Suddenly Justin’s roomy first-class seat wasn’t so roomy. It was odd, he thought at first, an illusion, a psychological effect of nervousness. But yes, it was as if the seat was narrowing. Justin’s shoulders felt too large, and when he turned his head his chin actually scraped against a bulbous, massive swelling that rightly belonged on a whole different person, a much larger, much more muscular person.

“What the . . .” Justin blurted. He was blowing up like an inflatable bed, muscles bulging at shoulders, thighs, arms, all of him growing. His seat belt stretched and then snapped!

“What’s happening?” he cried, snatching at the broken seat belt with fingers that were not right, not right at all.

He screamed.

The pilot fought the crosswind, and the plane rocked from side to side as they skimmed above Brooklyn. The engines surged and faded, surged and faded. Justin caught a glimpse of a cemetery just below them.

“Justin!” Erin cried suddenly, staring at him, mouth open, shying away from him as far as her own seat belt would allow. “You’re . . . you’re . . .”

“What? What?” he cried, and now it was his voice that was not right, not his voice at all! His voice had become this huge thing, deeper, more masculine, gravelly. He sounded like some weird cross between Vin Diesel and Darth Vader.

“Look at your face! Look at your face!” Erin practically screamed. But of course he couldn’t, he couldn’t look at his own face, but he could see that the rest of him was becoming something very different. It was almost impossible to believe that it was him.

Madness to look down at your own body, hands, feet, and not recognize them!

“My God, it’s happening!” he said in that voice like truck wheels going over wet gravel. “It’s happening!”

“D-d-does it hurt, baby, does it hurt?” Erin squeaked. She looked ten years older with her face distorted by fear.

“Just so . . . Just . . . weird. I . . .” Justin said.

And still he grew, swelled, thickened, his legs masses of bunched muscle. His black jeans tore, rrrriiiiip, and exposed limbs that looked like armor, like naked bone, like . . . no, like shell, like the hard chitin that formed a lobster’s shell. Tiny pricks, wicked little rose thorns rose from the armor that covered his legs and, now, arms.

Snap! The armrest broke off.

Monster, Chapter 4