Girls Save the World in This One - Ash Parsons Page 0,47

the walls.

Away from the doors.

Imani and I stay in front of the camera stand, set near the aisle, away from the clump of standing-room-only audience.

We ignore the dirty looks the camerawoman keeps giving us.

It feels better to have my back to something, even if it’s just a black carpet-covered square of low platform.

“Sounds like that guy might have some weirdo friends, huh?” Michaela says into the mic. “Sit tight. Security is working on it.”

The banging on the door intensifies, but it has no rhythm, just a flurry of blows, deeply unsettling.

It doesn’t stop.

Four security guards make their way down the twin aisles of the hall, moving fast past the approximately thirty rows of seats, converging on the central set of metal doors where the banging is the loudest.

One of the guards is talking into his radio. No doubt trying to call up the rest of the security team outside.

“There’s not enough security,” Imani murmurs. “Listen to that pounding. That’s way more than one person.”

We look at each other, eyes saucer-wide.

And the thought registers on my face at the same time I see it reflected on hers . . .

What if it’s real?

No. Ridiculous.

You’re just scaring yourself.

Where is Siggy?

I crane my neck to locate her. Since we’ve moved to the left, there’s now the entire middle section of seats between us. It takes a moment for me to reorient myself, then I spot her, bright hair shining like a flag.

She’s blowing kisses at Linus—so clearly the banging doesn’t feel as scary from the front of the ballroom.

“Okay, let’s get back on track,” Michaela says over the banging. “They’ll sort it out, let’s just deprive them of the oxygen of our attention, right?”

She hands a second mic into the row of actors on the stage. “Cuellar, a question for you first.”

The actor with the aggressive energy nods, reaching for the mic. His dark sunglasses make him look like a biker, or some corrupt cop or drill sergeant. Insectoid and ominous.

I’m sure he’s not like his character. He just comes across that way.

“Sure thing, Michaela,” he says into the mic. “Whatcha got?”

“What’s your favorite—” Michaela begins, voice raised over the continuing disruption.

There’s a blistering barrage of bangs on the door.

Cuellar laughs into his mic. “Little pig, little pig, let me in,” he chants ominously into the mic.

I wish he hadn’t done that.

A shiver races over my skin.

I lean around the platform again, looking back toward the doors.

The security guys batter at the doors from the inside, putting their weight into it, trying to budge them open.

“Imani.” My voice is tight. “They are locked!”

“Isn’t that a fire hazard or something?” Imani asks. Her arms are clenched tight across her stomach.

“Yeah, they should be unlocked,” I say. “I don’t like this.”

And that’s when the doors suddenly give way.

13

There’s a moment of surprised and curious silence as every pair of eyes in the room turns to the center set of doors, now yawning open.

Then someone, no, several someones, lots of them, pour into the ballroom.

There are screams, but I can’t see what’s happening. Just a mass of people pushing through the doors into the ballroom, moving . . . there’s something wrong about the way they’re moving.

Fast, but uncoordinated. A herky-jerky, twitching lurch. Like a puppeteer is pulling their strings, yanking them forward in a way opposite to how most people move.

But even from where I’m standing, I can see that audience members are pushing, shoving, screaming to get away.

Without questioning the instinct, I kick at the bottom of the platform, parting the pleated black skirt that covers the spindly struts. My foot finds a point of leverage, and I hoist myself up, pulling at the base of the camera stand.

The camerawoman reaches down and pulls me up. Then we pull up Imani,