by Hugh Howey
Things are getting messy downstairs. One of Pierce’s private security personnel, a woman with close-cropped hair, enters the room and whispers into Pierce’s ear. I can’t make out what’s said, but a look of resignation settles on Pierce’s face before she turns back to me.
PIERCE
They’ve forced my hand, Mr. Disher. The group outside is growing. We have no less than three hundred agitators on our hands, and they seem to be getting to the point where they are fine with committing property damage — they have just broken the windows out of several vehicles belonging to our staff.
(One of the attorneys swears audibly.)
Have Ms. Lovington dial our contact with the Nashville PD. I wish it had not come to this, but we expected it.
DISHER
What has it come to?
PIERCE
We have a group of protesters who, honestly, care nothing about public safety or the rules of law. They’ve started to damage my property, and even though their cause is noble in their minds, I feel threatened.
DISHER
(Voiceover)
At this point Lovington enters, glares at me, and hands Pierce a phone.
PIERCE
Unfortunately, I am going to have to call in the authorities. I wish that it didn’t come to this, but you and I both know that some people just can’t deny their… savage nature. Let’s hope that law enforcement doesn’t let that, well, color their reaction to this crowd. Now, if you’ll excuse me?
Ms. Lovington, please show Mr. Disher out.
MONSTER QUEENS
SARAH KUHN
1. TESS
EVERYONE THINKS THE talent competition is the hardest, but they’re wrong. It’s evening gowns, motherfuckers.
Let me set the scene for you. You’ve just been through seven grueling outfit changes (well, we really only do four these days), you’ve survived having your hair and face painted and patted and pushed into various uncomfortable formations (though that process has been streamlined since we ran out of both volumizing hairspray and volumizing mascara two weeks ago), you’re probably all sweaty from performing in the aforementioned talent competition (and that goes double at the moment since we’ve also exhausted our deodorant supply). Now you have to wriggle that worn-out body into a concoction of sequins and ruffles, paste on a smile that’s just a little bit different from the thousand smiles you’ve dished out for the past 2.5 hours, and project that much talked about but never fully explained thing called It Factor. You have to bring that shit home, because whatever you’re doing in evening gowns is going to be the last image the judges have of you. The one that lives in their minds as they do their final scoring.
And it’s especially grueling when you’ve been doing it every day for the past year.
Has it really been a year? I can’t believe I didn’t get to celebrate my twenty-first birthday with the traditional drunken bender. Every little girl’s dream.
Well. Anyway. The most important thing is, because I know this secret—that the evening gown portion is the hardest, that you have to conserve your strength until the very end—I always win. I have been crowned Miss Sweet Potato Pie three hundred and sixty-five consecutive days in a row and I plan to keep winning. Even if I don’t remember what sweet potato pie tastes like. I mostly only know energy bars at this point, though energy bars do come in a variety of flavors. Oatmeal Cookie. Cinnamon Apple Crunch. Blueberry Surprise—the surprise is that it’s made from the mealy, smashed-up remnants of other energy bars, but it’s actually my absolute favorite.
Much to my irritation, we’re out of Blueberry Surprise, so I cram a much less tasty Banana Nut in my face as I pace the confines of my aggressively beige dressing room, testing out my stilettos, even though the inner soles have basically molded around the bottoms of my feet by now. I’m thinking about how much energy I need to conserve, how much I need to have for the big finish. Swimsuits are next, then talent, then evening gowns. I pivot and pose in front of the mirror, smiling my perfect smile, tilting my head just so. My navy blue bikini with white piping and tiny bow accents is an ideal pageant suit, sexy in a playful way, demure enough to please the more conservative judges. And it’s accessorized perfectly with my beautiful Miss Sweet Potato Pie winner’s sash. Although …
I frown, zeroing in on a small patch of the suit by my left hip that’s gotten thin and pilly. I need to be careful about that. Maybe if I position my hand just right, I can cover it up? Or will I rub against the fabric too much, thereby contributing to the problem and leading me in the direction of causing an irreparable hole? I can already hear Auntie Irene in my head: “Sloppy, Tess. No wonder you always score so low on Poise.”
No. Shut the fuck up, Only In My Brain Version of Auntie Irene. I shake my head quickly, getting my mind back in the game. I can’t afford to expend all the precious energy I’m going to need for evening gowns. I can’t get distracted by—
“Tess!”
Someone on the other side of the door bellows my name, derailing my train of thought. I let out a tiny shriek, falling out of my swimsuit pose and nearly toppling over. Then I quickly compose myself—finding my balance, brushing my hair into place, arranging my features into a look of serene calm. A true beauty queen is never flustered for more than a millisecond.
I walk calmly to the door and open it, already knowing who I’m going to see on the other side.
“Priya,” I say, giving my competitor—sorry, pageant sister—a quizzical smile. “What are you doing here? I’ve told you, as much as I believe in Sweet Potato Princess bonding, I really and truly think it’s against the spirit of the competition to offer any tips—”
“That is not why I’m here, Tess,” she says, rolling her eyes and slamming the door.
Hmph. Rude.
“I need to know if you’ll do it,” she continues, reaching out to clasp my elbow, her eyes boring into me. I try to shake her off, but her grip remains firm—in her life before, Priya was apparently a star athlete of some sort and could bench press like a million pounds. She’s been semi-successful at maintaining that physique, crafting her own makeshift weights off the various bits of backstage detritus, like empty hairspray cans and chunky bracelets left behind by contestants who are no longer with us.
“Come on,” Priya says, her grip on my arm tightening. “Even you must know we have to try something. We can’t just stay here forever—”
“Damn, Priya,” I say, yanking my arm away from her. “I know you’re tired of losing, but you should work on your routine instead of trying to sabotage me. When we first got here, I wasn’t necessarily the best, but I worked at it, I worked really hard and—”
“And winning a meaningless competition somehow makes up for the fact that Mommy didn’t love you enough,” Priya spits out. She takes a step toward me and I will myself not to step back. My pageant sister doesn’t need to know I currently find her a bit intimidating.
Your pageant sisters are your forever sisters, Auntie Irene says in my head. Only they know what you’re going through. Only they have the same experience. It’s a bond that will take you through to the end of your days.
Ugh, I guess? That bond certainly didn’t mean anything to Zinnia Richards back when we were actual toddlers in tiaras competing for the prestigious title of Li’l Miss Daisy Do. Zinnia referred to me as “slanty weirdo lizard eyes” and then arranged for a bunch of melted candy bars to find their way into my garment bag and onto all of my dresses. Nothing’s more diabolical than a seven-year-old in pursuit of a sparkly crown and a fifty-dollar gift certificate to Gymboree.
“My ‘Mommy’ died when I was five, Priya,” I say, lifting my chin in what I hope is a haughty manner. “I’ve told you that like a kazillion times. Auntie Irene was my pageant guide and she loved—loves—me plenty.”
“There are only two of us left, Tess,” Priya bulldozes on. “Two. Are you willing to die for this?” She clamps her hands on my shoulders and shakes me a little. “Dammit. Why am I even trying? I can’
t count on you. I never could.”
Heat rises in my cheeks, and a crimson haze descends over my vision. It’s the same overwhelming rage that seems to come up at the most inopportune moments, the rage I thought I’d gotten under control. I need to have it under control in order to remain pageant perfect.
It’s the same rage that made me imitate Auntie Irene’s voice (I have always been able to perfectly replicate any voice after hearing it once) and call the front desk of the hotel where Wee Miss Pumpkin Patch was being held and claim there was a gas leak of some kind and oh, dear, the entire hotel needed to be evacuated. And then while everyone was distracted with that, I snagged the pair of scissors I wasn’t supposed to touch, snuck down to the dressing rooms, and cut nice, neat little holes in all of Zinnia Richards’ costumes. It was three whole months after she humiliated me at Li’l Miss Daisy Do and I held on to that rage the whole time.
For the moment, my rage overwhelms me enough to step forward. To force Priya to take a step back.
“My perfect performance is what’s keeping us alive right now,” I hiss. “So shut the fuck up and leave me out of your stupid plan.”
I don’t wait for her response. I stride past her, bumping her shoulder with mine as I go (I saw that in a movie once but never thought I’d actually have the chance to use it—ha!). Then I stomp through the backstage area, arriving at the curtain just as my name is called.
“And now, in swimwear: please welcome the reigning Miss Sweet Potato Pie, Tess Nakamura!”
The voice is low and disembodied, like a ghost in a half-price haunted house. For the second time in the span of fifteen minutes, I compose myself, adjusting my winner’s sash and calling up my perfect smile. I step out onto the stage and do my walk-and-wave.
“Beautiful!” gurgles Glorg IV from his spot on the judges’ podium. He can’t really clap because he doesn’t have hands, but he bobs up and down enthusiastically, his gelatinous purple body undulating like a massive Jell-O salad made in one of those old-school molds. His sixteen eyeballs stare at me in unison. As do the eyeballs of his eight fellow judges. Their bodies are all different colors, a veritable rainbow of Jell-O. All those eyeballs were kind of weird at first, but I’ve gotten used to them. Just as I’ve gotten used to so many things.
After all, the Invaders are like every pageant judge I’ve ever had. They score 1-10, just like the humans did.
I strut the stage, hand set firmly on my hip, covering that faded patch of fabric.
“Ten!” Glorg IV cries out approvingly. “Ten, ten, ten!”
I get all perfect 10s.
Because of course I fucking do.
2. PRIYA
WHAT ELSE IS out there?
It’s a question I’ve posed to myself so many times. And it’s what runs through my mind whenever I’m practicing my baton routine, a kind of mantra I use to calm myself and get in the zone. I spin and twirl my way through the backstage area, warming up, the glitter on my flippy skirt catching the light. Most of our costumes have gotten worn and frayed or have just plain fallen apart, but somehow this skirt remains as sparkly as the first day I wore it.
When civilization collapses, glitter endures.
Spin, flip, twirl, throw, catch!
What, else, is, out, there!
The question spins through my head, as quick and nimble as the baton spinning through my fingers. But this time it comes with something else, a tiny spark of excitement. Because maybe, just maybe, I’m about to find out.
Today’s the day. It has to happen today.
If only I could have convinced Tess …
I shake my head and catch the baton behind my back. I should never have entertained the idea that she might be part of my plan. It has to be just me, on my own. Just like always.
It’s weird: In a way, I really admire her. That extreme intensity, that tunnel-visioned determination. I’d gotten a full taste of it when the Invaders first took over. It had been a standard day of rehearsal, all of us Miss Sweet Potato Pie contestants onstage, the various choreographers, producers, and tech personnel in the audience. We were going through the opening parade, a truly humiliating ritual wherein we are all forced to synchronize our elbow-elbow-wrist-wrist-wrist waves and smile like this is the best thing ever and we are so clever for figuring out how to do what is actually a fairly basic human function. Somewhere around the second “wrist” of the third wave, the lights went out and the screaming started and we found ourselves surrounded by the walking blob monsters who refer to themselves as the Invaders.
They’d killed all of the non-contestants and I think we’d expected them to kill us, too. Instead, Glorg IV cleared his throat (did he even have a throat? I was still unclear on a lot about Invader biology) and that strange, watery rumble of a voice filled the auditorium:
“Greetings, Miss Sweet Potato Pie contestants. We, the Invaders, are here to take over your planet as ours is no longer habitable. As part of said takeover, your glorious pageant tradition will continue and we are now the judges. Forever. Please keep going—your scores today will in no way be affected by this momentary interruption. Soooo … we believe swimwear is next … ?”
We’d kept going. What else could we do? Some of the girls had tried to escape, but were quickly disintegrated by the invisible force field the Invaders set up around the stage. They were the first to die.
We’d all been shaky and crying and looking for alternate escape routes and none of us had exactly performed at our pageant best that day—except for Tess, who’d been all stoic and straight-spined, running through her usual routines with a sense of grim determination. Her pageant-perfect smile wasn’t quite in place, but she’d blazed through every section of the competition like she was trying to beat it into submission, even tossing off a confident, “World peace, of course,” when asked for her greatest wish during the Q&A portion. As the only contestant who wasn’t a complete and total mess, she’d won.
I’d thought there was something to that sheer grit she’d shown, something that would get us out of this mess. We’d had a brief bonding moment one night after several weeks of pageant-ing, when it had become clear the Invaders intended to make us keep repeating the same pageant over and over. We were both exhausted and loopy and we’d somehow ended up slumped on the disgusting carpet backstage, cramming energy bars into our mouths and alternating between tears and delirious giggles.
“Oh em gee,” Tess drawled, her mouth full of energy bar. “This flavor is called Banana Nut. Like I have nuts in my mouth. And a banana. Which is totally phallic. Like … ” She’d dissolved into giggles and I’d found myself joining in.
“Here, have my Blueberry Surprise,” I said, passing her my crumbling bounty. “The surprise is, it’s totally gross.”
“Oh, noooo, these are my faves,” she cooed, dumping the crumbs into her mouth. “Mmmm. So blueberry. So surprise-y.”
“I wish we had a fucking replicator,” I said. “So we could have any food we want.”
“Like on Star Trek?” She cocked an eyebrow and did a spot-on Jean-Luc Picard: “Make it so. Engage, motherfuckers.”
“That’s brilliant,” I gasped, clapping.
“Just one of my talents,” she said with a shrug. “Pitch perfect mimicry. Though Auntie Irene never thought much of that one.”
“Auntie Irene is a fool,” I spat out, and then we’d dissolved into giggles again.
The next day—stupidly thinking we were besties, I guess—I tried to talk to Tess about an escape plan. But she instantly clammed up, went icy, and brushed me off. And as the weeks wore on, all she seemed to care about was being crowned Miss Sweet Potato Pie over and over again.
I knew she’d grown up in pageants, that her Stage Auntie had shaped her into the perfect contestant, that this was basically her life. I, on the other hand, was a pageant newbie—though Dad had cheered me on in the endeavor, in a thankfully less Stage Auntie type way.
“Priyu,” he’d said, his sonorous voice washing over me in a way I always
found soothing. “This sounds like a perfect outlet for those baton skills you’ve been working on.” He’d pumped a small victory fist, endearingly excited for me, his bushy caterpillar eyebrows jumping high on his forehead. “A place where your talent will be truly appreciated!”
I’d thought so, too.
Here’s the thing: I was a star gymnast in my youth, a tiny tumbler, an Olympic hopeful. I loved feeling like I was flying, unencumbered by gravity, free of the little white kids who made fun of my insistence on wearing a Star Trek uniform to school and then topped it off by trying to talk to me like Apu from The Simpsons. I remembered the first time I did a full tumbling pass all the way across the length of the mat, my body light and nimble and (okay, this is extra dorky) totally like the starship Enterprise gliding through space. It was just me, spinning through the air. I was alone, as I was so used to being, but I wasn’t sad about it. I was buoyant. Joyous.
A growth spurt at age twelve had dashed my dreams and turned my body into the enemy. I’d tried all sorts of sports and exercise routines, attempting to recapture that feeling tumbling had given me (and maybe subconsciously attempting to get back to what I thought was my perfect—but now unattainable—physique). Nothing quite worked … until the day I picked up a baton. Twirling it through my fingers, watching it fly through the air … it was like the baton was an avatar for my Body That Was.
Ugh.
That sounds so nerdy, Priya.
But it’s so true.
Anyway, I never joined a team or a squad or anything—because, as usual, I could never seem to find anyone who actually wanted to hang out with me for any significant length of time. I went to college, ditched the Star Trek uniform, and still. I couldn’t seem to master the whole “making friends” thing. I practiced baton alone in my room, mastering every move, teaching myself complicated routines from YouTube. Pageants seemed like the rare place where baton skills were actually appreciated. And okay, maybe somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d thought there was a pageant sisterhood I’d be inducted into. A bunch of people who actually would want to hang out with me, since we were going through the same thing together and all. I figured I’d give Miss Sweet Potato Pie a shot.
