewer rules and significantly more violence. The addition of the Badminton rackets added to the latter, while the former allowed for maximum c*****e, a premium among the rich and depraved. The team consisted of a stoolie, of course (who would stop the birdie from going inside the net?), two killers (defense), three assassins (midfield), and two slaughterers (offense). The goal was to move the birdie up the field without letting it touch the ground, then somehow get it into the net. Balancing it on your racket was legal, but so was hitting, punching, tackling, biting, maiming, mauling and anything else. To Topher it looked like a massive brawl, an excuse for the boys to m******e one another, which, of course, it was. Judging from the way the others discussed the game at length and in great detail, there was apparently some finesse and skill needed, though what it was escaped Topher entirely. Every now and then the stands erupted in a deafening cheer, or the cannon went off, or a fight broke out, though he was never sure why.

“Who’s that boy who just clubbed the other boy over the head?”

Perhaps the most violent of the players would also be werethings?

The boy next to him said, “Dirk or Dudley?”

Topher startled a little. He hadn’t expected someone to actually talk to him, especially someone who looked as odd as this one. The boy had striking blue eyes, and thin blond hair that stuck out like straw from beneath his red wool cap. His red down jacket was so puffy that Topher thought it might be stuffed with an entire lake full of ducks. His ghostly complexion made him look even colder in the crisp fall air, and his mittens were as ballooned as his jacket. Even worse, he twitched and tapped his foot as he sat, and when Topher spoke, he’d turned his head sharply in his direction as if he’d been waiting for days for someone to talk to him and had finally gotten the chance.

Wonderful, Topher thought. The one person who’ll talk to me, and he’s mentally deranged.

The boy repeated his question.

“Dirk or Dudley?” he asked.

“There are two?”

“Henderson’s name is Dirk. Dudley is a Hor.”

“If you say so.”

Topher spotted Gertrude on the other side of the field, chatting merrily with Marvin Grimm and I, Dennis, and wished he were there.

The crowd erupted, and Topher, trying to be social, said, “Oh dear! The Hor boy laid a whopper of a hit upon that poor Timberwolf person.”

The boy next to him sniffed around his collar.

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?”

The boy’s nostrils flared, and he inhaled in three short bursts.

“You must live in Burleigh’s,” he said.

Topher gave the lad a double take, and his eyes turned to slits.

“You know this just from smelling me?”

“I’ve been here for a year. When you’re here that long, you’ll understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Each dormitory has its own smell.”

One of the Demons suddenly made a break for the goal. He sprinted across the field, balancing the birdie on his racket, dodging diving opponents, spinning, shucking, jiving. Two Timberwolves zeroed in on him. At the last moment he tossed the birdie to a teammate, bashed one with his racket, and kneed the other in the groin. The crowd went nuts, and his teammate tossed the birdie back to him.