Chapters (79)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Praise for Destroy All Monsters
- Books by Sam J. Miller
- Back Ad
- About the Publisher
I’d been writing about them, but I’d also been writing about Mr. Barrett. About how we’re all complicit in their crimes. How we give up our power. Turn a blind eye. Decide not to fight back against the monsters in our world, because they seem too powerful to destroy.
I didn’t write about the Induction Ceremonies. I didn’t include a photograph of Sheffield. That wasn’t what the project was about.
I wrote:
These boys aren’t monsters.
I wrote:
I’m still scared. But maybe a little less so.
Six days later I got a call from the California Institute of the Arts—which, nbd, is only the number three top-ranked photography school in the country. They said they had seen my project. They wanted to know where I was going to college. They wanted me to apply.
I called up Cass immediately afterward. And asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone from the California Institute of the Arts, would you?”
I heard her suck in cigarette smoke. “I know lots of people in lots of places.”
“You didn’t maybe make a call to one of them? Send them a link to my site?”
I heard her blow out smoke. “You made something great, Ash. That’s your gift, as an artist. My gift as an artist is the ability to make sure that people who make something great can get recognized for it. And get the support they need, to keep on making great things.”
I had so much to say, but all I managed was “Thanks, Cass.”
My spine shook, with a thousand magnificent, possible futures.
Sixty-Eight
Solomon
A pair of dire wolves waited patiently at the entrance to the Queen Ananka the Second Hospital Recovery Pavilion, as big as horses and just as uninterested in anything the humans around them were doing.
“Ma’am!” someone called, hurrying behind us.
I’d been about to take a picture of the dire wolves, but Cass snapped her fingers at me to keep me moving.
“Ma’am, you can’t be back here!” said a nurse, when he finally caught up with us. For all her years, my boss could move pretty fast.
“Nonsense,” Cass said, not slowing down.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to call sec—”
“But we’re visiting our friend,” she said, stopping in front of a shallow pool marked “Physical Therapy,” where a young man sat with no shirt on. “Aren’t we?”
“Um,” Niv said, so startled to see her that he didn’t know what to say, and didn’t see me at all. “Yes?” Because who ever said no to Cass?
“You see,” Cass said, and turned to watch the penitent nurse until he scurried away.
“Solomon!” Niv said, and stood up. Water poured off him, and he winced.
“Oh, Niv,” I said, seeing the bruises that covered his body.