Red Jungle by Kent Harrington Page A

Several boys had come to him about the Greek, as he was called. The Greek was an asshole; the Greek was a bully, but worse, the Greek was buggering the younger boys at night, and it had to stop.
    The Greek’s father was important. The students didn’t know what he did, but it had to be big, because Major Purcell was scraping and bowing like an Ottoman house slave every time the Greek’s parents showed up in their limousine. Someone had suggested the Greek’s father was a gangster; others that he was a congressman, or senator. The Greek wouldn’t say. (Russell learned later that the Greek’s father owned an independent oil and gas company in Louisiana.)
    There had been a vote in study hall. Russell was a lieutenant now, and the younger boys looked up to him. This respect was given not because he’d been at the school since he was in the second grade, but because he was a sports star. And because, as officer in charge of the pool during the weekends, he didn’t allow towel snapping in the showers. Younger boys had been terrified of the showers until they’d put Russell in charge.
    The towel snapping had stopped. Towel snapping with a well made “rat tail,” wet at the end, could leave terrible welts, and worse. It was like being hit with a leather whip. The older boys had hit Russell plenty with the rat tails when he had first come to the school, and Russell remembered how painful and humiliating it was. (Of course, if you spoke to any of the staff about it, just as in prison, it would only make matters worse for you.)
    Later, Russell only smiled when people asked him why he’d spent hours in the gym getting strong. As he had learned in his military tactics and history class: superior and overwhelming firepower wins battles. (The rest, said his teacher who’d fought at Guadalcanal, was horseshit.)
    The meeting had been called before lights out. Everyone was in pajamas and robes. It was dark. Russell remembered sitting on his bed, looking down at the house next door. He often spied on the family who lived next to the school: two girls, a mother and a father. He loved to watch them have dinner, but didn’t often get the chance.
    Russell felt as if he knew the family. He had shared birthday parties and many holidays with them, if only from the window of his room. The girls and he were about the same age. The parents were kind. He could tell that. The father was a tall, thin man, and he would speak to his daughters while they did their homework at the kitchen table, as he helped or did the dishes. The four of them would spend the evenings there in the kitchen. Russell liked to imagine their conversations. Sometimes providing dialogue for the family (a habit that would later help him as a journalist and writer), he would stare in amazement at their world, free from loneliness or the threat of physical violence.
    Right now the girls had finished their homework, and the parents were alone in the kitchen. Russell had a great desire to be adopted by them, but knew it was crazy. One Saturday he had almost knocked on their door to tell them that he was their son of sorts, their son of the third floor window. Their son of the school next door.
    This was the first time he’d had a strange and obviously bizarre thought. He would have many as the years went by and he was always able to control them, but barely. He’d started to act out in strange ways, mostly on the football field at first. He loved the violence of the sport. Then he began taking dares, any dare, any challenge. Lately, it had been shoplifting. He’d stolen records by the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, even though he could have paid for them.
    “We’ve come to see you about the Greek, Lieutenant,” a PFC, maybe nine years old, was speaking for the whole first floor. The younger boys of this floor had elected him to speak for them. Four other boys had come up to the third floor dormitory where the oldest boys lived.
    Russell put down his book, closed the