There were about a dozen of them, standing perfectly still at odd intervals along the street. Not homeless, not drunks. A woman in a business suit, her briefcase dangling from a limp hand. A tattooed chef in stained whites, his eyes unfocused. A teenager with a septum piercing, drool sliding from the corner of her mouth.

It was a ship. But it wasn't built. It was hummed into existence.

The military cordoned off the M60. But the soldiers, after three days, began to stand still. The police helicopters fell from the sky when their pilots succumbed. And then, on the tenth night, the Standing Ones spoke. All of them. A million voices in a perfect, low-frequency chorus.

“We are the antenna. We are the receiver. The signal is coming.”