“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 bit 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. “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 was what people really wanted to know. It was probably even the reason for the last-minute reception. It had 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.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  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 and 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, “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 added. “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 she 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 widened. “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, and 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. He had spent most of the night helping Monson dodge personal questions, doing so with such poise and charm that it was impossible to take offense. The man had clearly played this political game before.

  Monson shot him a skeptical look. “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 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 glowed brightly.

  There were millions of searches in the last hour alone.

  “It must be a slow news week,” Monson said. “Baroty’s Bridge happened months ago.”

  “Dude, have you been living in a box?” Casey asked incredulously. “Look at the headlines.”

  He pulled up a feed highlighting every story, article, and blog mentioning Baroty’s Bridge. He held the phone up as they reached the doors leading outside, where a blast of surprisingly cool air greeted them. Monson grabbed the phone and scanned the results. Millions of hits. Baroty’s Bridge was still a hot topic.

  “Speculation,” Casey said, as if reading Monson’s thoughts.

  Monson stopped dead.

  “Cassius—” Mr. Gatt began.

  “What do you mean, speculation?” Monson cut in.

  Mr. Gatt and Casey exchanged a look. Casey answered hesitantly. “Monson, no one has any idea what happened at Baroty’s Bridge. If you read all of these stories, the only thing you’ll get is frustrated. There’s been no new information in months about what killed everyone on the bridge—all three hundred people. All except you.”

  Monson’s breathing grew heavy. His thoughts turned inevitably to Molly. No wonder she hadn’t told him.

  “Guys,” Artorius said, oblivious to the gravity of the moment, “is it just me, or is it really dark out here? Like, zombie-apocalypse dark.”

  Casey snickered and launched into baby talk. “Aww, Arthur, you don’t have to be scared of the dark. Cassius will protect you.”

  His voice snapped back to normal. “Oh, and as for the inevitable zombie apocalypse, if you’d just read that book I gave you, you’d be totally prepared.”

  Artorius scowled. “Please. I could have gotten better zombie protection—”

  His voice trailed off. He seemed to be listening.

  “Sure, Arthur—” Casey began.

  “No,” Mr. Gatt interrupted. “Cassius, I hear something. Monson, look out!”

  Monson looked up just in time to see a flash of bright light and a massive dark object hurling toward him.