Monstrum (2 page)

And to V, who insisted it was time for me to stretch my wings and write something new—I can't thank you enough.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions.

Hamlet
, IV.v.76–77. (William Shakespeare)

S
ome idiot's snoring. Loudly.

I wish they'd pipe down, because I'm wiped out—

Hang on. I'm not the idiot in question, am I?

With that happy thought, I snort myself awake.

Opening my eyes, I groggily register the sunny cabin, the rows of seats and my aisle seat . . . and the faces my snickering friends.

Oh, yeah. Plane.

The rest of my eleventh-grade class and I are on a small chartered jet, flying back to Atlanta. Our private school requires us to Do Good Works, so we've been on a working spring break trip to the Bahamas, where we finished our SCUBA certification and helped marine biologists document the local wildlife.

Glaring at everyone, I sit up straight and rub the crick in my neck. That's when I discover the stream of drool on my chin and give it a furtive swipe with the back of my hand.

Too late.

“Wow,” says Gray, who's in the end seat directly across the aisle. His brown eyes are sparkly with mischief and his dimples deepen as he looks me over. “You are hot, girl. H-O-T.”

“Screw you, Graydon,” I grumble.

Frown lines harden his angular face, making him look like a solid block of milk chocolate. “Did you just call me by my full name?” He lowers his copy of
Sports Illustrated
with an angry flourish. “Don't make me cut you.”

“Leave me alone,
Graydon
.” Since we've all been together in the same classes and the same private school since seventh grade, I know when to take Gray seriously. This is not one of those times.

Gray nudges Carter on his right and points at me. “Note the hair.”

Oh, crap. My corkscrew black curls have thrived on the humidity all week. I don't need a mirror to know that I probably look like a sheep waiting to be shorn. I try to pat it down.

“You look good, girl.” Carter leans across Gray so he can see me better with his bright blue gaze. Cupping his chin, he shoots me a smarmy up-and-down look of deepest appreciation, then gives me his signature move: a head toss that emphasizes his long blond rock star hair. “Can I get your digits?”

“Check back with me in a year or so.” I give up on trying to tame my hair and drop my arms in defeat. “You should have your first chest hair by then.”

“Seriously, though,” Gray says. “You should probably get your stylist on speed dial when we get back to Atlanta.”

“Okay, we were in the Bahamas for a working trip,” I remind him. “So forgive me if I was so busy studying the flora and fauna—”

“Someone's been paying attention in Latin class for the last four years,” murmurs An, who's sitting on my left. She's been listening even though she's got her nose stuck in her marked-up copy of
Macbeth
. She was born in China and adopted by an American family when she was a toddler. “Maggie? Origin?”

Maggie sits on An's other side, in the window seat. “Flora,” she drones. “From the Roman goddess of flowers. Fauna—”

“Aw, geez,” I say, rolling my eyes and turning back to Gray. “You. If you want perfectly coiffed hair, you need to check out your pal Rico Suave there.”

Gray looks to Carter. “You do look good, man.”

“Will you soul-mate me?” Carter asks Gray mistily, turning back to his
Guns & Ammo
magazine.

I laugh. “While you two sit there completing each other, I'm going to read my fencing magazine.”

An frowns across at us. “You should all be finishing
Macbeth
.”

I've already finished
Macbeth
and am weirdly fascinated by his kick-ass wife, not that I'll admit it to this crowd any more than I'd admit I like studying Latin and ancient Rome so much that I recently had a DVD-watching marathon that included
Spartacus
,
Ben-Hur
and, my favorite,
Gladiator
. “We're on spring break.”

“You need to act like you want to get into a good college—” An starts.

Without warning, it gets a whole lot darker in here.

I blink stupidly, thinking,
huh, that's weird
, but someone farther back in the plane screams and there are several “Oh, my Gods!” That's when I begin to get concerned.

I look overhead.

The plane's interior lights are still on.

I look out Maggie's window.

The sky is dark.

No. The sky is black.

Craning my neck, I look out Carter's window on the plane's other side.

The sky is black.

Bewildered more than anything else, I try to make what's happened fit into some set of facts that makes sense. Did some automated shades come down ahead of the in-flight movie?

Maggie, whose face mirrors my confusion, apparently has a similar idea and touches the window.

There's no shade. The sky is black.

A wedge of anxiety opens up inside me but, in a move that would make my therapist proud, I take a deep breath and swallow it back. “What's going on, guys? Is this normal weather over the Atlantic?”

Gray shakes his head, eyes wide. Balancing his elbows on his knees, he leans forward to address Sammy, who's in the aisle seat directly in front of his. “What do you think, Sammy?”

Sammy, An's brother by adoption, pauses before answering. Typical.

The rest of us wait for his verdict. Also typical.

Frown lines groove down Sammy's forehead, making his heavy brown brows contract. “No idea.”

The rest of us exchange worried looks.

Behind us, the other kids and chaperones are working themselves up into a dull roar of distress. Someone shouts for the flight attendant.

“It's just a storm, right?” Maggie asks uneasily.

Sammy gives his shoulders a dismissive twitch. “I checked the forecast before we left. There's a tropical storm brewing down south, but it wasn't this close to us. This is bizarre.”

We all turn and stare out our windows.

I see a black that's absolute and impenetrable. A black that could've been made from coal mixed with tar and coated with the utter absence of light, something you'd expect to see inside a cave hidden three miles beneath the earth's surface.

I see a void.

There's no hint of shadow, sun, clouds or anything that signifies the earth I know. I could almost believe we'd hitched a ride on the space shuttle, except that if we were in space, I'm pretty sure we'd see a star or two.

I have the crazy thought that someone has picked up our plane, nailed it inside a coffin and buried it.

“Well, someone should be telling us something.” It doesn't take Gray long to click into take-charge mode like the class president he is. He unbuckles, stands and moves into the aisle, looking over his shoulder for the flight attendant.

That's when we hear an overhead chime. It reminds me that someone official is in charge and makes me feel better. The idea of a plane full of teenagers, a couple teachers and a couple parents getting into trouble over the Atlantic isn't exactly good for my anxiety disorder.

“Passengers, this is First Officer Rizzio,” begins a clipped male voice.

“First officer?”
says An in a whisper. “What? Is the pilot too busy eating a doughnut to take this thing off autopilot and talk to us?”

We shush her.

“As you can see, I've turned on the seat belt sign,” First Officer Rizzio continues. “Flight attendants, please determine if there are any medical professionals on the plane and report to the cockpit immediately.”

That's it.

I exchange glances with An and Maggie, both of whom have dropped jaws, and turn to Gray. His grim expression reflects my fear as he sinks back into his seat and buckles up again. A boy's voice calls out from somewhere in the back of the plane.

“What kind of announcement was that? Why didn't they tell us anything?”

Looking around, I see nodding heads and hear a rumble of agreement. Before this dissent can develop into anything bigger, though, the voice of Coach Murphy, who we just call Murphy and who's in charge of my fencing team, rises over the crowd.

“Why don't you pipe down for once in your life, Axel Hendersen?” Murphy's Irish accent sounds, on a good day, as though he's got laryngitis: deep and raspy. Today it sounds like he's been snacking on razor blades, but I'm still glad to hear it because he's my favorite teacher and he doesn't take BS from anyone. If the occasion calls for cracking heads together, Murphy's your man. “Give the captain half a second to check his displays and whatnot, why don't you? Calm yourself.”

“It's kind of hard to be calm when strange crap starts happening right when we're flying over the Bermuda Triangle, Murphy,” replies Axel.

A long, heavy silence follows this mention of the Bermuda Triangle. Apparently Axel wasn't the only one thinking about our location, even if the rest of us weren't ready to say it aloud. I want to laugh and call Axel a superstitious idiot, but fears are collecting in the back of my mind, swirling and settling into a nameless terror. Planes and boats have disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle.

Or were those only urban legends?

Right now, looking out at the black sky, the legends don't seem so ridiculous after all.

“Shut your superstitious trap and sit quietly before I decide to give you detention for the rest of the semester, Axel Hendersen,” Murphy snaps.

Axel shuts up.

The flight attendants, a male and a female, materialize from somewhere in the rear of the smallish jet and hurry up the aisle. Our American history teacher, Mr. Stroh, is grim-faced and hot on their heels, and I remember that he's also an EMT. I wish I was. Sitting, waiting and feeling useless aren't things I'm particularly good at, and I worked as a lifeguard at my pool last summer, which means I'm certified in CPR.