All These Monsters Page 4

  I screamed. I tried to avoid hysterics with Dad—it was just used against me—but I needed whatever distraction Laurence could provide. Him simply emerging from his room might be enough for me to bolt.

  Dad used his grip on my arm to hurl me into my room. I stumbled and hit the ground on my knees. The door slammed shut behind me.

  “I’m protecting you!” he yelled. “That idiot will get you killed!”

  I dove for the handle, but Dad must have been holding it shut.

  “Veronica, get me that rope from the back.”

  I froze. He was locking me in. I could handle Dad pounding the shit out of me before I made my escape, but if he made me miss my bus, it was all over.

  I sank back on my heels, an unexpected blast of terror shooting down my spine. I’d been so scared to go, but now, faced with the possibility that I couldn’t go, I wanted to scream again. Tears pricked my eyes.

  “What the hell is going on?” Laurence’s voice was right outside my door. My head shot up, and I wiped at the tears that had spilled down my cheeks. “Did you lock her in?”

  “Don’t touch that,” Dad said. “I said don’t touch that!”

  “Get off me!” Laurence yelled, followed by a grunt.

  I tried the doorknob again. It twisted this time, but the door caught on something when I tried to push it open. Dad had tied it shut.

  “Get off of—Veronica, are you going to help me here?” Dad yelled.

  I heard more grunts, followed by another yell from Dad. He was bigger than Laurence, but my brother was apparently putting up quite a fight.

  “You want your sister to go get herself killed?” Mom screamed.

  More grunts.

  I stared at the door. It wasn’t anything special—just a standard, white plywood door you’d find in any home. It wasn’t all that sturdy.

  Why was I just sitting here? What if Dad knocked Laurence out? It wouldn’t be the first time.

  I looked around the room. Shockingly, I didn’t keep anything in my room that would help break down a door. That was bad planning on my part.

  I looked down at my boots. Those would have to do.

  I scooted closer to the door. I lifted my feet up. I slammed them against the wood.

  Pain rippled up my legs. I ignored it and slammed my shoes against the wood again.

  “What is that?” Dad yelled.

  Footsteps ran down the hallway. “Clara?” It was Mom.

  I kicked the door again. The wood splintered. A victorious thrill raced down my spine.

  “Clara, stop!” Mom screamed.

  I kicked the door harder. I kicked it until a piece of wood began to split off, then I grabbed it and pulled it away. I bashed my boots against it a few more times. Another piece. The hole was finally big enough to crawl through.

  I grabbed my backpack and threw it out first. Then I crawled through, hands first, then shoulders, then hips (barely), legs, and I was out.

  I jumped to my feet and scooped up my backpack. Mom stood pressed against the wall, horror and astonishment on her face.

  I turned to the living room. Laurence had Dad pinned face-down to the ground. Blood poured from Laurence’s nose, and he was breathing heavily, but his face broke into a smile when our eyes met.

  “Run, Clara.”

  I darted out of the hallway and across the living room. I flung the door open and dared a glance back at Laurence. Dad was struggling with all his might, wriggling and squirming on the ground.

  I slammed the door shut behind me. My feet hit the pavement, my backpack bouncing as I ran. Dad’s screams faded behind me.

  Part Two

  Team Loser

  6

  I ran all the way to the bus stop, and then spent the entire ride peering out the window, heart pounding as I searched for Dad’s car. It never appeared. Tears pricked my eyes. I wasn’t sure if it was relief or fear.

  I’d done it. I was seriously volunteering to fight scrabs. I took in a ragged breath.

  I spotted the Grayson St. John bus as soon as we pulled into the station. A white sign taped to the back said RECRUITS, and a few people were in line to board.

  My bus let me off at the end of the parking lot, and I gripped the straps of my backpack as I walked across it. A couple nearby was saying goodbye, the guy with a bag slung over his shoulder, the girl sobbing. He said something that didn’t seem to comfort her in the least.

  Everyone had boarded the bus except for a balding man holding a clipboard. Another bus screeched to a stop behind me.

  “Atlanta for tryouts?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Name?”

  “Clara Pratt.”

  He scanned his sheet and crossed something off. “You’re a minor? I need your consent form.”

  I dug the forged consent form out of my bag and handed it over. He barely glanced at it before slipping it in a folder. I bit back a smile.

  “You by yourself?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Perfect. I have one more spot on this bus. Hop on.”

  I gripped the straps of my backpack and stepped onto the bus. A sea of faces stared at me.

  Probably about 70 percent of the bus was male. And they were mostly big guys, with broad shoulders and muscles. A few had military-style haircuts. The women were all older than me, probably in their twenties and thirties, and some of them looked like they were also no strangers to the weight room.

  People were talking and laughing, like they already knew each other. Were we supposed to enlist with friends? Or were they bonding in that way normal people did when they met someone with similar interests?

  The only open seat was in the back, next to a girl about my age with pale skin and dyed black hair. She peered at me, didn’t appear to approve of what she saw, and turned back to the window.

  I walked down the aisle and sat down, backpack in my lap. The girl wore leggings, an old white T-shirt, and, notably, handcuffs. They weren’t attached, a chain dangling from each wrist, like they’d been cut off.

  It was jewelry. Probably.

  She caught me staring and raised an eyebrow.

  I quickly looked away.

  * * *

  “Hey.”

  I turned at the whisper from across the aisle. We were five hours into the twelve-hour drive to Atlanta, and so far I’d spoken to no one.

  It was the tall, ridiculously attractive Asian American boy seated in the row across from me. He had tousled black hair, long, lean limbs, and a smile like he’d never been so happy to see anyone as he was to see me. He should have been modeling skinny jeans, not joining an elite group of monster hunters.

  “Were those handcuffs on her wrists?” he whispered, his gaze cutting to where my seatmate had disappeared into the bathroom.

  “I think they’re jewelry? I hope?” I said softly.

  He tilted his head back as he laughed. He had the sort of laugh that put normal people at ease. The guy in front of him actually looked back and smiled just at the sound of it.

  “I’m Patrick,” he said, extending his hand to me.

  I shook it. “Clara.”

  He leaned closer, gesturing for me to lean in as well. “Do you get the feeling we’re on the wrong bus?”

  I laughed softly, relieved he felt the same way. “Yeah. Everyone seems kind of . . .”

  “Intense? Yeah. This guy next to me?” He glanced over his shoulder as if to confirm the large bearded man next to him was still asleep. “He went to Belgium last year with friends to chase down scrabs. Just for kicks. One of them stuffed a scrab head, shipped it back to himself, and hung it on his wall.”

  “Wow. That’s . . .”

  “Illegal?” he guessed.

  “I was going to say intense, but that too.”

  His eyes skipped over me, though not in a sleazy way. It was hard to describe how some men simply surveyed you, and others were obviously mentally running their hands all over your body. You just knew.

  “You didn’t run off to Europe to chase scrabs for fun, did you?” he asked. “I guess I’m making assumptions because you look young.”

  “No, you’re right. I’m seventeen. No time for trips to Europe yet.”

  “Eighteen. Are you done with high school?”

  “I mean, it wasn’t done with me, but I ended the relationship anyway.”

  He laughed. “I can respect that. I mean, I did well in school and everyone loved me, but not everyone is so lucky.”

  “And you’re so modest about it too.”

  “Modesty is overrated. I’m great, honestly. Just wait until you get to know me.” He leaned out of the aisle as the handcuffed girl exited the restroom. I stood so she could slide back into her seat.

  Patrick grabbed a black messenger bag from the floor and flipped it open to reveal snacks—chips, cookies, nuts, a few sodas, even some sandwiches packed in plastic bags. He noticed me watching him, and I quickly looked away.

  “Did you forget snacks?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I lied.

  “Here. Do you like peanut butter? My mom packed me enough for five people.”

  He held out one of the sandwiches and a bag of chips. I could see why everyone loved him.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking the sandwich. My stomach had been rumbling for hours. In fact, he may have heard it.

  I unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. Patrick passed me a soda, and I smiled at him as I took it.

  “So why’d you join?” he asked.

  I chewed slowly, considering how to answer that question. “The fame. The glory.”

  “Well, of course.”

  “What about you?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t notice that I hadn’t given a serious answer.

  “Well, I was always complaining about
the government’s policy to close our borders and not help overseas. I marched and protested and yelled at my dumb friends until they were smarter. So when the opportunity came up, I couldn’t really say no. What was I going to do, make my Facebook picture a solidarity ribbon again and not join? I mean, come on.”

  “Sure.” I was surrounded by badasses and do-gooders, as expected. I was going to be the only loser who joined just to put an entire ocean between her and her family.

  “Are you from Dallas?” I asked.

  “No, Austin, but Dallas was the only Texas bus. My boyfriend drove me.” He rolled his eyes like he’d just remembered something annoying. “Ex-boyfriend. He said he couldn’t be in a relationship with someone if he was scared for their life the whole time.”

  That sounded reasonable to me. “That sucks.”

  “Meh. Clearly I can do better.” His phone dinged, and he pulled it out of his pocket. A smile twitched at his lips. He typed something and glanced over at me. “Are your parents freaking out too?”

  “A little bit.”

  “My mom’s been texting me every twenty minutes.”

  I popped a chip in my mouth. “I guess it’s good I don’t have a phone.” I’d really wanted it, but now I wondered if Dad would have kept the service on for the sole purpose of sending me mean texts. He loved dropping terrible shit on me randomly, probably just to ruin my day.

  Patrick’s eyebrows knitted together. It was weird not to have a phone, and I realized too late that I probably shouldn’t have admitted it. He looked from my five-year-old backpack, dirty and frayed at the edges, to my scuffed combat boots. Judging by his perfectly fitted jeans, the expensive laptop I’d glimpsed earlier, and the designer label on his messenger bag, he’d never spent a second of his life wanting for anything.

  “Were they OK with you coming?” I asked before he figured out how to ask why I didn’t have a phone. “Your parents?”

  “Sort of.” A sheepish expression crossed his face. “So . . . Yeah, I’m just going to tell you this story. Why not.” He laughed. “I’d been planning to come out to my parents for a while. I figured they kind of knew, especially my mom, but I thought I should do it, like, officially.”

  “Sure.”

  “But then this happened, and I figured . . .” He lifted both shoulders, making a face like I don’t know. “I could just do both at the same time.”

  “What?” I asked with a laugh.

  “I wasn’t sure how they were going to take the gay news, so I decided to just immediately follow it up with the scrab news. And then they’d be so distracted by me running off to fight scrabs in Europe that they wouldn’t care at all about me being gay.”

  “Smart.”

  “Thank you. So I walked in, and I said, ‘Dad, Mom, Grandma—’”

  “Jesus, your Grandma was there too?”

  “Well, she lives with us, so she’s always there. I said, ‘Dad, Mom, Grandma, I’m gay. And also I’ve signed up for Grayson St. John’s fight squads.’”

  “How’d they take it?”

  “Oh, it worked perfectly. They barely even reacted to me being gay.” He pointed one finger at his face. “Master of avoiding conflict here. I think that one was my proudest moment.”

  “How out are you now?” I asked, even though I suspected I knew the answer. But I was the sort of person who liked to keep her secrets, and I didn’t want to go around spilling other people’s. “With everyone here, I mean.” I gestured around the bus.

  “It’s not a secret. Please tell everyone so I don’t have to do it,” he said.

  I smiled. “Got it.”

  His phone dinged again, and he rolled his eyes as he pulled it out of his pocket. “She only made it three minutes.” His face shifted into surprise when he looked at the screen. It was a happy surprise, the kind that made his lips curve up. He typed something and glanced over to see me watching him.

  “My dad this time,” he said. He was still smiling as he returned his phone to his pocket. He looked at me quickly, like he’d just remembered something. “Do you want to use my phone to call your parents? Or anyone?”

  “No, thank you.” I wanted to check on Laurence, but I didn’t have his number memorized. I’d have to email him later.

  “Your parents were mad?” he guessed. It was the guess of someone who had a good relationship with his parents.

  “I’m pretty sure they think I’m crazy,” I said lightly.

  “We’re not crazy. We’re brave. We just have to keep reminding people of that.” He grinned.

  “Sure,” I said with a laugh.

  Brave. I’d have to keep reminding myself of that, actually.

  7

  It was dark when we arrived in Atlanta. We were surrounded by tall buildings on all sides, lights twinkling in the darkness. A billboard advertised the new Apple Watch: NOW WITH SCRAB SENSOR! There were a lot of people on the streets, even at this hour. We must have been downtown.

  The bus was starting to come alive, people stretching and checking their phones as they woke up. The girl beside me rubbed a hand across her eyes.

  “The Centennial Park Memorial is on your left!” a male voice called from the front of the bus.

  I turned to look. We were driving by Centennial Olympic Park, the site of one of the worst scrab attacks in the US. Hundreds had died. The images on the news had showed destroyed fountains, bodies lying in the grass, a statue in pieces.

  The memorial was built about a year ago, a plain stone tower that listed all the names of those who had died there. It was faint in the darkness, partially hidden behind a tree, but I could make out the flowers, stuffed animals, and crosses that surrounded it.

  The overhead lights clicked on as we neared the end of the street. We jerked to a stop.

  When I stepped off the bus, the first thing I noticed was the sign on the street corner. I’d never seen one in person before.

  Scrab sighting?

  Dial 911 or

  Text SCRAB to 911

  SEEK SHELTER

  My fingers tightened around the straps of my backpack as I looked down at the pavement. I’d never been in a city with a scrab threat before. There could have been one beneath my feet right at that moment, waiting for the right time to attack.

  No wonder so many people had fled the East Coast cities. Half the residents of Florida never went back after the initial attack and evacuation in the summer of 2010, and I certainly couldn’t blame them. Dallas might have been one of the most expensive cities in the country, but at least we’d never had to deal with scrabs.

  I tried not to think about it. If I spent too much time dwelling on scrabs, I might remember that I’d signed up to go to Europe, where there would definitely be scrabs beneath my feet.

  I found Patrick standing next to a large roller bag. The bus driver was still unloading bags, and Patrick didn’t do a good job of hiding his surprise when I walked right by the pile of suitcases with only my backpack.

  The balding man who had checked us in in Dallas stood near the bus, gesturing wildly as he talked on his phone.

  “Yes! A full bus from Dallas!” he said. “And there’s a second one about half an hour behind us. What are they supposed to do, sleep in the streets?”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Patrick said.

  The man listened for a moment. “Yeah, all right. Tell Grayson I’ll send them over.” He lowered his phone and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Recruits! There’s room for thirty of you at this hotel.” He pointed to a group of guys standing near the door. “You guys can stay here. Everyone else—you’re going to the Hyatt. It’s a short walk that way.” He pointed behind me, and then began walking, gesturing for us to follow him.

  “Well, at least we don’t have to sleep in the streets.” Patrick grabbed his roller bag, and we followed the other recruits down the sidewalk. People turned to stare. They must have heard we were coming.

  A homeless man stood across the street, belongings at his feet, and he held his sign up higher as we passed. THE END OF THE WORLD ALREADY HAPPENED, YOU MISSED IT.

  We approached an intersection, and the walk signal changed to a flashing hand as Patrick and I drew closer. The recruits in front of us made a run for it, leaving the two of us behind.

  “Let’s just wait,” Patrick said as the hand went solid and cars began speeding past. He pointed. “The Hyatt’s right there.”