The Punishment Club Read online

  Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2020 D.A. Maddox

  ISBN: 978-0-3695-0263-6

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Jessica Ruth

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  For Lexi, my voice in the dark.

  THE PUNISHMENT CLUB

  Part One: The Dare Dungeon

  A Consequences, Live Story

  D.A. Maddox

  Copyright © 2020

  Prologue

  “Oh, look,” Gloria said. “Buck, they’re here.”

  Her voice was low, her tone rich with sympathy, an affected hint of Southern sweetness. She inclined her head, blinking behind the mask, inviting her partner to pick up the thread of conversation.

  “Right on time,” Buck said, twirling the pencil he never used between his middle finger and thumb, then tapping the desk with it. “Can we get the approach?”

  The camera panned away from the anchors to a side screen. The image melted in a slow, digital dissolve, reintegrating to a fresh feed via the roof cams. First, they captured the prison’s parking lot and the visitor entrance. From there, the perspective widened over a gathering crowd of fans standing outside of their cars—many of them milling over toward the massive projection screen by the side of the complex opposite intake.

  Those people didn’t know. They hadn’t yet seen what the anchors were already watching.

  But it appeared on screen for everyone soon enough: a black prisoner transport van with impenetrable windows of reflective, bulletproof glass. Along its side, the words Consequences, Live! screamed out in red lightning letters over a golden background shaped like a storm cloud. From a distance, it could have been mistaken for the show van Gloria and Buck sometimes used on the road when ambushing new “players” at the time of their arrest. The logo was identical. The Office of Behavior Reformation and the show had a continuing contract.

  The inside of that van, however, was not for media. It was a rolling dungeon fit only for criminals. New criminals. Transitional criminals.

  The crowd cheered, then shifted, collectively rethinking its placement and moving for a closer view. The people couldn’t come too close. This intake access road was hemmed in on either side by electrified fencing and razor wire. Not that any such precautions would be needed for these particular prisoners. As transitionals, they’d be hardly more than kids. Their crimes, whatever they were, would fall into the category of “mischief.”

  Consequences, Live! didn’t profile dangerous cases. It didn’t deal with felons.

  “Gloria,” Buck started. “Why the van? Shouldn’t it be a—”

  “Oh my,” Gloria cut him off. Her finger traced the touch screen prompter embedded into the desk they shared, scrolling down. “Jesus, Buck, there are four of them.”

  The show typically only dealt with one penitent or convict at a time. The record up until now was two. And the anchors in charge of the play-by-play typically knew who they were hours in advance, if not days. Even the audience knew. It was how Gloria and Buck teased upcoming programs.

  On this occasion, they had been made to tease a surprise. No one other than the recruiters and the punishment wardens knew who was coming. Both Gloria Wholesome and her counterpart, the enthusiastic and relatively hapless Buck Horndog, had dug up what they could, but it hadn’t been much. Transitional defendants’ cases had been temporarily put under a blanket identity protection order similar to that enjoyed by juvenile offenders. All for the good of the show, of course, which was more popular than ever.

  They’d have to think on their feet. Gloria wasn’t too worried. They even had a returning player this weekend—although in an entirely different capacity from her last performance. In fact, Gloria was positively giddy with excitement.

  But she could tell, when they were not on screen, that Buck was worried. He worried enough for both of them.

  The countdown was up again. He had fifteen seconds to regather himself before they’d be back on screen. Right now, to the world, they were only voices. She gave him her stern-mother look and silently snapped her fingers at him.

  Buck straightened in his seat. On the pub-mon, where they could see what the common rabble saw, the van hardly had to slow at the intake gate. The driver flashed his card out the window while he was still ten yards out—close enough for the sensors—and the steel barrier opened automatically. The metallic, keening screech that accompanied it was always a crowd pleaser, but it was also a special effect. There were speakers built into the struts.

  The counter hit zero, turned green. They were back, Gloria in a stretch zipper suit of pink leather with black gloves, complete with pointy elbows of polished chrome. The cat mask with eye holes that shielded her identity was black as well.

  “Inside that van,” she purred to the camera, “are four young persons about to face the music for the first time in their lives.”

  And from Buck, wearing thick black gas mask goggles over the top half of his face and, from the waist up, only a pair of spiked leather shoulder pads, “They’re freakin’ pledges, Gloria, every one of them. Wow.” Clearly, he was struggling to read and project his TV persona at the same time.

  With a practiced flick under the desk, Gloria cued Background. This summoned a CGI rainfall of tiny cartoon cherries to briefly dance over the image on screen. A quick tickle of playful music, and then they burst with little popping sound effects, clearing the screen.

  “All new to college,” she chirped back at him happily. “How naughty they must have been.”

  “Yeah,” he said, his gaze still on the desk prompter. Then, finally looking up, eyebrows arched. Recovering. “What did they do, America? What mischief or mishap led them to this sorry pass?” And, to Gloria, “It’s hard not to feel sorry for them.”

  “Bet that’s not the only thing that’s hard,” she quipped, shouldering him, mindful of the spikes. They shared an on-camera laugh that, to the home audience, was entirely believable. “As for your question, Buck, we’re in the same boat as the audience. Isn’t it lovely?”

  He smiled at her. Back on form. Good.

  Men, she thought.

  “You’ve got that right, Gloria,” he said. “Never before has the show kept the identities—much less the transgressions—of its prospective penitents secret for so long.”

  The show, of course, was still less than three years old—the brainchild of one Senator Dusty McNeal and the Office of Behavior Reformation. It had been rough in the early going. There had been protests, small rebellions that had been quickly quelled but never fully eradicated. Senator Brenda Worthington still fought to have the show canceled, but it was too big now. Senator McNeal’s own son had been put through the program last year, proving no one was above the law. Validating it.

  The show was right. It was fair. The Virtues of Innocence had to be enforced. To protect the young from themselves, from their own dark desires, sacrifices must sometimes be made.

  And it was damn good TV for the post-transitional adults who enjoyed the rights of full citizenship and could afford the subscription.

  “We’ve never had four at one time, either,” Gloria added for the benefit of the home audience. “Also never had a weekend edition. Oh, but this is go
ing to be delightful. This is going to be so much fun, Buck.”

  “Mind if I start?” he asked, ever so politely.

  “Please do,” she said. “Run the first profile.”

  He tapped keys, calling it up.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, shaking his head, laughing a little, “people of America, please give it up for … Cassidy Harper!”

  Outside, the twenty-foot-tall projection screen in the parking lot lit up with her image. She was still in her school clothes: button-up white blouse with a loose red neckerchief, pressed denim skirt that went down to her knees, white stockings, polished black shoes. No jewelry, not even earrings. Over her chest she held a black plastic placard with her Consequences booking number: 200.

  Her eyes were bloodshot. She looked terrified.

  On the side of the picture, her basic profile: name, age, height, weight, eye color, hair color…

  The prisoner escort, too, would see what the people saw, now that he had parked the van. He would know to lead her out first. He soon did, guiding her onto asphalt by the link chain in her handcuffs, then facing her to the security cam, which broadcast her arrival live.

  She’s as good as her picture, Gloria thought, admiring her luxuriant but straight brunette hair, her robin’s-egg-blue eyes. She blinked under the harsh lights of the intake entrance.

  The people cheered. They called her name. They greeted her. Gloria didn’t think, on the whole, they sounded unkind.

  Cassidy, however, wrenched her cuffed hands free from the officer and covered her face, sobbing.

  The officer, whoever he was, didn’t seem to mind. Cassidy was in now, with nowhere to go, no chance for a reprieve. And her escort, after all, still had the three others to bring out.

  You look so innocent, Gloria thought, drinking her in. So helpless.

  But that illusion wouldn’t keep. It never did.

  Transitionals didn’t make it onto Consequences, Live! by being good.

  Chapter One

  Pledges

  Prisoner Profile: Cassidy Lee Harper

  Transitional Inmate #200

  Freshman, Chesapeake University, Maryland Chapter

  Age: 18

  Height: 5’6”

  Weight: 122 lbs.

  Eye Color: blue

  Hair Color: brown

  Study Focus: Financial Management/Accounting

  Prisoner Class: Convicted, Non-Penitent, Protective Custody

  Sentence: 2 Years

  Consent for Alternative Punitive Plan: Given

  Approval Status: Pending

  Crime: …

  ****

  Cassidy unfolded the letter and set it on her desk. She powered on her tablet, propped it pyramid-position next to the letter. Resigned, she keyed in the given address, then the password. She sat back in her chair, swiped her wrist com past “steps,” then past “schedule.” Checked the time. It was 10:50. She was early.

  But the profile chatroom that appeared—dubbed at the top of the screen the “Dare Dungeon”—looked pretty darn full to her.

  The middle of the screen was still a blank, black rectangle. It would remain so, according to the letter, until 10:55. At exactly 11:00, after a brief rundown, the dares would begin.

  If you are summoned, the letter said, you go. No questions. No complaints.

  There were eighteen other faces on the screen, six at the top, six at the bottom, three at either side. Seemed pretty even between boys and girls.

  If you are not summoned, you remain on screen where we can see you. No one leaves the conversation unless they are summoned. You stay to the end.

  At 10:53, another boy appeared, making it an even 10-10 split, counting Cassidy.

  He appeared decidedly nervous. No, scared. He looked down, hardly glancing into the camera eye.

  She didn’t know any of these people.

  She’d seen more than half of the young women here, all pledges to Alpha Chi (pronounced KI) Omega. They were all quartered on the upper floor—the freshman floor—of the sorority house with her. She’d even talked with a few of them. But she didn’t know them. Not really, anyway. There hadn’t been time. She’d only unpacked her stuff and made her parental goodbyes yesterday.

  Behind her, a hand on her shoulder. Cassidy nearly hopped out of her seat. But it was only Toni, her roommate and mentor, a senior who had put herself forward to live with the plebes for a month to help them get acclimated to college life.

  “Whatcha doin’?” she asked, maybe a little too sweetly, the native New York in her voice prominent.

  “Secret,” Cassidy replied, her tone rich with apology. “Pledge stuff. Sorry.”

  “Oh, you. I’m Alpha Chi, too, you know.”

  Shouldn’t you already know what it is, then? Cassidy thought. Technically, I’m not even in until after you all do whatever you’re going to do to us newbies tomorrow morning.

  The reflection of Toni’s face hovered behind her on screen—darker hair, darker eyes, the very vision of confidence and reassurance. It wasn’t right. Cassidy was used to being the one on top of things, at least academically. All through prep school, people came to her when they needed help. It was a role that Cassidy had meticulously cultivated and projected (despite her own personal tendency toward self-doubt) since before she had left home that first time at fourteen. Yet here she was, on the bottom of the totem pole again. She was nobody, at least for now.

  “You know what, Cass?” Toni observed. “This profile room looks like it only let in the pretty people.”

  Cassidy snorted. First, she hated being called “Cass.” Second—

  No. Toni was right. It really did look like only the “pretty” people had been invited. Every fledgling frat brother and wannabe sorority sister on screen was … well, beautiful. Or at least interesting.

  Do they think I’m beautiful? she wondered. Cassidy did try to look her best. Even tonight, at nearly eleven o’ clock and not being able to go anywhere, she’d freshened her makeup and put on her best nightgown, the blue one with the slight cut up front. She had her hair tied back to show off her matching sapphire earrings—fake, but still pretty. All of it went with her eyes.

  These people were undeniably gorgeous, especially the blond guy top and center, identified under the icon as “Peter.” That man, with his steely gray eyes and winsome, untroubled smile, could be on TV.

  “Hi, everyone,” he said, laughing to himself, perhaps not expecting an answer. “Let’s do this. Solidarity.”

  The answers came from everywhere, most of them nervous, a few downright timid. And heck, even the mousy-looking girl in the glasses and the pink t-shirt, “Emma Jo” had a girl-next-door appeal that was beyond cute. She waved rather than speaking. They’d met the day before, Cassidy and Emma Jo. Cassidy hoped they’d become friends.

  But her thoughts were interrupted when the center of the screen filled in, a split-screen closeup—left side male, right side female—on a single mouth seemingly shared by two people.

  This, Cassidy thought, feeling a tangible shiver of dread tickle her core, might have been a good day to be a dog.

  It was 10:55. Time for instructions.

  Cassidy turned in her seat, tried to shoo Toni off screen. She wasn’t supposed to be there. Please, she mouthed. Thank God, Toni withdrew to her bed—but from there, she kept watching. And that was fine. It wasn’t like the rest of these kids didn’t have roommates. A lot of them were probably asleep at this hour, but there was no way all of them were. Yet the video icons each consisted of a single face. All were alone, most of them looking as worried as Cassidy felt.

  Not Peter, though. His expression was expectant, bordering on challenging.

  The mouth spoke, both sides of it moving in perfect synchrony: “Thank you for coming. We’re glad you’re here. We’re going to play a game.”

  The voice was digitized, neither male nor female, and clearly scrambled. The speakers apparently wanted to remain anonymous. But the voice was also perfectly artic
ulated.

  Several of the pledges tried to answer, all at once—and were instantly muted, their questions and exclamations cut off as though by a power outage. Cassidy hadn’t spoken. This was one of those occasions—she wouldn’t have called them rare, exactly, but they were definitely uncommon—where she would have been perfectly content to go unnoticed.

  The magic mouth continued: “Four of you are to be chosen to complete a simple dare. The first of you will be randomly determined by computer. That’s a little RNG for any of you gaming nerds present.”

  Cassidy had no idea. She looked back to Toni, who actually belonged to a gaming group.

  “Random number generator,” she supplied, leaning forward and grinning. “Good luck.”

  “The dare, which you must complete within ten minutes of being chosen, is to run from the front door of your house to the Tree of Knowledge, circle it three times, give it a good slap, and return.”

  They were past curfew, which at Chesapeake U was ten o’clock on weekdays. Still, it didn’t sound too bad. If she had to, Cassidy felt she could complete that challenge in half the time.

  “Each of you here in the Dare Dungeon has been chosen among the pledges of the two best houses on campus: Alpha Chi Omega and Delta Kappa Epsilon. Coincidentally, these two houses are both of equal distance from the Tree of Knowledge.”

  That would mean the boys of DKE were in the house facing them from directly across the quad. As for the Tree of Knowledge, there was no missing it. That wide, spreading monstrosity with the low-hanging branches looked more like something from the African savannah than the mid-Atlantic United States. Seriously, there should have been lions sleeping under that thing.