All These Monsters Page 6

  The lobby was absolutely stuffed with people laughing and chatting. A security guard was pushing a reporter and her cameraman toward the exit.

  We followed the signs to the ballroom, which was huge, easily seating a thousand people, and already over half full. Rows of chairs faced the front of the room, where an elevated platform was set up with a microphone.

  The room practically vibrated with excitement. Chatter and laughter echoed all around me. Four huge men with military-style haircuts passed us, talking loudly and fist-bumping each other.

  “Let’s sit there,” Noah said, pointing to a row in the middle of the room that was empty except for an auburn-haired boy.

  Noah skipped ahead without waiting for our reply, and plunked down right next to the boy. He looked up, clearly alarmed, and then glanced at the completely empty rows in front of and behind him. He was light-skinned and freckled, with a long, thin nose.

  “Hello, I’m Noah,” said Noah, either oblivious or choosing to ignore the boy’s why are you sitting next to me face. I slid into the seat next to Patrick.

  “Archer.” He spoke so softly that I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.

  “Archie?” Patrick asked.

  “Archer,” he said, a little louder.

  “People probably call you Archie, though, right? Like the comic?”

  “No.” He paused for a beat. “Or, I’d rather they didn’t.”

  Patrick was clearly trying not to laugh. “Got it. Archer it is.”

  “Archer from . . .” Noah prompted.

  “Ohio. Outside Springfield.”

  “Never been,” Noah said. “Like I said, I’m Noah, from Asheville, that’s Patrick, and Clara. They’re both from Texas.”

  “Austin,” Patrick said, because people from Austin didn’t think they were actually part of Texas.

  Noah opened his mouth and then abruptly snapped it shut. His eyes widened.

  “Is that Madison St. John?” His tone was almost reverent.

  A blond girl in impressively high heels was striding toward the microphone at the front of the room. She wore a pristine white dress, the kind that always seemed hard to walk in to me. Couldn’t take big steps in a skirt that tight.

  Her shiny hair fell over one shoulder as she leaned into the microphone. “Excuse me,” she said sweetly. The room immediately quieted. “If you could please take your seats, we’d appreciate it. Move all the way into the center of the rows. We’ll be starting in five minutes.”

  “Is she related to Grayson?” I asked, watching as she walked away from the microphone. Three-fourths of the room was watching her. The whole world tilted in the direction of Madison St. John. She pretended not to notice.

  “Yeah,” Noah said, looking at me strangely. “She’s his younger sister. You don’t know who Madison is?”

  “I didn’t know who Grayson was until a couple days ago.”

  He looked even more baffled. Archer leaned over and peered at me like maybe I was making a joke he didn’t understand.

  “But . . .” Noah typed furiously into his phone, then flipped the screen to face me. “Seriously?”

  He’d typed “Madison St. John tabloid.” The screen was covered in tabloid covers featuring Madison in various poses. Madison walking out of a coffee shop with a man in sunglasses and a headline that said MADISON AND JULIAN: BACK TOGETHER? Madison and Grayson smiling above the words AMERICAN ROYALTY. Madison in sunglasses and messy hair, still looking like a supermodel, the headline reading MADISON ST. JOHN’S WILD NIGHT.

  “Huh,” I said. “I didn’t know they were famous.”

  “Really?” Patrick said with a laugh.

  “I’ve never kept up with celebrity stuff. What were they famous for before this?” I asked.

  “Being rich?” Noah lifted his hands in a shrug.

  “And hot,” Patrick said. “And hanging out with celebrities. I’m surprised they never had their own reality show, honestly.”

  “There’s still time,” Noah said. He paused. “Assuming we don’t all die.”

  “Reality television execs everywhere wait with bated breath,” Patrick said.

  More people filed into the room, until almost every seat was full and the noise in the room had reached alarming levels. I was relieved to see that there were far more women than had been on my bus—probably sixty-forty men to women. Our group of four was definitely younger than most of the people around us. The man sitting on the other side of me had an impressive beard and was at least in his late twenties.

  The room quieted as Grayson St. John strolled through the door, hands slid into the pockets of his perfectly fitted black pants. Everyone was on their feet suddenly, thunderous applause echoing through the ballroom. I stood and joined them. I supposed he deserved a standing ovation, since he got me out of Texas.

  Grayson had an easy smile on his face as he waved to the cheering crowd. He and Madison both looked exactly as one would expect someone with the last name St. John to look. They were both slim and blond, the sort of white people you’d find playing golf and saying things like we’re going to the yacht club with the Vanderbilts later, dear.

  Madison walked to the microphone first, Grayson standing back a bit.

  “Hello,” Madison said into the microphone. More cheers. “Thanks for coming,” Madison said, then stopped and smiled. Everyone laughed, even though it wasn’t really funny. “I won’t take up too much of your time. I’m here to introduce my brother. And to let you know that the rumors are true—I’m joining the recruits.”

  “YEAH,” someone yelled. Laughter and cheers followed.

  “So if you have any doubts about your ability, just look at me.” She swept her hand down. “Do I look ready to go off to battle?” More laughter. “If I can do it, anyone can.”

  I hoped that became our official slogan. If we can do it, anyone can!

  “But you’re not here for me. Without further ado, my brother, Grayson St. John.” Madison stepped back from the microphone, and Grayson took her place. We stood up and clapped again, in case he hadn’t felt enough love the first time.

  “Thank you,” Grayson said with an embarrassed laugh as the applause began to die down. We all took our seats again. “I appreciate that. I’ve mostly been hearing that I’m an anarchist traitor these days.”

  “They’re idiots!” someone yelled.

  “Thank you. Agreed.” He smiled. “Just a note, you can feel free to film this and post it wherever. All our activities will be public. We don’t have anything to hide.”

  A few people whooped. Several phones popped up in the front few rows. Noah whipped his out as well.

  “First of all,” Grayson began, “welcome. And thank you so much for coming. I was worried when I put the call out that I’d only get a few hundred people. But I’m proud to report that as of today, we’ve had almost ten thousand people volunteer.”

  My mouth dropped open as everyone cheered. I wasn’t the only crazy one, it seemed.

  “We have tryouts happening in Los Angeles, Beijing, Paris, London, Berlin, Bangkok, Warsaw, Madrid, Sydney, and a few more I’m forgetting,” Grayson said. “We’ll be partnering with teams all over the world. The response has been incredible. Thank you.”

  More applause. “So let me tell you what you can expect if you’re put on a team. This is a completely voluntary program. You are under no obligation to stay. But you will receive a stipend at the end of every two weeks of service. The stipend increases every week you serve. But let me be clear. This will be very dangerous. There are easier ways to make money. If you decide to walk away and just call this a free trip to Atlanta, I won’t blame you.”

  He pointed to the men in blue shirts lined up against the wall. “These are your team leaders. We lost five guys a month ago when we went to Germany to finalize battle strategies. Five well-trained guys died fighting these things.” His face was serious. “Please understand what you’re getting into.”

  The room had gone silent. I drew in a slow breath as I regarded the team leaders. One tall, thin man had a long scar down his face, straight through his right eye, and I wondered if it was glass. Another man wore a knee brace, angry red claw marks poking out from the edges.

  “But if you choose to stay, you’ll be part of something special,” Grayson continued. “This is your opportunity to actually take action. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of sitting around complaining. I’m tired of watching our government make excuses for not helping people. I’m tired of watching them turn away from suffering.”

  A few people murmured their agreement.

  “Congress says it’s too risky to send Americans overseas to fight scrabs. But I’m of the opinion that we are plenty strong enough if we partner with people from other countries. We don’t have to leave them to do this alone.” He pointed at us. “It won’t be easy. In fact, it will probably be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. But together, I think we can kick some serious scrab ass.”

  The room exploded with cheers, and he paused until they died down. “So, the particulars. We’re doing two days of tryouts. There should be a name tag with a number in your folder. Please attach that to the back of your shirt. We’ve rented out a few gyms, so you’ll need to take the bus over. They’ll be waiting in front of your hotel. We’ll evaluate you, then you’ll be divided into teams based on your native language and abilities. You’ll have an experienced team leader who will be in charge of your training, then your assignments. The length of training depends on how quickly your team progresses. But don’t expect more than six weeks.”

  Terror unfurled in my chest. I’d be out fighting scrabs in six weeks? Less, maybe?

  “Jesus,” Patrick muttered.

  “Americans under the age of twenty, you can expect less, since you were required to take combat classes in school. All meals and lodging and transportation will be covered while you’re with us,” Grayson said. “You won’t need to spend a dime. But don’t expect high-class accommodations. We’ve rented a sports complex in Paris for training, and it won’t be nearly as nice as the rooms you’re in now. We’ve set up cots, and many of you will be sharing a room with at least twenty people. The schedule will be brutal occasionally, but I also hope we’ll have some fun.” He smiled. “Are you guys ready to get started?”

  Cheers erupted all around me. It sounded like we were ready.

  9

  Buses were waiting in front of the hotel, and they took us to a large building with a sign that said BOXING, MARTIAL ARTS, TRAINING. We filed inside and through a lobby packed with workout clothes and fancy sports drinks for sale.

  The gym consisted of several different large rooms, and the men in blue shirts took us through them quickly. There was a boxing ring, a room with bags hanging from the ceiling, and a huge area that had been set up with different stations, military boot camp style.

  “One fifty to two hundred with me!” a tall, bulky man called. He stood in the corner of the boot camp room.

  I was number 187, so I walked to him, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves. It was starting to sink in that there was a real chance I might not be good enough to join. One in five.

  “Hey, I’m Wallace,” the man said. He was one of those guys who was so muscular it almost appeared painful. Was it comfortable trying to sleep on all that hard muscle?

  He also had four long, thin scars across both arms that had clearly been made by claws, and he was missing two fingers—the pinky and ring—on his left hand. I swallowed as I balled my own fingers into fists.

  “We’ll be moving fast,” Wallace said. “Get used to it. We’re going to get into the fight as quickly as possible, so there’s no time for coddling. And before we get started, I’d just like to remind you that you’re free to leave whenever you want. No one’s keeping you here.” He held up his left hand to show off his three remaining fingers. “This isn’t a video game. This is real life, and trust me, fighting these things is no joke.”

  His eyes skipped over the group, like he thought we might take the opportunity to run right now.

  “Good,” he said when no one moved. “We’re scheduled to do running first today, then the obstacle course, then boxing, and back to the obstacle course at the end.”

  “Oh, god,” a voice beside me whispered. It was a short, pretty girl with light brown skin and black hair tied into a high ponytail. She wore a bright pink T-shirt that said NORTH HILLS CHEER on it. “I’ve never boxed before.” She looked at me like I might be able to fix this.

  “I haven’t either,” I said. She chewed on her lip like that didn’t make her feel better.

  “Tomorrow you’ll go to the shooting range for target practice,” Wallace continued. “And you’ll do some hand-to-hand combat to see how you’d do actually fighting a scrab. We’re giving you lots of opportunities to show your stuff, and also the chance for each of us to evaluate you. I’ll be your point of contact for the next two days, but all the team leaders will be rotating through, watching you. Just do your best. It’s not a competition.”

  It was definitely a competition. No one said it’s not a competition unless it was.

  “All right, let’s get going.” Wallace clapped his hands together and started walking toward the exit.

  “Right.” The cheerleader next to me let out a huge breath. “No problem. I can do this.” She had a hint of a Southern accent.

  “For sure,” I said.

  She flashed me a smile. I could see why she was a cheerleader. She had a smile that was impossible not to return. I glanced at the paper pinned to the back of her shirt as she followed Wallace. Priya Mehta 153.

  We walked outside, where Wallace explained that we’d be running around the building, which they’d mapped as a little under a quarter of a mile for one lap.

  “You won’t be running on a track fighting scrabs,” he explained. “First lap is half walk, half slow jog. Then we’ll really get started.”

  I swallowed down a wave of nerves. Like Priya said. No problem. I can do this.

  * * *

  By the end of day one, my body felt like one giant bruise.

  The running was fine, as expected, but the boxing portion consisted of getting repeatedly pummeled by a tall girl who giggled every time I fell. They paired me with two other girls, with even more disastrous results.

  The obstacle course was a tire run (OK), hurdles (less OK), a net climb (bad), monkey bars (fail), and a rope climb (total fail).

  I hobbled back to the bus and sank into a seat. My body was weak and heavy, and I was pretty sure I was starving, but it was hard to tell at this point. Everything sort of ached. I closed my eyes. Maybe if I just slept until tomorrow, I wouldn’t even care.

  Someone dropped into the seat next to me with a giant sigh. I opened my eyes to see a boy with dark hair leaning his head against the seat in front of him. His tag said Edan Pearce 102.

  Edan. That was the name Grayson called the thief who tried to rob Patrick.

  Edan turned and straightened with a start. He was missing his leather jacket, instead wearing a gray T-shirt and black track pants. He had several tattoos down his left arm, and at least one more poking out from the sleeve of his other arm.

  “Seriously?” I said.

  “Seriously what?” One side of his mouth lifted like something was funny.

  “You’re trying out?”

  “Well, I didn’t just do that shit for fun.”

  The bus jerked away from the curb, and he put a hand on the seat in front of him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

  It wasn’t really a surprise that Grayson didn’t disqualify people because of a little criminal activity. Though it did make me wonder where he’d draw the line, if he drew one at all.

  “Why?” I asked.

  Edan turned to me again, lifting an eyebrow. He had truly impressive eyes—green, with a hint of gray—and I could just imagine him leaning closer to a girl, batting his lashes as he slipped her wallet out of her purse.

  “Why’d you join?” he retorted.

  I shrugged. “Why not?”

  “I mean . . .” He started ticking the reasons off on his fingers. “Death, dismemberment, the fact that the US government hates us—”

  “OK, I really—”

  “The possibility of lifelong PTSD, we have to share a room with twenty people, the food is probably going to be terrible—”

  “I don’t—”

  “We’re headed off to exercise all day for weeks, and I don’t know about you, but I hate exercising. We don’t—”

  “It was rhetorical,” I said loudly. “Jesus.”

  “Just pointing out the facts.” The bus hit a bump, and he grabbed the seat in front of him like it was going to save him. “Will you switch seats with me?”

  “What?”

  “Switch seats with me. I may need to puke out the window.”

  “What? Really?”

  “Yes, I get motion sick.” He jumped out of his seat and gestured for me to move. I quickly slid out and glanced around for a different seat. It was a totally full bus. I gingerly sat down next to Edan again, hugging the edge in case vomit came flying in my direction.

  He pushed the window open and leaned his forehead against it, the breeze ruffling his dark hair.

  “Better?” I asked.

  “Yes. Thank you. The air helps.”

  I watched him until I felt safe I wasn’t about to see his lunch. “Why’d you join, then? If we’re all going to die and be dismembered.”

  “There are worse things to do, I guess.”

  I hadn’t given him a real answer either, so I couldn’t exactly complain about the one he’d just offered up.

  The bus hit another bump, and Edan took in a sharp breath.

  “I hate buses,” he said. He was sitting very still. “And cars. And anything that moves. Well, except the subway. The subway isn’t as bad, for some reason.”

  “Plus good opportunities to rob people on a subway,” I said.

  “Sometimes I took it just to get places.” His lips twitched like he might smile, but he seemed to think better of it. He focused on a spot outside.