D. MacHale - SYLO

“I’ll find it,” was his reply.

“Center of town,” Tori offered.

The closer we got to the city, the more my stomach twisted. I kept looking ahead, fearing that I would see damaged buildings or more bomb craters or fires or any other kind of destruction, but there was nothing. Though there were no obvious signs of an attack, things still weren’t right.

Besides the distinct lack of activity, the first definite sign that something was truly off was that none of the street lights worked.

“The city looks wrong,” Kent said.

“You think?” Tori said sarcastically.

“I don’t mean because we’re not seeing anybody. That’s plenty weird, but I’m talking about the city itself. I’ve been here a hundred times and something about it doesn’t look right.”

I couldn’t imagine what Kent was talking about, but then again I didn’t know Portland as well as he did.

“It’s, like…abandoned,” Olivia said. “Maybe people are hiding in their basements. I know I would be.”

That made sense. We were so focused on Pemberwick and escaping from Granger and the quarantine that we didn’t give much thought to how the people on the mainland would be reacting to the naval blockade and the battle in the sky.

“Even if that’s the case, the TV stations will still be operating,” I said. “That’s what they’re there for. If there’s a war, you don’t shut down the TV stations unless…”

“Unless what?” Kent asked.

“Unless there was an evacuation,” I replied.

With that sober thought left hanging, we drove into town.

There wasn’t a single soul on any of the streets. There was no life behind the windows. Trash blew across the cobblestones…or the paving stones.

“Congress Street,” Olivia said, pointing to a sign.

“Take this right,” Tori directed. “The station’s a few blocks down. It’s the building with the big NBC peacock logo on it.”

Kent made the turn, not bothering to stop at the dead light, and continued down Congress Street through a gauntlet of abandoned or wrecked cars.

“It’s up there on the right,” Tori said. “Just past the—oh my God.”

“What?” Olivia asked nervously.

“The building. It’s…it’s not there.”

The spot that Tori had directed us to was nothing more than a giant hole in the ground.

“You must be wrong,” I said. “Maybe it’s further down—”

“No,” Tori said adamantly. “I came here with my father about a month ago when he did an interview. Look, there’s the NBC logo.”

There was a parking sign with a WCHS logo and the rainbow peacock, but there was no building. No WCHS.

“That’s it,” Kent declared. “That’s what’s wrong.”

“What?” I asked with growing fear.

“It’s the skyline,” he said. “It isn’t the same.”

“How can that be?” I said. “A whole skyline can’t change.”

“It can,” he said. “If buildings are missing. That’s what I sensed. Some of the buildings aren’t here anymore.”

Without waiting for a response, Kent drove us back through the city, where we passed many similar holes in the ground, just like the site of the former WCHS. Each time it was the same thing. There was no rubble, no signs of destruction, no smoke from an exploded bomb, and no building—not even a foundation. Nor was there any damage to the buildings on either side of the holes.

The grim reality was that several of the city’s buildings had been cherry-picked out of existence.

“It’s like they just…disappeared,” Kent said, his voice shaking.

“The weapon,” I said.

“What weapon?” Kent asked, his voice shaking.

“The one that vaporized the Patricia …and Quinn. That night we saw the lights flashing over Portland, those planes could have been attacking Portland. But not with bombs, with that laser weapon.”

“This war started before the battle on the ocean,” Kent said, numbly. “That’s why the car wrecks were cold. This happened days ago.”

“Go to the Old Port,” Tori said. “If there are still people in town, they’ll be there.”

Kent jammed on the gas and with a squeal of tires we launched forward, headed for the easternmost end of town and the most popular and populated district in the city. Along the way I noticed many more empty lots. Had they always been empty? Or was it the work of the strange marauding planes that came at night and serenaded a sleeping city with their murderous song?

We drove down Pearl Street until we hit the intersection at Commercial Street, the street that ran parallel to the shore and the downtown piers. This was the quaint tourist center of Portland. People came from all over the world to sample lobster rolls and Moxie soda, to buy miniature lighthouses and bibs with smiling lobster designs. It was the heart of Portland.

It was deserted.

When we made the turn onto Commercial Street, Kent hit the brakes hard and screeched to a stop.

“Oh, this isn’t good,” Olivia said with dismay.

Lying in the dead center of the empty street was another wreck.

It was one of the black shadow planes.

The thing wasn’t huge, maybe the size of a Hummer. It squatted like a giant roosting bird of prey that had decided to make its nest in the middle of the wide street.

“It’s been here for a while,” I observed. “There’s no smoke or anything.”

“It must have crashed when the city was attacked,” Tori said, stunned. “Does that mean the city’s been empty since then?”

“I gotta take a closer look,” I said and started to get out of the car.

Tori grabbed my arm to stop me, which made her wince with pain.

“Don’t,” she said, gritting her teeth to fight the sting. “That thing could be ready to explode.”

I looked ahead at the mystery wreck. It seemed dead.

“We want answers,” I said. “That thing might give us a couple.”

Kent added, “There’s gotta be markings. At least we’ll know what country we’re at war with—or what universe.”

I smiled at Tori and said, “I have to.”

Tori nodded and reluctantly let go of my arm.

“Be careful,” she warned.

“Seriously,” Olivia added.

I got out of the car. Nobody followed. Tori had an excuse. The other two were just scared. Can’t say I blame them. I was too. But that wasn’t going to stop me. Not anymore.

I rounded the Subaru and walked slowly toward the dark wreck, ready to bail at the first sign of trouble. There was no smell and no sound. There didn’t seem to be danger of an explosion, and if it was leaking invisible radioactivity, we were already doomed.

Its rounded lines reminded me of a B-2 bomber but with no obvious wings or engines. There didn’t appear to be any hatches or windows either. It was like a giant clamshell with absolutely no aerodynamic qualities. Kent’s crazy theory of these craft being from another world was beginning to seem less crazy. I walked with caution, hoping that there wasn’t an injured alien trapped inside preparing to defend his craft.

As I drew closer, I actually thought of Marty Wiggins. This had all started with his final moment of glory. The crowd was going crazy. Marty was on top of the world—until he fell off. It didn’t seem fair that somebody’s life could end at a moment of such triumph.

Or maybe that was a good thing. What better last memory to have than the joy of hearing the cheers of adoring fans? In light of all that had happened since, he might have been the lucky one.

Marty’s death was the beginning.

Or was it?

I had to accept that my parents had moved us to Pemberwick Island years before to prepare for SYLO’s arrival and some big event that was planned long before Marty had taken a fatal dose of the Ruby.