The scene shifted again: the Jersey shore, right at the entrance to the Lincoln

Tunnel. A hundred assorted monsters were marching past the lanes of stopped

traffic: giants with clubs, rogue Cyclopes, a few fire-spitting dragons, and

just to rub it in, a World War II-era Sherman tank, pushing cars out of its way

as it rumbled into the tunnel.

 

"What's happening with the mortals outside Manhattan?" I said. "Is the whole

state asleep?"

 

Annabeth frowned. "I don't think so, but it's strange. As far as I can tell from

these pictures, Manhattan is totally asleep. Then there's like a fifty-mile

radius around the island where time is running really, really slow. The closer

you get to Manhattan, the slower it is."

 

She showed me another scene — a New Jersey highway. It was Saturday evening, so

the traffic wasn't as bad as it might've been on a weekday. The drivers looked

awake, but the cars were moving at about one mile per hour. Birds flew overhead

in slow motion.

 

"Kronos," I said. "He's slowing time."

 

"Hecate might be helping," Katie Gardner said. "Look how the cars are all

veering away from the Manhattan exits, like they're getting a subconscious

message to turn back."