Free The Sleepwalkers by J. Gabriel Gates Page A

stopped, but there’s a shadow spilling out of the corridor. She squeezes Caleb’s hand, then drops it and walks away on her pale, white feet, across the room, through the arched doorway, and into the hallway beyond, where she’s lost from sight.
    “Dude, what did she write on your hand?” asks Bean with an amused grin.
    Caleb responds only with an absent gesture of negation. “Let’s go,” he says, and starts for the door.
    No one is there to escort the guys back to the exit, and when they reach the little “ticket window” where the man in the white shirt had been, they find it dark and empty. They push through the front doors into the insect songs, bird calls, and blaring light of the world.
    Neither of them speaks. They get in the car and drive away, watching the sleeping colossus bearing the dream center banner disappear amongst the green boughs of the forest. It isn’t until they’ve reached the street that one of them cracks the silence, and naturally it’s Bean.
    “Dude, that’s messed up,” he says with outrage.
    “Huh?”
    Bean frowns and pats his pockets. “She kept my favorite pen!”

Chapter Five
    “F IVE THIRTY-FIVE AM, ” C ALEB SAYS with a shrug.
    He and Bean sit in the living room of the abandoned Mason house. After some major dusting and bringing the sleeping bags and backpacks in from the car, they’ve managed to set up a fairly cozy campsite in the living room, complete with a roaring fire in the fireplace, thanks to some wood Caleb gathered out back and the can of lighter fluid Bean found under the kitchen sink. The fire pops and sputters, casting strange, dramatic shadows on the far wall. The guys sit in a cocoon of firelight—no streetlight shines through the windows, no electricity burns through the household bulbs. Still, in their pale halo, everything glows orange and feels safe. The fire makes the hot Florida air almost unbearable, but darkness would be even worse.
    Caleb slouches in a wing chair and Bean lies on his stomach, sprawled across an ottoman.
    “Let me see,” says Bean, and positions Caleb’s hand so he can read the writing.
    “Ow,” says Caleb. “I don’t really bend that way.”
    “Oh, you’re not double-jointed like your girlfriend, eh?”
    “Ha-ha,” Caleb says distractedly. He stares at his hand for a moment, then continues: “And she mentioned Anna, but Anna has been missing for years. Everyone but her mom was pretty sure she was dead. But maybe she’s not.”
    Bean squints at Caleb’s hand again. “I don’t know, man. Maybe an S . Could be S-three-Sam.”
    “What the hell does that mean?”
    “It means, of course that . . . um . . . I don’t know! I’m just here for moral support, anyway. This is all you, Sherlock. Maybe it is five thirty-five am. What does that mean? She wants us to rescue her at five thirty in the morning? I don’t think so. It’s five thirty in the morning and I’m either sleeping or drunk—in which case I’m still probably sleeping.”
    “I think maybe we should be there then. We can just wait in the woods and watch, see what happens. Just in case,” says Caleb.
    “Are you out of your friggin’ mind?” says Bean. “First of all, she’s crazy. Really, obviously, like, whacked-out. And if we actually help her escape, I’m pretty sure that has to be a major, serious crime.”
    “What are we supposed to do then? She’s asking us for help. She’s counting on us. And granted, she does seem a little out there, but just hypothetically speaking, what if she is telling the truth? Wouldn’t we owe it to her to find out? I could even write a story about it and have it run in the papers and get the place closed down or something.”
    Bean laughs. “God, here you go again with the journalism bit. Does everything have to be an investigative report for you? This was supposed to be a vacation.”
    Caleb looks at his friend. “Alright. Tomorrow we’ll go to the beach, okay?”
    “The beach is cool, but I’m talking