Be prepared, with explosives.
—THE GIRL EXPLORERS MOTTO
I raced out of the castle, my feet propelled by panic. Sometimes, when something bad happens, it immediately puts me on edge, because bad things always come in threes. I'm not saying this because I'm superstitious; I'm saying it because it's true. Unless you're cursed, in which case bad things will keep happening until you find whoever cursed you and make amends. This usually involves some groveling, a bag of gold, and maybe your firstborn child.
So far, two solidly bad "bad things" had happened: the video and my dorm assignment. I had to think of another one, and quick, or my third bad thing would be what Miss Merrybench had predicted, and I absolutely could not be tardy on my first day as a junior henchman trainee.
I had a lot of ground to cover: down the main road, past the dorm section of campus, and then around the infirmary to the sports fields. I thought about stubbing my toe, just to get the third bad thing over with, but I hadn't heard the final bell yet, so I sprinted.
My legs were burning as I burst out onto the field. I skidded to a stop next to Coach Foley just as the bell rang. Phew.
Every junior henchman trainee was assigned to a professor for one class period. By helping train the minions in that class, we would learn not only how to be an excellent assistant, but also how to lead a group of minions, two essential traits in a junior henchman.
My mentor was Coach Gunner Foley, a former lineman in the NFL, the Nefarious Forces League, a ruthless band of mercenary fighters. He was six and a half feet of solid muscle, with the disposition of a snapping turtle. As PE teacher he wore tight polyester coach's shorts and a polo shirt with the Critchlore logo on the pocket. A whistle dangled from a chain around his neck. The ragged bunch of first-years stood in a huddle while Coach Foley checked his clipboard. I heard him muttering to himself as I caught my breath.
"He questions my training methods? I've trained champion maulers. I trained the Monster Death Squad! I've trained more outstanding minions than anyone in Stull. And he questions me? Because of one little incident with Girl Explorers?"
He was talking about the video. Dr. Critchlore must have blamed him for the disaster.
He gave me a once-over, noting the bloodstains that still covered my jacket. He nodded approvingly and then blew his whistle to get the first-years' attention.
"Line up, over there!"
I listened as he gave the students his usual spiel, the same one I'd heard when I was a first-year. It felt so good to be standing there in front of the other students as a junior henchman trainee. I felt ten feet tall, which would make me a short giant.
"All right," he said. "I don't like to talk, I like to get to work, so I'll be brief. You are here to learn how to be an effective minion. That means maximizing your physical fitness and strength. That means learning to work together as a team. That means training your brain to think quickly when in danger. Dr. Critchlore's School for Minions has a tradition of training the best, and that's what we expect from you. Your best effort.
"Our first order of business is to place you in the proper level for PE. So let's get started." He held out the clipboard for me without taking his eyes off the prospects. "Attack the Cyclops on my whistle!"
Coach Foley blew his whistle and started his stopwatch. The first-years started toward the giant stuffed Cyclops at the end of the field.
"Lift your knees!" Coach yelled. "For goodness' sake, lift your knees for speed! You pathetically slow worms!"
I watched the sixteen first-year minions make their way down the field. It was true, they were slow, but I didn't think calling them names was going to make them any faster.
"Pump your arms! You'll move faster if you swing them, like this." He waved his arms back and forth. The minions looked at him, mouths agape.
"Go on, try it. Go!"
They moved forward again, same as before, with their arms outstretched.
Coach Foley knocked his head with his palm. "They're useless, Higgins, useless."
"Well, Coach," I said, "they are zombies."
"Tactical zombies," Coach Foley corrected me, pointing at the clipboard I held. "They're supposed to listen to orders."
I scanned the page. Tactical zombies were engineered to obey simple orders given by the instructors, and to respond to a whistle.
We watched as one of the zombies veered away from the target at the sight of Miss Merrybench. The school secretary had driven up in a golf cart containing two big orange Critchlorade? coolers. Soon the other trainees noticed her too and followed the first one, all of them moaning and not one of them lifting his knees for speed.
"Brains … brains … brains," they moaned.
"Why are they going after Miss Merrybench?" I asked.
"She wears too much perfume," Coach said, like that explained things. He shook his head at the sight. "Aw, Higgins, we used to get good minions here. Minions with strength and speed. Trolls and ogres and werewolves, like yourself." He looked at me and chuckled. Then he got serious again. "I'd have killed for more Sasquatches, but we only had the one."
"Bigfoot." I nodded.
"These zombies are worse than the golems!"
"Well, times change, Coach. I guess you gotta make do with what you have." I watched Miss Merrybench swing her ruler at the zombies. She seemed to realize that it wasn't much of a weapon, so she calmly turned around, got into the cart, and sped away at five miles per hour. The zombies followed, stumbling into one another.
"Do you think you could show them a thing or two?" Coach Foley asked.
"I'll try, sir."
"Class! Attention!" He blew his whistle.
The zombies stopped and turned to look at him. "Watch Higgins here. Higgins will take down that Cyclops. Shark-attack style!"
"Sir, that works best with a team. It's hard to have a feeding frenzy by yourself."
"Just go!"
Channeling my inner werewolf, I bounded over to the Cyclops and knocked him down. I pulled at its limbs, trying to rip them off. The minions watched for a minute before turning back to Miss Merrybench, who had just made it to the end of the bleachers in her cart. They lifted their arms and moaned. I returned to Coach Foley.
"Mindless eating machines, ha!" he said, disgusted. "It sounds good on paper, but look at them."
I shrugged. They were pretty pathetic.
"Who do I have next period?" Coach asked, pointing to the clipboard I'd dropped on the ground.
I flipped through the pages for the schedule. "The intermediate mummies, sir."
Coach Foley threw down his stopwatch and stormed off. "The board of directors will hear about this."
