“Why do we even have to keep sparring? We’re fighting scrabs, not people. It’s a whole different thing.”
“The basic techniques are the same. And like you said, some of us need to get faster. We didn’t all train by lifting wallets from unsuspecting people and then bolting.”
“You’re very secure in the knowledge that you’re better than me, aren’t you?” Edan asked.
“I don’t think I’m better than you.”
He pointed to my face, turning his finger in a circle. “Yes you do. You have a judgy look.”
“I do not have a judgy look.” I tried to plant my hands on my hips, forgetting that I was wearing boxing gloves, and succeeded in basically punching myself. Edan snorted. I flushed.
“Fine. But in my defense, most people would judge you for robbing Patrick. Or for robbing anyone, for that matter. You’re a criminal. I mean, not a good one, but still a criminal.”
He reeled back like he was actually insulted. “Rude.”
“You’re seriously mad that I called you a bad criminal?”
“I’ll have you know that I am very skilled at lifting wallets. You wouldn’t even notice if I took yours.”
“I don’t carry a wallet.”
“Well, you should start.”
“So you can rob me?”
“I’d give it back.”
“Hard pass.”
He rolled his eyes again, leaning his head back for extra emphasis.
“We should do this,” I said, banging my gloves together. I pointed to his. “Put yours on.”
“Can we not and say we did?”
“No.”
“Why? Because if Julian finds out, you won’t be his favorite anymore?”
Heat crawled up my neck. “I’m not his favorite. I’m, like, one of the worst ones on the team.”
“God, you’re a terrible liar. You’re his favorite, and you know it. That’s why you swing your ponytail back and forth every time he comes near you.” He looked left to right in a quick, exaggerated motion. “Like this.”
“I do not do that.”
He kept swinging. “Hi, Julian.”
“Would you—”
“Look at my ponytail, isn’t it bouncy?”
“I have never—”
“What’s that? You want to touch my ponytail? Oh sure, go ahead.”
I snapped my mouth shut. Julian had touched my hair yesterday. It was at the beginning of training, after I’d almost fallen going over a hurdle. I’d caught myself before crashing to the ground, and Julian had asked if I was OK. He’d put his hand on my ponytail and then my neck, which was a strange and unexpected place for him to touch me. I’d barely been able to stammer out a yes. Just thinking about it again made my stomach flop around happily.
“See?” He looked smug. “You’re his favorite.”
“Can we just do this, please?”
“Fine.” He reached for his gloves, and then stilled suddenly. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
A scream saved him from having to answer. It was distant, maybe outside.
Edan and I bolted for the door. I threw it open and ran to the end of the hallway, where a window overlooked the front of the sports complex and the street.
Scrabs.
There were at least twenty of them, and several more burst up in the middle of the road. A car swerved and crashed into a traffic sign. People were running in every direction. The tables and chairs of a nearby café were scattered all over the sidewalk.
Dread uncoiled in my stomach. Video and pictures had never done them justice. They were so much more terrifying in the flesh, even from a distance.
They weren’t huge—they weren’t all that much bigger than a very muscular, very tall person—but they looked solid. Like you could hit them with a bulldozer and they’d barely blink. They actually had a lot of similarities to us—two eyes, one nose, two ears, a mouth, ten fingers and toes. A lot of conspiracy theorists were convinced that scrabs were some kind of science experiment gone wrong.
But that was where the similarities ended. Their skin had a grayish hue to it, some very light, others a darker shade, and even from this distance I could see how impenetrable it was. It was more like armor than skin. And they had long, sharp claws coming from every finger and toe.
Plus, they were so fast. I’d known, objectively, that they were, but I’d still sort of pictured them lumbering about, swinging wildly in every direction.
And some of them did look disoriented—one was repeatedly pounding a table into the ground, like it was super angry at that particular piece of furniture.
But most of them moved swiftly toward their targets—humans. Three of them even seemed to be working as a team, closing in together on a woman and tackling her to the ground. I swallowed hard.
“Look, the French teams,” Edan said, pointing.
All the French teams were streaming out of the sports complex, armed with machetes and guns. A few Kenyan and American teams followed.
“Do . . . do we find a weapon?” I asked dumbly. My hands were shaking. Would I even be able to hold a weapon?
Edan’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket. “No.” He turned the screen so I could see. It was a text message from Julian.
TEAM SEVEN, STAY PUT. I MEAN IT. SEEK SHELTER.
“We’re just supposed to watch?” I tried not to sound too relieved. The French teams were engaged in an all-out battle with the scrabs in the street. Gunfire echoed from below.
“I guess so.”
Suddenly, a crash.
Then a roar.
Edan and I whirled around.
“Is that—”
“Oh shit,” Edan said.
16
Thump thump thump. The sound was getting closer. I eyed the stairwell door.
“Can they climb stairs?” My voice wobbled.
Edan grabbed my arm and pulled me back into the sparring room. He swiped at the door, but it didn’t close all the way.
A scrab smashed through the stairwell door and was quickly followed by three more. They crashed down the hallway, galloping on all fours, moving almost in sync. Their claws clicked against the floor as they ran. One opened its mouth, revealing huge, sharp teeth.
The scrabs flew past the sparring room without spotting us. I took a tiny, silent step back.
“Are there real weapons in here?” Edan whispered, looking around. There was nothing but
