by Earl, Collin
***
Boom . . . Boom . . . Boom!
What is that? Monson groaned sleepily, still under a copious amount of covers. He heard it again.
Boom!
Was it getting louder?
BOOM!
The sound . . . it felt like . . . something was here. Right on top of him.
Ahh, crap, Monson thought. He thought he knew what the "boom" was. Monson pushed the comforter off his head and caught a fleeting glimpse of Artorius leaning on the big oak doors. He appeared greatly amused. Before Monson could say anything, he felt a sharp pain in his chest as Casey's highflying form crumpled into him.
"Time to get up, Scarface!" Casey dug his elbow further into Monson's chest, knocking the wind out of him. "You’ve slept long enough."
It took Monson a minute to get Casey off and inhale enough air to answer. "What time is it?" Monson tried to rub the tiredness out of his eyes.
"Five thirty. You see, you've gone and spoiled everything now." Casey grinned. "You aren't going to sleep tonight, and you’ll be extra-tired for class tomorrow."
"Speaking of which," Monson said, suddenly thinking of something, "when do we find out our course schedules?"
"Tomorrow morning," Casey replied, propping himself up on an elbow next to Monson. "Though four of our classes are already chosen for us." His face soured slightly. "Comes with the territory, I guess."
There was a loud rumble, making all three boys jump. Laughter broke out when Monson's stomach gave another massive grumble.
"Dude," Casey said through a burst of mirth, "when was the last time you ate? You sound like you're dying."
"It’s been a couple of days since I’ve eaten properly," Monson admitted. "I was just too nervous to keep anything down."
"Well, that settles it, doesn't it!" Artorius exclaimed. "We need to find this boy some food."
"It's about that time anyway," Casey agreed, checking his watch, "or you know we wouldn't bother." He grinned deviously, seeing how Monson would react to his banter.
"Really," Monson eyes narrowed as he caught on. "Hey Case, how's Kylie? As I recall, you have a story to tell us." Then, looking at Artorius, he added, "Well, you have a story to tell ME at least."
Casey blanched and tried to reply, but appeared to be at a loss for words.
"Ahhh," Monson crooned mockingly in a high voice, "You're embarrassed. How sweet!"
Casey flushed a deep crimson and Artorius laughed. Instead of answering, Casey slid off the bed and started to move toward the door. Monson laughed and threw a fist in the air. "It looks like that's one for me, Cassius."
Casey suddenly stopped, as if he was contemplating something, and then said abruptly, "Ah, screw this!" He unexpectedly whipped around and ran, jumping at the last second. Monson watched in horror as Casey sailed toward him. "All right, Hero," Casey yelled through muffled laughter, as he landed on top of Monson for at least the third time that day, "let's see what you got!"
Chapter 6 - Reception
"So where does a brotha go to find some grub ‘round here?" Casey inquired in a loud, obnoxious voice. "Arthur, isn't there supposed to be some sort of student store?"
"Don't call me Arthur, Cassius."
"Holy-Hannah-freaking-Montana, you're annoying. Are you gonna answer my flipping question or am I going to have to beat it out of you?"
Artorius contorted his face in a comical fashion, crossing his eyes and showing Casey a silly smile. Casey tried to fight it, but before long busted out in chuckles. They had a good laugh.
"OK, but seriously," Casey wiped a tear from the corner of his eyes, "Grey is scarred and scary. He shouldn't be ghastly and malnourished too. That's just bad form."
"Casey!" Artorius glanced over at Monson as he attempted to whisper. "What did I tell you? You can't say crap like that. Grey might be sensitive."
Monson raised an eyebrow. "Umm . . . I can hear you Arthur, and don't worry, I don't mind. Casey's complete lack of tact or anything resembling charm is refreshing."
Casey smiled and bowed. Monson chuckled as his eyes wandered toward the window. The image of a cruel smile from underneath the unnatural blackness of a hood jumped out at him so unexpectedly that he flinched.
He quickly regained his composure, but Casey and Artorius noticed.
"Dude, are you OK? You seem a little jumpy."
Monson looked back at the window. Nothing. He rubbed his eyes and tried to think of something, anything, to tell them. "Well . . . you see . . . I was just thinking about these . . . weird . . . things on my bed."
Casey yawned. "Now that was an articulate and well-expressed thought."
Monson rolled his eyes. "The bed . . . there were these weird markings on the bed and I was just thinking about them. I found them when I was trying to stretch earlier."
They stared at him vacantly.
Monson smiled. "So I stretch! Apparently scar tissue makes it hard to move. Who knew?"
Artorius scratched at his head. "Grey, what do you mean by weird markings?"
"Well, weird is not exactly the word—more like comical. Here, I'll show you."
Monson pulled back the bed and mattress to show Casey and Artorius the heart and initials.
They both giggled like schoolgirls. Artorius was having a difficult time breathing. "Who seriously does that?"
Casey wasn't any better off. "Did we magically fall into a 1920s flick without me knowing it?"
Artorius shook his head. "Those films were silent, like, there was no sound."
He stared at Casey. "If only."
"Har har har, Arthur," Casey sneered. "Notice no one was laughing?"
They both faced Monson expectantly.
"Don't look at me. I'm just a bystander. Besides, I maintain that neither of you are very funny. So I'm not sure what you’re arguing about."
Both Casey and Artorius tried not to smile.
"Now, back to the food problem—"
"I think I can help you with that particular issue, Master Grey."
Brian entered Monson's room carrying three pairs of slacks, button-ups, sweater vests, and shoes. He arranged them at the foot of Monson's bed.
"Boys, if you would be so kind as to line up." Brian gestured to the bed.
The three boys exchanged looks. Casey was the one that spoke. "Yeah . . . so I don't believe we've actually been formally introduced."
"Cassius Kay and Arthur Paine, yes, I'm well aware of who you are. Now hurry, or Master Grey will be late."
Monson stifled a laugh; the expression on Casey's face was priceless. Accompanied by a significant amount of glaring, Casey did as he was told. The three boys lined up, shoulder to shoulder. Brian grabbed a set of clothes and held them up to the boys, sizing up each of them as he did. He took measurements and appeared pleased with himself.
Casey whispered a little louder than he probably meant to, "I feel like he's taking measurements for my coffin. Grey, are you sure this guy works here?"
Artorius' whisper wasn't subtle at all. "At least you're small and fit into most standard coffins. If he kills me, then I'll probably just be dumped in the woods."
Casey shook his head. "With that fire-bush you call hair, they'd find you too quickly. No, he’d chop off those hairy hobbit feet of yours to make you fit in a smaller box. Serves you right for being so tall."
Artorius raised a hand, placing it over his eyes. "Why I haven't popped you like the zit you are is beyond me."
Casey returned the banter with a rude gesture.
"Well, it appears I was spot-on with your sizes. Now all you need to do is change."
The three boys gawked at him.
"Change?" Monson asked. "Change for what?"
"For your reception, Master Grey. Now you need to hurry, or you're going to be late for the ball."
***
"Mr. Gatt is so getting punched when I see him next," Monson stated as he lingered side-by-side with Casey and Artorius. "Why didn't he say anything about this?"
Artorius b
it into a chunk of light, fluffy cake. He relished it before he answered. "He did Grey, earlier. It's not so bad. At least for the most part people are ignoring us."
That was certainly true. Not more than two people had said a word to Monson, Casey, or Artorius since the moment they had entered the lavish reception hall. This seemed odd to Monson; this was supposed to be a reception for the new Horum Vir, and as far as he knew, he was the new Horum Vir.
"There's food, so I'm not going to complain." Casey popped a meatball into his mouth. "They must have had a Master Chef's take on this. I'm almost positive the meatballs are Kobe beef."
Monson helped himself to one. It was absolutely amazing. OK, so the reception wasn't so bad.
"May I have your attention, please?"
The crowd quieted and turned toward a podium, similar to the one at orientation. Dean Dayton flashed a million-dollar smile. "I want to thank you all for coming tonight and on such short notice. It has been quite the year for…."
Another speech. Monson sighed, and let his mind wander. When was this thing going to be over?
"Mr. Grey, yes, yes, Mr. Grey, would you mind coming up?"
Monson froze. What had the Dean just been saying? He really needed to start paying attention.
The beam of a bright spotlight settled upon him and the only sound came from the uncomfortable throat clearing that seemed to have stricken many of the guests. Not knowing what else to do, Monson walked slowly to the front of the room. Applause followed, trickling in at first, before more of the audience joined in. The hall was roaring by the time he stood at the podium. Dean Dayton clapped as well, an incredibly fake smile affixed to his face. Monson smiled back and tried to look genuine, even as his mind raced.
Why would the Dean call him up here when they were doing such a fine job ignoring him? Monson squared himself behind the podium as the dean wrapped an arm around him. "Smile, Monson, all these people came to see you."
"Why would they come to see—"
"Ladies and gentlemen, I proudly present to you Monson Grey! Monson, why don't you tell us a bit about yourself? Where you come from, where you grew up, what’s happened to you in the last few months."
There was more clapping as the dean removed himself from the spotlight. Monson faced the crowd he could not see, his throat going dry. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't remember his past. What was he supposed to say?
The clapping lasted another thirty seconds and then died down in a fairly dramatic fashion, or maybe it just felt that way because of Monson's current predicament. The glare of the spotlight beat down on him. He managed to get out a few words. "Umm . . . yeah, well, like the dean said, I'm Monson Grey."
Monson froze. His voice failed him and his palms started to sweat. What the heck was he supposed to talk about? Maybe just some general information.
"I grew up here in Washington, in the central part, near Moses Lake. I was homeschooled . . . and . . . I like history."
Monson swallowed hard. That was about all he knew. He didn't know what else to say. Monson attempted to choke out another phrase. "I—I'm . . . happy to . . . to be here. Um . . . thank you."
Monson started to move away from the podium. An arm was around him before he could take more than half a step out. The dean was back at his side. "Thank you, Mr. Grey. Are there any questions for our new Horum Vir?"
An outbreak of movement and whispering among the audience made Monson wonder what they were all so worked up about. Monson was able to catch some of the chatter.
"Grey, as in him, as in the Grey?'
"Ask him what happened."
"Are you insane? No way! You ask him."
A woman's voice carried over the others, who were whispering. "Mr. Grey, yes, Mr. Grey. I'm Carol Williams. Just wanted to ask you a quick question: As the sole survivor of Baroty's Bridge, can you tell us what happened that day?"
Monson suddenly lost his ability to inhale, yet he didn't feel surprised by the question. That is what people really wanted to know. It was probably even the reason for the last-minute reception. It happened only a few months ago, and the investigation was still ongoing. Of course it was still ongoing; it was the worst attack in American history and they had no idea who did it.
Monson didn't say anything, or rather, was unable to say anything. It was unnaturally silent in the hall, like the audience was holding its collective breath. Monson looked skyward, only to see shadows. A flicker of movement caught his eye. The shadow — it moved. Monson tried to find the source. No luck; the lights were too bright.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen."
Monson looked to his left, hoping to see an ally, someone, anyone who might rescue him from this. Mr. Gatt stood calmly at his side; he was already addressing Ms. Williams.
"Ms. Williams, was it? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the Department of Homeland Security has specifically forbidden Monson from discussing the matter. National security, you understand. Besides, you would not want to put our young Horum Vir on the spot like that. It makes it appear that you have some kind of ulterior motive.
Monson had difficulty seeing Ms. Williams, but the note of discomfort in her voice was conspicuous. "Just curious! We're all so interested to get to know him as a representative of our school."
"Oh, well, as you can see, the caterers are passing out gift baskets now. An information packet has been included on Mr. Grey. Now, I am sure you are all dying to come and get to know Mr. Grey better, so we'll move along with the greeting portion of the evening. Please form a line at the base of the stage."
"Wait a moment," Dean Dayton tried to whisper. "Markin, what are you doing? Wait, I still—"
Mr. Gatt ignored the dean and steered Monson to a large stool. The dean stared after them, then, with a flash of anger, stormed off. The lights dimmed and Monson rubbed at his eyes. He could finally see properly. He did not like what he saw.
There was already a line—a big one. More than twenty people chatted among themselves while Mr. Gatt situated Monson.
"Mr. Gatt, what are you doing?"
Mr. Gatt whispered to him, "Saving you from answering a great deal of invasive questions, which I doubt you want to answer. Now sit."
Monson sat on the stool. The regal but frumpy woman at the head of the line came to him and offered a hand.
"Monson, this is the Duchess of Devonshire. She is a longtime supporter of Coren and responsible for most of the art you see on the campus."
"I also saw your performance at the Knowledge Bowl last year," the Duchess offered. "Marvelous, my dear boy, absolutely marvelous. I was sad to hear that you were part of the tragedy at Baroty's Bridge. How on earth did you ever survive such a horrible—"
"I apologize, Duchess," Mr. Gatt bowed formally, "but Mr. Grey has many people to meet tonight. If you like, I will take your card and you can contact Mr. Grey for a meeting, his schedule permitting, of course."
The Duchess shot Mr. Gatt a murderous stare. Monson was quite glad not to be on the receiving end of that. But the Duchess had enough tact not to make a scene; she exited quietly, without leaving her card.
"One down, Mr. Grey."
Monson tilted his head back to look at Mr. Gatt. "One down?"
Mr. Gatt smiled. "Yes, and probably one hundred or so to go."
Monson swore under his breath.
Mr. Gatt's grin grew wider. "My sentiments exactly."
Monson raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said that swearing was the product of a deranged mind, or something."
Mr. Gatt patted Monson on the shoulder. "Close enough, but in this case I am willing to make an exception. These people make me want to swear. Endure. We will accomplish this rather daunting task together. Now, the next guest is the head of Apple . . . ."
Monson sat up a little straighter. It was going to be a long night.
***
"If I ever have to do that again, I am simply going to put a bullet in my head."
It was close to midnight and Casey, Artorius, a
nd Monson were walking with Mr. Gatt through the massive reception hall.
"You did well." Mr. Gatt navigated the hall at a leisurely pace, but it was obvious he was tired, and with good reason. Mr. Gatt had spent most of the night helping Monson dodge any sort of personal questions, and doing so with such poise and charm that it was impossible to take offense. The man had obviously played this sort of political game before.
Monson shot a skeptical expression at Mr. Gatt. "I did well? I didn't do anything. You were the one insulting people in a brutally polite manner. You gonna tell me what all that was about?"
"Dude, I thought you were smart." Casey showed Monson one of the many well-known Internet search engines on his phone. "You'd probably guess if you took half a second to think about it."
Monson looked at the most commonly searched term of the hour, day, week, and even month. "Baroty's Bridge" lit up brightly for all eyes to see.
There were millions of searches on that term within the last hour alone.
"It must be a slow news week," Monson commented. "Baroty's Bridge happened months ago."
Casey asked incredulously, "Dude, have you been living in a box? Look at the headlines."
He pulled up a news feed search highlighting every story, article, or blog mentioning Baroty's Bridge. He put his phone up to Monson's face as they reached the doors leading outside, where they were greeted with a blast of surprisingly cool air. Monson grabbed Casey's phone and scanned the most popular results. There were millions of hits. Apparently Baroty's Bridge was a hot topic. If that was the case, why was everyone making such a ruckus about him?
"Speculation," Casey answered, as if he were reading Monson's thoughts.
Monson stopped dead in his tracks. Mr. Gatt gave Casey a reproving look. "Cassius, must we speak of such—"
Monson cut in. "What do you mean, speculation? Casey?"
Mr. Gatt and Casey looked at each other. Casey answered hesitantly, "Monson, no one has any idea what happened at Baroty's Bridge. If you were to read all these stories, blogs and newsreels, the only thing you'd get is frustrated. There has been no new information in months as to what left everyone on the bridge—all three hundred people—dead. All except you."
