The Flight of the Silvers (Silvers #1)(16)

Hannah turned back to Zack, who now watched her in rigid horror. She wanted to grab him and pull him into the bubble. Maybe he could explain it. Except . . . except . . .

Except there was no bubble this time, no white-haired man with his finger on the clock. It was just Hannah and the world moving at two different speeds.

It’s you, her higher functions insisted. You’re the one doing this.

“No . . .”

The last working piston in her mind told her to run, and so she ran. She ran over the grass and out of the marina, through the alley and all the way back to the business district. Wherever she went, she couldn’t escape the smoky blue haze. Everywhere she looked, cars moved like pedestrians and pedestrians moved like turtles. Litter scraps fluttered in the wind like lazy bumblebees.

Suddenly a large shadow enveloped her. She turned around and looked up.

A massive metal saucer, the size of a Little League field, emerged over the building tops. It floated hundreds of feet above the asphalt, slowly spinning on its own axis.

Unlike everything else in Hannah’s trudging blue world, the ship moved at a decent pace, at least twenty miles an hour. From below, it looked like a giant metal wagon wheel. Each wedge was filled with a fluorescent white light.

Once the silver hub came into view, Hannah saw a tableau of man-size letters.

ALBEE’S AERSTRAUNT





ALL-AMERICAN CUISINE


2-HOUR BRUNCH ROUNDS @ 8X

FOR RESERVATIONS CALL #49-95-ALBEE

Her last thread of perseverance snapped. A shriek rose up from the core of her being. She ran again, her frantic gaze fixed on the high-flying bistro. Her wind sprint lasted fifteen feet, ending smack at the side of a parked Metro bus. A crunch. A crack. A wall of pain. And then Hannah’s whole crazy world, her terra insana, went from blue to black.

—

She opened her eyes to white clouds. The heads of a dozen bystanders formed a popcorn string around the edge of her vision. She could feel the cold, hard sidewalk beneath her aching body. The deep blue madness had ended, thank God. Her onlookers moved and talked at normal speed.

As soon as Hannah tried to get up, a sharp agony seized her left shoulder. She cried out.

A new head eclipsed her view—a stout, middle-aged man with beady brown eyes and a thick walrus mustache. He wore an authoritative green uniform that Hannah didn’t recognize. A cop? A guard? A forest ranger?

“Try not to move,” he told her. “You wrenched yourself pretty good.”

“It hurts . . .”

“Yeah. I fig you dislocated your shoulder. I can pop it back in but we have to get you better situated. Just try to stay still, okay? What’s your name?”

“I can’t do this . . .”

“Yes you can. You’ll be okay. Listen, I couldn’t find cards on you. What’s your name?”

“H-Hannah.”

“Hi, Hannah. I’m Martin Salgado. I want you to relax now, all right? I’m here to help.”

The man directed his voice at someone she couldn’t see. “Turn her on three. Ready? One . . . two . . . three.”

Hannah sensed three different hands on her body. They tilted her two inches to the right, triggering another sharp jolt in her shoulder. She squealed in agony.

“Sorry,” said Martin. “No avoiding that. But the good news is that I got an epallay right here with your name on it. Just stay easy.”

He slid a smooth board beneath her before rolling her flat again. With a soft electric whirr, Hannah rose three feet off the sidewalk.

Martin stood at her side with an adhesive bandage in his grip—fire-red, with a white “E” in the middle. He peeled it off and pressed it against Hannah’s injured shoulder.

“What is that? What did you put on me?”

“That’s the epallay,” he told her. “In a few minutes, you won’t feel the pain.”

Just outside her view, Martin’s partner gently pushed Hannah forward. She rode with eerie steadiness, like she was riding an oiled track. She thought about the baby stroller and wondered if she now had to add herself to the ever-growing list of things that shouldn’t be floating.

The wall of bystanders opened up. A middle-aged woman crunched her brow at Hannah’s two handlers.

“Hey, shouldn’t you fellas wait for the police?”

“Mind your own,” said Martin.

Hannah grabbed his wrist. “Wait, you guys aren’t cops?”

Martin laughed amicably. He hadn’t heard that word in decades. “No, we’re Salgado Security, a private contract firm. I’m the proprietor. The one pushing you is my son Gerry. We’re gonna take good care of you.”

“No, no. Wait. Stop. Stop. I don’t want this.”

“Listen, Hannah, I don’t mean to be quick with you, but we’re on a bite here—”

“No, you don’t understand. I need to wake up. None of this is happening. I need to wake up.”

Martin raised his palm. The floating stretcher stopped. While he rummaged through his shoulder bag, Hannah craned her head at Martin’s young and burly son. Tears flowed up her temples.

“I can’t take it anymore. Help me. Please.”

“Dad . . .”

“I got it,” said Martin, while unwrapping another adhesive. This one was black and square, the size of a fingernail. He peeled it from the paper and then affixed it to Hannah’s neck.