***
As though my dreams brought them to life, the next morning starts with screaming.
I bolt upright and scramble to my feet, already scanning the gym for threats.
“What the fuck?” someone yells.
Lanny rushes past me, eyes locked on something near the treadmills. That’s when I see what everyone’s freaking out about. Kyle, our right fielder, is floating. Like, actually floating in the fucking air. He’s horizontal, about six feet off the floor, spinning slowly and laughing like he’s high as hell.
“Lanny,” I bark. “What the bloody hell is happening?”
He pants beside me. “He was asleep, man! Then he just... started floating. He screamed himself awake, and now he’s laughing like a lunatic.”
Kyle spins again, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as he giggles uncontrollably. Everyone else is pressed to the walls, even the coaching staff. No one is doing a damn thing.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter and march over.
“Hey!” I snap. “Kyle! Get down.”
Nothing. He doesn’t answer, so I grab his ankle and yank. He yelps, then blinks rapidly as I tug him down to the floor. His body sags when he lands and his laughter dies as he stares up at me with wide eyes.
“What the hell is happening to me?” he whispers.
I don’t have an answer for him. I don’t understand any of this shit. I stand and turn to see every eye on me again. I slap a hand against my face to try and wake up from this fucked up reality. When that doesn’t work, I look at all of my teammates.
“Anyone else turn into Doctor Strange since the moon cracked?” I ask the room.
All I get is silence. I shake my head and walk away, grabbing a protein bar and a warm bottle of water from the supply stash.
“I need to get the fuck out of here.”
The floating incident has everyone shook. Kyle won’t stop pacing and muttering, “I didn’t ask for this,” like a prayer or a curse. Nobody’s stepping closer to talk to him, not even the coaches. I lean and slide down against a wall, chewing on my tasteless protein bar, trying not to feel every pair of eyes on me. They think I’m the next to snap. Or maybe the one who already did.
Mid-morning, Coach Donahue finally gathers everyone up. The man looks like he aged ten years overnight. His face is grey and drawn with the stress and uncertainty of what’s happening.
“We’ve been advised to stay put,” he tells us. “Emergency broadcasts are saying conditions outside are dangerous. There’s riots, fires, and military checkpoints are going up. We’ll hold here until further instruction.”
His voice shakes. I feel that soft buzz in my head and know that he’s lying. The words crawl over my skin like ants,screamingnot true, not true. He’s scared, but not just about outside. Aboutus.
My jaw tightens. I rise and walk straight to him. “Who told you that?”
He hesitates and I push. Not physically, not with words. With that same strange pressure I used in the parking lot.
“Coach,” I say quietly. “Tell the truth.”
His pupils dilate. His lips twitch. “No one. We haven’t had any contact with anyone since yesterday. The phones are dead and there’s no cell service or internet.”
“So why are you keeping us here?”
“I don’t know what else to do!” he snaps, voice cracking. “Half the team’s showing signs of... of something. I’ve got a kid freezing water with his fingers. Another one shocked himself unconscious. I’m just trying to keep people from panicking!”
A murmur rises behind me. I turn slowly, eyes landing on a rookie pitcher, Benji. His fingertips are rimmed in frost. He’s shivering, even though the gym’s muggy with all of us in here and no air conditioning running.
More of these powers are manifesting. More cracks in the world that no one has any idea how to deal with.
I back away from the coach. “You’re not wrong to be afraid,” I tell him. “But locking us in here isn’t going to stop what’s happening.”
“Then what will?” he asks, and for the first time, his fear is plain to see and I feel it wash over me. I try to shake that feeling off so it doesn’t swamp me and pull me down so far that I start screaming.
