All the little background noises, all the little sounds you barely registered—phones ringing, car engines, voices—were gone. They could hear each footstep they made. Each breath they took. When a dog erupted in frenzied barking, they all jumped.
“Who’s going to feed that dog?” Quinn wondered.
No one had an answer for that. There would be dogs and cats all over town. And there were almost certainly babies in empty homes right now, too. It was all too much. Too much to think about.
Sam peered toward the hills, squinted to shut out the lights of town. Sometimes, if they had the stadium lights of the athletic field turned on, you could see a distant twinkle of light from Coates Academy. But not tonight. Just darkness from that direction.
A part of Sam denied that his mother was gone. A part of him wanted to believe she was up there, at work, like any other night.
“The stars are still there,” Astrid said. Then she said, “Wait. No. The stars are up, but not the ones just above the horizon. I think Venus should be almost setting. It’s not there.”
The three of them stopped and stared out over the ocean. Standing still, all they heard was the odd, placid, metronomic regularity of the lapping waves.
“This sounds bizarre, but the horizon looks higher than it should be,” Astrid said.
“Did anyone watch the sun go down?” Sam asked.
No one had.
“Let’s keep moving,” Sam said. “We should have brought bikes or skateboards.”
“Why not a car?” Quinn asked.
“You know how to drive?” Sam asked.
“I’ve seen it done.”
“I’ve seen heart surgery performed on TV, too,” Astrid said. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to try it.”
Quinn said, “You watch heart surgery on TV? That explains a lot, Astrid.”
The road wound away from the shore and up to Clifftop. The resort’s understated neon sign, nestled roadside between carefully trimmed hedges, was lit. The grand front entrance was lit up like it was Christmas—the resort had strung strands of twinkling white lights early.
A car sat empty, one door open, trunk popped up, suitcases on a bellman’s trolley nearby.
When they approached, the automatic doors of the hotel swung wide.
The lobby was open and airy, with a polished blond wood counter that curved for about thirty feet, a bright tile floor, gleaming brass accents leading toward a more shadowy bar. At the bank of elevators, one stood open, waiting.
“I don’t see anyone,” Quinn said in a subdued whisper.
“No,” Sam agreed. There was a TV in the bar with nothing on. No one at the front desk or the concierge desk, no one in the lobby, no one in the bar. Their footsteps echoed on the tile.
“The tennis court is this way,” Astrid said, and led them away. “That’s where my mom and Little Pete would have been.”
The tennis courts were lit up. No sound of balls being whacked by rackets. No sound at all.
They all saw it at the same time.
Cutting straight across the farthest tennis court, slicing through well-tended landscaping, cutting through the swimming pool, was a barrier.
A wall.
It shimmered ever so slightly.
It did not look opaque, but whatever light came through, it was milky, indistinct, and no brighter than their surroundings. The wall was slightly reflective, like looking into a frosted-glass window. It made no sound. It did not vibrate. It seemed almost to swallow sound.
It could be just a membrane, Sam thought. Just a millimeter thick. Something he could poke with a finger and pop like a balloon. It might even be nothing more than an illusion. But his instinct, his fear, the feeling in the pit of his stomach, told him he was looking at a wall. No illusion, no curtain, but a wall.
The barrier went up and up, but faded against the background of the night sky. It extended as far as they could see to the left and right. No stars shone through it, but eventually, farther up, the stars reappeared.
“What is it?” Quinn asked. There was awe in his tone.
Astrid just shook her head.
“What is it?” Quinn repeated more urgently.
They approached the barrier with slow steps, ready to run away, but needing to get closer.
They entered the chain-link enclosure and crossed the tennis court. The barrier cut right through the net. The net started from a vertical pole and ended in the shimmering blankness of the barrier.
Sam pulled on the net. It stayed firmly in place. No matter how much he yanked, no more net came through the barrier.
“Careful,” Astrid whispered.
Quinn dropped back, letting Sam take the lead. “She’s right, brah, careful.”
Sam was just a few feet away from the barrier, hand outstretched. He hesitated. He spotted a green tennis ball on the ground and picked it up.
He tossed it toward the barrier.
It bounced back.
He caught the ball on the bounce and looked at it. No marks. No sign it had done anything but bounce.
He took the last three steps and, this time, without hesitating, pressed his fingertips against the barrier.
“Aaah.” He yanked his hand away and looked at it.
“What?” Quinn yelled.
“It burned. Oh, man. That hurt.” Sam shook his hand to throw off the pain.
“Let me look at it,” Astrid said.
Sam extended his hand. “It feels okay now.”
“I don’t see any burn mark,” Astrid said, turning his hand with hers.
“No,” Sam agreed. “But, trust me, you don’t want to touch that thing.”
“Who’s going to feed that dog?” Quinn wondered.
No one had an answer for that. There would be dogs and cats all over town. And there were almost certainly babies in empty homes right now, too. It was all too much. Too much to think about.
Sam peered toward the hills, squinted to shut out the lights of town. Sometimes, if they had the stadium lights of the athletic field turned on, you could see a distant twinkle of light from Coates Academy. But not tonight. Just darkness from that direction.
A part of Sam denied that his mother was gone. A part of him wanted to believe she was up there, at work, like any other night.
“The stars are still there,” Astrid said. Then she said, “Wait. No. The stars are up, but not the ones just above the horizon. I think Venus should be almost setting. It’s not there.”
The three of them stopped and stared out over the ocean. Standing still, all they heard was the odd, placid, metronomic regularity of the lapping waves.
“This sounds bizarre, but the horizon looks higher than it should be,” Astrid said.
“Did anyone watch the sun go down?” Sam asked.
No one had.
“Let’s keep moving,” Sam said. “We should have brought bikes or skateboards.”
“Why not a car?” Quinn asked.
“You know how to drive?” Sam asked.
“I’ve seen it done.”
“I’ve seen heart surgery performed on TV, too,” Astrid said. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to try it.”
Quinn said, “You watch heart surgery on TV? That explains a lot, Astrid.”
The road wound away from the shore and up to Clifftop. The resort’s understated neon sign, nestled roadside between carefully trimmed hedges, was lit. The grand front entrance was lit up like it was Christmas—the resort had strung strands of twinkling white lights early.
A car sat empty, one door open, trunk popped up, suitcases on a bellman’s trolley nearby.
When they approached, the automatic doors of the hotel swung wide.
The lobby was open and airy, with a polished blond wood counter that curved for about thirty feet, a bright tile floor, gleaming brass accents leading toward a more shadowy bar. At the bank of elevators, one stood open, waiting.
“I don’t see anyone,” Quinn said in a subdued whisper.
“No,” Sam agreed. There was a TV in the bar with nothing on. No one at the front desk or the concierge desk, no one in the lobby, no one in the bar. Their footsteps echoed on the tile.
“The tennis court is this way,” Astrid said, and led them away. “That’s where my mom and Little Pete would have been.”
The tennis courts were lit up. No sound of balls being whacked by rackets. No sound at all.
They all saw it at the same time.
Cutting straight across the farthest tennis court, slicing through well-tended landscaping, cutting through the swimming pool, was a barrier.
A wall.
It shimmered ever so slightly.
It did not look opaque, but whatever light came through, it was milky, indistinct, and no brighter than their surroundings. The wall was slightly reflective, like looking into a frosted-glass window. It made no sound. It did not vibrate. It seemed almost to swallow sound.
It could be just a membrane, Sam thought. Just a millimeter thick. Something he could poke with a finger and pop like a balloon. It might even be nothing more than an illusion. But his instinct, his fear, the feeling in the pit of his stomach, told him he was looking at a wall. No illusion, no curtain, but a wall.
The barrier went up and up, but faded against the background of the night sky. It extended as far as they could see to the left and right. No stars shone through it, but eventually, farther up, the stars reappeared.
“What is it?” Quinn asked. There was awe in his tone.
Astrid just shook her head.
“What is it?” Quinn repeated more urgently.
They approached the barrier with slow steps, ready to run away, but needing to get closer.
They entered the chain-link enclosure and crossed the tennis court. The barrier cut right through the net. The net started from a vertical pole and ended in the shimmering blankness of the barrier.
Sam pulled on the net. It stayed firmly in place. No matter how much he yanked, no more net came through the barrier.
“Careful,” Astrid whispered.
Quinn dropped back, letting Sam take the lead. “She’s right, brah, careful.”
Sam was just a few feet away from the barrier, hand outstretched. He hesitated. He spotted a green tennis ball on the ground and picked it up.
He tossed it toward the barrier.
It bounced back.
He caught the ball on the bounce and looked at it. No marks. No sign it had done anything but bounce.
He took the last three steps and, this time, without hesitating, pressed his fingertips against the barrier.
“Aaah.” He yanked his hand away and looked at it.
“What?” Quinn yelled.
“It burned. Oh, man. That hurt.” Sam shook his hand to throw off the pain.
“Let me look at it,” Astrid said.
Sam extended his hand. “It feels okay now.”
“I don’t see any burn mark,” Astrid said, turning his hand with hers.
“No,” Sam agreed. “But, trust me, you don’t want to touch that thing.”
