The first sense to come back to Rhiannon was her hearing - her own ragged breathing thundered in her ears. Beyond that was complete and utter silence. The world tilted like she was drunk and trying to balance on one leg, though the hard ground beneath her back reassured her she wasn't standing at all. The hard surface made her spine stiff and her limbs felt heavy, her head spun as it struggled to latch onto reality.

  She cracked her eyes open—then slammed them shut as pain stabbed through her retinas. Cautiously, and to help anchor herself and the spinning in her head, she stretched her arms out to either side, splaying her fingers and sweeping the area around her.

  Nothing. Just flat, empty ground.

  She hovered her hands over her eyes, blinking in short bursts until her pupils adjusted.

  She sat up slowly. Her senses returned at a frustrating crawl—sluggish, like the tortoise in a footrace with the hare. Finally, she took in her surroundings.

  No overhead fluorescent lights or bright sunshine beat down on her. She actually couldn't discern any light source at all.

  Instead, she was surrounded by a thick bluish fog that seemed to faintly glow, casting an eerie haze but obscured her vision past a few yards. She sat on a hard patch of brown grass, her only indication that she might be outside.

  Panic was growing in her chest as Rhiannon frantically searched for anything familiar in the haze. She stood slowly, nausea clinging to her as each vertebra clicked into place.

  Swallowing multiple times to wet her dry throat, Rhiannon called out, "Hello?"

  No reply- no wind whistling, no machines clanking, no animals scuttling. No life. Rhiannon turned in a slow circle, squinting through the fog. "Hello?" she yelled louder. It probably wasn't the best idea to continue shouting.

  She had no idea where she was, how she got here, and she couldn't remember anything before waking up. For all she knew, she was alerting some psycho kidnapper that she was awake and ready to be murdered.

  Smooth move. Great survival instincts.

  Rhiannon frowned and berated herself some more. How could she be so stupid? Her chest tightened, and her thoughts spun in rapid-fire bursts—What do I do now? Should I hide? Should I run?

  She wished she'd taken that self-defense class she'd always said she would. Or read a survival manual. Or at the very least, stuck with Girl Scouts past cookie season.

  Rhiannon forced herself to take a deep breath-in through the nose, out through the mouth.She ran a mental check over her body, scanning for any pain or discomfort - maybe a sore spot where a needle had been jammed into her neck?

  Satisfied that she had all ten fingers and toes, and that nothing seemed out of place or injured, Rhiannon hesitantly took one step forward. Then another.

  The fog felt cool against her skin. Each step stirred the air, the mist curling around her ankles like tiny whirlpools.

  She moved slowly, unsure where she was going - but equally certain she couldn't stay where she was.

  She needed to find something. Anything—a tool, a landmark, a place to take shelter, or something she could use as a weapon. Anything to give her a sense of direction or control. With hands out in front of her, and trying to keep one eye ahead and one eye on the ground so she didn't fall in some big, fog-hidden hole, she pressed onward.

  Rhiannon probed her brain and willed it to fill in the blanks of her memory. What had she been doing? Where had she been before this? Muscle memory had her reaching for her back pocket to retrieve her phone.

  It was gone.

  She spun in a wild circle, patting down all her pockets. Then she backtracked the few steps she had taken, scanning the dry grass for her phone—or the slim wallet she kept stuck to the back of its case.

  Nothing.

  Well. That was absolutely great.

  Rhiannon had always chuckled at articles claiming society was addicted to cell phones. Sure, she enjoyed the convenience, but she'd grown up before smart-phones were glued to everyone's hands. She knew how to be without one. But now, stripped of it in this bizarre, silent place, she felt acutely alone.

  And vulnerable.

  Not being able to call the police—or anyone—settled heavy in her gut. Her palms went clammy. Where the hell was she? What had she been doing before waking up here?The answer teased her, just out of reach. She hated this feeling - she could feel the answer hovering in the back of her mind. She willed it to take form, infuriated that it was right there on the tip of her tongue.

  "...you okay?" A man's voice sounded behind her.

  Rhiannon spun around so fast she heard her ankles crack in protest. She scanned the fog but couldn't see who the voice belonged to.

  "Hello?!" She shouted, disgusted by the tremble in her voice. She was sure she had heard someone. She hesitated - just a for a second - before plunging forward through the mist in the direction she thought the voice had come from.

  "I need help!" She yelled.

  The fog offered no reply—nor a break in its dense veil to show what might wait within. She walked quickly forward. Then slower. Then stopped. Rhiannon could almost feel her hope curdling back into panic and desperation.

  "Hello!" She screamed again, voice cracking with fear.

  Suddenly, the sound of footsteps boomed past her. Rhiannon jumped back with a small scream. But she saw no one. The mist was eerily still, no change in the atmosphere like when she walked through it. But those had been footsteps. They had been so loud, like the fog had amplified the noise.

  Her body reacted before her brain could catch up. Fight or flight took the wheel and sent Rhiannon running blindly. The endless blue fog speeding past her, lungs and thighs burning with the effort.

  Finally, a silhouette began to form through the fog. Legs wobbly, she forced herself to keep running. She raised one arm, waving it wildly as she shouted hoarsely to get their attention. All her earlier fears—of psycho kidnappers and her weird amnesia—were shoved aside. She just needed someone.

  As she neared, chest heaving, a woman stood in front of her.

  She wore a flowery dress. Her head was slumped forward with her chin on her chest, and long blond hair was cascading down, hiding her face. Her arms hung limp at her sides. Her posture was rigid - like a statue. Rhiannon could barely make out the rise and fall of the women's chest as she breathed.

  She gulped down air, trying to catch her breath enough to speak and waited for the woman to acknowledge her presence. The woman didn't look up or even seem to notice that Rhiannon was loudly wheezing next to her.

  Rhiannon hesitated, then slowly reached out her hand toward the woman's dangling arm. "Hel—" She began to whisper, but froze.

  Taking a moment to really asses the woman, Rhiannon looked her over. The woman was missing a shoe - a white sneaker on her left foot. Her skin had a bluish tint, almost like it had absorbed the surrounding fog. It reminded Rhiannon of that time an old boyfriend had dragged her to a movie about zombies.

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  Horror movies were never really her thing. She didn't like the gore or the seemingly endless depravity writers managed to dredge up to assault audiences with.

  The way this woman was standing - so rigid, so unnatural - it reminded her in the movie where a well-meaning bystander tries to help someone. They place a hand on their shoulder asking if they are okay, only for their efforts to be rewarded with the "person" revealing their true, bloodied nature and making them their lunch.

  Rhiannon took two slow steps back and shuffled until she was directly in front of the woman. She imagined a bloodied, half-eaten face behind the curtain of matted blond strands. At least if the lady did go full-zombie, she would be ready.

  She rolled her eyes at herself. God, I'm being ridiculous.

  Yes, she was being absurd and letting her imagination run wild, but she was going to use that as fuel to be cautious.

  Rhiannon reached out with one hand and, using a single finger, awkwardly tapped the top of the woman's head. It was the safest spot she could think of - far away from any gnashing teeth, just in case.

  The woman slowly - excruciatingly slowly - raised her head.

  No half-eaten face. No bloody teeth. No dead, soulless eyes. She was actually quite pretty. The woman appeared to be around Rhiannon's age, about early 30's. She had pale blue eyes and a sharp nose.

  "Hi? Are you okay?" Rhiannon asked in a whisper, even though she'd meant to talk louder.

  The woman had a lax, blank expression. Even though she was looking directly at Rhiannon, her eyes were unfocused, as if she was staring through her to something far, far in the distance. Rhiannon reached out again, this time placing her hand gently on the woman's shoulder. The woman didn't even so much as flinch or blink. She didn't acknowledge the contact at all. Was she on drugs? Maybe she was in shock or having a seizure?

  Rhiannon frowned, regarding the woman and trying to discern any clue as to what was wrong with her. But she had no idea what she should even be looking for. She wasn't a detective or a doctor. The woman appeared otherwise fine, nothing jumped out at Rhiannon and she didn't see any wounds.

  She had been studying the woman so intently that she jumped when the woman let out a small groan through closed lips. Then, she slowly dropped her head to look back at her feet and took one small step forward - barely a quarter of an inch.

  Rhiannon didn't know what to do. "Can you hear me?" she asked. She grabbed the woman's shoulders and shook her gently. The woman remained slack and blank, refusing to, or maybe unable, to engage with Rhiannon in any capacity.

  Rhiannon abandoned her efforts and backed away slowly, unable to decide whether to stay or move on. Then, just as before, the woman lifted her head, a small, barely audible moan escaped her lips, and she took one tiny step forward before returning to stare at the ground, still as a statue again.

  Her heart sank, and she felt helpless. She had no idea where she was, and now the only other person she had found clearly needed some medical help that Rhiannon was ill-equipped both mentally and physically to provide with no other resources or help in sight.

  What the hell is going on? Is she sick? Drugged?

  Or maybe...it was the fog?

  The realization gripped her like icy fingers clenching around her heart. What if something is in the air? Some type of toxin creating the fog? Was she going to end up like this woman, trapped in her own body?

  A new type of panic crashed over her like a wave. She clawed at the collar of her shirt and yanked it up over her mouth and nose. It probably wouldn't help - but it was something. Rhiannon had no idea how long the woman had been here. How long had she been here? She looked around frantically and noticed a change.

  The fog. It was different. It was still plentiful, but it seemed washed out now - less blue and fading into a milky white. In her excitement of finding another person, she hadn't paid any attention to the fog. She squinted through it, and her breath caught.

  There - just barely - she could make out the profile of another person. Rhiannon bolted toward them, still breathing through her shirt. The profile materialized into a man this time. He was black, tall, and older than her. White tufts of hair stuck out of his head, and he wore glasses perched low on his nose.

  He stood the same way: head hung low, still as a statue, apparently unaware of his environment. "Sir?" Rhiannon asked, voice muffled through the cotton of her shirt. "Can you hear me?" He didn't respond. She tapped him gently, shook his arm. The man looked up slowly, so slowly that she had to fight the urge to grab his chin and force his head up the rest of the way. His eyes were bloodshot, but the gaze inside them was the same as the woman's - unfocused on her, staring far, far away. He shuffled his feet the tiniest step forward then hung his head again. Rhiannon felt like she was about to cry.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and forced a deep breath, the air warm as it escaped her lips but was corralled by the fabric of her shirt. Her throat clenched around a scream she refused to release.

  It was the fog. It has to be the fog!

  She was starting to hyperventilate.

  A cold sweat slicked her skin. She stumbled backward, step after step, feet moving without thought. She was going to end up like them - unable to move or speak. Trapped. She was going to be trapped. Trapped where?!

  Suddenly, Rhiannon's back bumped into something soft but solid. Spinning around, she found herself face to face with another statue man.

  Then she saw more. All around her, scattered in a loose formation. Dozens, maybe even more. She could also make out long column shapes dotting the fog now, too. Trees! Trees bare of leaves or color - just brown trunks jutting up from the ground to disappear in the fog-filled sky. All the people faced the same direction. All followed the same pattern. The noises haunting as they did a small step here, and a moan there.

  Her hand ached where it had been pressing her shirt to her face, and her nose throbbed from the pressure. The pain ground her, pulling her back from the overwhelming panic. The fog had lost a little more density. Rhiannon could see people, dozens of them, scattered in the haze. They varied in race, gender, and age. One man wore a full "mountain man" outfit of furs and thick boots, like he'd wandered off a survival show set in Alaska. A nearby woman was dressed in nothing but a bikini, her skin painfully red from sunburn.

  Rhiannon glanced down at her own black sweater. Wherever this was, the temperature was perfectly neutral. There was no breeze, no sun, no snow or heat—nothing to indicate a season. Was it the same for everyone else? Could they feel neither heat nor cold?

  Still puzzled, Rhiannon walked aimlessly among the people she had silently dubbed the "statues," noting the strange inconsistencies in their appearances. Some looked like they belonged in entirely different eras. One man wore a perfectly tailored suit, while a nearby couple had knotted hair and dirt-caked clothes. Another woman stood in full traditional African dress, vibrant and regal amid the pale mist.

  How did all these people get here? How long had they been here?

  She began weaving slowly between them, careful not to touch them, as if they might shatter from the slightest contact. A growing unease buzzed in the back of her mind. There was something she was missing—some clue hidden in plain sight. Then she saw him.

  A man in a worn baseball cap, tattered jeans, and a faded beer-logo T-shirt. He looked like the others—silent, still—but unlike them, he faced the opposite direction.

  "What in the official hell is going on?" Rhiannon muttered, squinting into the fog in the direction the man was facing. At first, she saw only more human silhouettes. She turned and looked the other way—toward whatever it was that everyone else seemed so fixated on. It had been a few years since her last eye exam, and she huffed at herself as she narrowed her eyes, trying to summon 20/20 vision. Then—there, in the distance—something shimmered.

  Curiosity sparked. She spared the man a final glance, then began making her way through the fog, toward the shimmer.

  Minutes passed before she reached it—the fog had thinned with each step, gradually shifting into hues of blue, green, and purple, like an Aurora Borealis trapped inside a water globe. Just ahead, the mist vanished entirely, revealing a great, translucent wall. It loomed in front of her, stretching endlessly in every direction, towering beyond comprehension.

  The wall reminded her of those squishy water tube toys she used to play with as a kid—filled with colored liquid and glitter that swirled hypnotically with every squeeze.

  Within the wall, pale colors danced: soft whites and every shade of blue, moving in no discernible pattern. It was mesmerizing—like standing before a vast ocean, held back by nothing more than a fragile pane of glass. She couldn't see deep into it, but the longer she stared, the more centered she felt. Her thoughts slowed. Her breathing evened out.

  She felt... calm.

  Was it glass? She reached out, tentative, and extended her fingers to touch the surface.Her hand passed right through.

  She gasped and yanked her hand back, clutching it in her other. She stared at her fingers—intact, dry, unharmed. They weren't even wet. Just warm. Comfortably warm.

  Heart pounding, she studied the wall again. There was no mark, no ripple to show she had touched it. If it was full of fluid, shouldn't it have spilled out? She inspected her hand once more, and her nerves were run over by curiosity and intrigue.

  Cautiously, she reached forward again and pressed her hand in—this time up to the wrist. It didn't feel like water. More like entering a pleasantly warm room. Her hand vanished completely, invisible through the swirling colors, but she felt no fear.

  In fact, it felt right.

  She belonged here. She was meant to go through.

  She smiled as a sense of peace wrapped around her, pulling her deeper. With slow, savoring movements, she slid her arm in up to the elbow, then lifted her other hand to join it. Inch by inch, the warmth bathed her skin. The tension in her body melted.

  She forgot the fog. She forgot the statue-people. She forgot the questions and panic and confusion that had plagued her since... minutes ago? Hours? A day?

  It didn't matter. Everything was fine now.

  Everything was—

  A roar tore through the silence. Deep. Guttural.

  Rhiannon froze, her hands still inside the wall. The sound had come from behind her—not an animal, but unmistakably human. Raw. Desperate. Terrified. A panicked scream that shattered the calm like glass.