The smoke is a thick, opaque curtain of carbon and chemical-scorch that tastes of melted plastic and ancient floor wax. In the lab, the fire is no longer a shield; it is becoming a secondary predator, consuming the limited oxygen and radiating a dry, searing heat that Audiam feels as a frantic prickling against her cheeks. The white-hot glare of the burning lab coats reflects off the glass beakers, turning the room into a kaleidoscope of dancing, orange geometry.
She can feel the vibration of the fire—a low-frequency roar that travels through the soles of her boots, a chaotic, churning energy. But beneath that, she feels the school building itself groaning. The structural steel is expanding under the heat, a subsonic ping-ping-ping that radiates through the floorboards.
"The hatch," her father signs, his movements jagged and illuminated by the flickering flames. He points toward the ceiling in the corner of the lab, where a square maintenance opening is tucked behind a row of fume hoods.
Audiam doesn't hesitate. She scoops up Paw-paw, the puppy's fur smelling of ozone and fear. He is shivering so violently that his tiny joints feel like they are rattling against her ribs. She signals to Buddy with a sharp, upward flick of her wrist—Up—and the retriever is already moving, his claws scrabbling against the metal cabinets as he seeks a path to the higher ground.
Her father hauls a lab table toward the corner, the metal legs screeching against the floor—a vibration that Audiam feels as a sharp, painful grit in her molars. He climbs up first, reaching into the darkness of the ceiling and pulling the hatch open.
A secondary atmospheric pressure hits them. A rush of cold, ionized air pours down from the maintenance shaft, smelling of damp concrete and the strange, metallic tang of the rift. It clashes with the heat of the fire, creating a swirling vortex of ash and smoke.
Her father reaches down. He takes Paw-paw first, disappearing the puppy into the dark above. Then he reaches for Audiam. She feels the calloused strength of his hands as he pulls her up. She scrambles onto the narrow, metal cat-walk of the maintenance level, her knees hitting the steel with a dull clung that vibrates through her entire skeleton.
Buddy follows, a frantic, scrambling weight that her father hauls up by the harness. Her mother is the last one in, her face streaked with soot, her eyes wide with a terror that has moved past panic and into a state of catatonic resolve.
They are in the "interstitial" spaces of the school—a narrow world of galvanized ducts, bundle-cables, and steel girders. There is no light here, save for the weak, dying beam of her father's flashlight and the orange glow bleeding up from the lab below.
Audiam places her hands flat against the main HVAC duct. She feels the heartbeat of the building.
The skittering is everywhere now. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
It's the silicate-limbs of the Watchers. They aren't just in the gym; they are in the walls. They are navigating the school like spiders in a web, their weightless, shifting forms slipping through the vents and the gaps in the masonry. Audiam feels the vibration of their movement—a high-frequency, rhythmic scratching that makes her skin crawl. It feels like the building is being eaten from the inside out.
"Don't touch the sides," her father signs, his light catching the glint of the dust in the air. "Stay on the steel. The insulation is conductive."
He is right. As they move along the catwalk, Audiam sees the grey dust—the precursor particulate—clinging to the fiberglass insulation of the ducts. It shimmers with a faint, bioluminescent violet glow, a static discharge from the Gate above. Where the dust touches the metal, it creates tiny, microscopic sparks.
They reach the maintenance ladder that leads to the roof. It is a vertical climb of twenty feet, the rungs cold and slick with condensation. Her father goes first, his silhouette a dark shadow against the faint, bruised light coming from the top of the shaft.
Audiam follows. She carries Paw-paw in the front of her sweatshirt, his small weight a grounding presence. Below her, Buddy is being guided by her mother. The dog's claws click-clack against the metal rungs—a sound she can't hear, but a rhythm she feels in her fingertips.
They crest the top of the ladder and emerge onto the roof.
The transition is a sensory explosion. The air here is no longer the air of Earth. It is thick, viscous, and carries a piezoelectric charge that makes Audiam's teeth ache and her hair stand on end. The temperature is an impossible contradiction—biting cold that feels like it's burning her skin.
But it is the sky that stops her heart.
The "Gate" is no longer a crack. It is a stabilized, interdimensional aperture that spans the entire horizon above the town. It is a swirling nebula of violet, obsidian, and jagged, white light. It looks like a slow-motion explosion of glass. From the centre of the rift, fine, grey "snow" is falling—the silicate particulate that forms the bodies of the Watchers.
Beneath the Gate, the town is a landscape of ghosts. Every rooftop, every streetlamp, every abandoned car is covered in a layer of the grey ash. And in the shadows, the Watchers are standing. Tens of thousands of them. They are no longer the blurred, faint silhouettes of the afternoon. In the direct proximity of the Gate, they are distinct, horrifying geometries. They have long, multi-jointed limbs and torsos that seem to be made of shifting, translucent smoke.
They are all facing the same direction: up. Toward the Gate.
Audiam moves to the edge of the roof, her feet finding purchase on the gravel-coated tar. She looks down into the school's courtyard.
The "Stillness" is absolute. The Watchers below are frozen in the moonlight, their vitrification locked by the silver glow of the moon—which, in this new atmosphere, is unnaturally bright, acting as a low-level UV source. But where the shadows of the building fall, they are moving. They are fluid, silent, and purposeful.
"They're waiting," her father signs, his face illuminated by the violet glare from above.
"For what?" Audiam signs.
He points toward the rift.
A new vibration begins. It isn't the skittering or the groan of the building. It is a deep, planetary thrum—a soundless bass note that travels from the sky, down through the air, and into the very bedrock of the town. It is so powerful that Audiam feels her vision blur in time with the frequency.
From the centre of Hell's Gate, something is emerging.
It isn't another Watcher. It is a massive, structural distortion—a "Spire-ship" or a pillar of solid silicate. It is miles long, a jagged, black needle that is slowly descending toward the centre of the town. As it enters the atmosphere, it creates a massive displacement wave.
Audiam feels the pressure-change hit her like a wall. Her ears pop, and a sharp, metallic taste fills her mouth. The gravel on the roof begins to dance, jumping an inch into the air with every pulse of the rift.
Buddy lets out a long, mournful howl—a vibration that Audiam feels as a shuddering grief in the air. Even the dogs know that the world they were born into has ended.
"The water," her mother signs suddenly, pointing toward the town's water tower on the hill overlooking the school.
In the violet light, the water tower is leaking. Not a trickle, but a massive, catastrophic breach. The water isn't falling like a liquid; it is being pulled upward. The droplets are rising in long, shimmering ribbons, drawn toward the rift by some impossible gravitational or magnetic pull.
The elixir is being reclaimed. The "Other Side" isn't just bringing monsters; it is harvesting the world.
"We need to leave the town," her father signs, his movements becoming frantic as the black spire descends closer. "The centre is death. We need to reach the woods. The trees... the organic matter... it disrupts their sensors."
He is guessing. They are all guessing. But as the spire touches the ground three miles away, a massive shockwave of vibration tears through the earth. The high school roof shudders, a deep, structural crack appearing in the concrete parapet next to Audiam.
She grabs her dogs, pulling them toward the fire escape on the far side of the roof. She doesn't look back at the town. She doesn't look at the houses or the dying lights. She looks only at the geometry of the shadows, navigating the "Safe Path" of the moonlight.
The silence of the apocalypse is finally over. The world is screaming now—not with sound, but with the vibration of its own destruction.
Audiam leads the way down the fire escape, her boots hitting the metal with a rhythmic, defiant thrum-thrum-thrum. She is no longer a teenager waiting for a rescue. She is the sentry of the silent pack, and the only way to survive the Other Side is to move faster than the shadows can stretch.