Fade Read online

  “Cynthia. Get to another class you won’t pay attention in,” her teacher said icily; Cynthia didn’t look up. One more line and she reached down, took up her book bag and trotted down the hall to… Geometry, she thought.

  “Dude!”

  A hand grabbed her and she stopped. “Hey, Jan.”

  “I tried to call yo—” A smile broke out across Jan’s face. “You are so freaking messed up right now.” She laughed.

  Cynthia looked around, then laughed an awkward laugh back. “I know.” She pulled her notebook free from under her arm. “Check out my drawing.” The book fell open to the colorful page she’d been working on, on and off (mostly on) for the past six hours.

  “Beautiful,” Jan grabbed her friend’s arm, “now come with me to the car. You gotta go home, chick.”

  “No,” she pulled away. “Seriously, I’m straight.”

  “Oh, how I wish you weren’t, you sexy vixen. But you are not okay to be here.”

  Cynthia coughed a laugh, leaned close, and whispered in a confidential tone, “Seriously?”

  “’Fraid so, my friend.” Jan took her arm again and began to lead her to the door. “You will thank me later. Even though my history test grade will give me a stern talking to when I get back.”

  Jan pulled Cynthia into the parking lot and all but tossed her into her passenger’s seat. “We’ll go let you chill for a while and then come back and get your car.” Jan climbed in and stared at her friend. “What the hell have you been doing?”

  Cynthia smiled. “I tried Meth. I could run a freaking marathon, bitch,” she cracked up and pushed Jan.

  “You are one fucked up girl, Cyn. We shall have a serious mother-daughter talk when I come get you from my house later.”

  “Ah, don’t get all maternal on me, ho. It was just one time.”

  “Shut up, don’t call me a ho, and pick a song.”

  “Sublime when I’m high!” Cynthia laughed.

  “No. Sublime is weed music. You are high on crystal. That deserves more of an inbred, country music soundtrack.”

  “That is so wrong. You are not cool. …Oo! I need to draw. You drive.”

  “Deal.” Jan shook her head.

  Cynthia breathed in the stale smoke stink of the car and started drawing round curls of smoke on the edges of the page, framing everything that had come before. She was almost through when the crunch of Jan’s driveway broke her concentration. “I don’t think I want to do that stuff anymore,” Cynthia said.

  “Yeah. Probably a good idea.” Jan glanced at her friend. “The coke too?”

  “No, I’m good with the white stuff. I just don’t like tweaking all day.” She stared down at her pad. “This picture is awesome though,” she laughed again.

  “Okay,” she handed Cynthia a key, “you go lay down in my bed, watch some TV and I’m going to make up some excuse about my period and see if Mr. Rakes will let me make-up my history test.”

  “Right on.” Cynthia got out of the car in slow motion, stood up straight, stared at her friend’s small, white house for a moment too long and then took a stumbling step toward it. She stopped halfway there and turned to wave. Jan shook her head again and waved back as she backed out of the driveway. Cynthia closed her eyes and smiled at the crunching gravel. It sounded to her like corn popping.

  The door whined open, and the jingle-jangle of a bell preceded a small, brown yapping Chihuahua dancing across the frayed, brown carpet at her. It shook and reared to jump, but she waved it away. “No, Kissy.” The dog started away, looked back, then jangled over to its worn bed in the corner and lay down, still staring at Cynthia with unblinking, inky eyes as she disappeared down the hallway.

  The smoky smell of the house wasn’t much different than that of Jan’s old Metro, except that the odor of eggs, bacon and biscuits still lingered in the air from that morning. Old smoke, fried breakfast foods and the light bouquet of dog wasn’t the most pleasant of combinations right then. She snarled her lip, holding her stomach, as she walked toward Jan’s bedroom, suddenly thinking that she wanted to draw a dog. Maybe she’d call Kissy in later and have her sit for her. But it would be an abstract version of Kissy—all twirly with detached, wet eyes hovering longingly, like Kissy was unraveling.

  “Is that you, Janet?” Cynthia stopped, a chill running down to her gut. Nice, Jan. Don’t tell me Grandma Lois or Aunt Jude from Ohio, or where-the-hell-ever is here. “You home early?”

  Cynthia took a deep breath and came close to the door. “Um. No, ma’am. I’m a friend of Janet’s, and she told me I could drop by for a little while, if that’s okay with you. I’m feeling sick.” She stared down at the bit of light coming out from under the closed door and found herself lost in it for a moment.

  “Oh. Well, that’s fine, dear.” Cynthia brought her head up and laid it on the door.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Pret.”

  “What?”

  “My name, child. And I’m fully clothed. You can open the door if you like.”

  She let out a long sigh and opened the door. Another smell, that of old, soaked-in sweat and what she assumed were various mentholated ointments joined in the olfactory party.

  Pret’s smile was pleasant. “Come. Have a seat.” She patted a chair next to the bed with the slow, wavering motion of a fragile geriatric.

  “I… I’m not feeling well. I don’t want to get you sick.” She lied again.

  “Oh, I’m a strong old lady. A little bug won’t kill me. I won’t keep you long.”

  Cynthia eyed some pain pills, hydros, sitting next to the bed and wondered if she could abscond with a few at some point without the old lady knowing. “Okay,” she said.

  “Good girl. Now… where are you from, um…?”

  “Cynthia.”

  She smiled that grandmotherly smile again and repeated her name like it tasted sweet. “Cynthia. Where are you from?”

  “Um, I live on the other side of town.”

  “Always?”

  “I mean, I’ve lived in other apartments. A house when I was smaller. But, yeah. Always here. What about you?”

  “I’m from here and there, sweetie.”

  Cynthia nodded, and looked about the room. She didn’t think she’d ever been in this room all the time she’d known Jan.

  “Do you play checkers?” The woman asked.

  “Huh? Oh. Not since I was little, no.”

  The sagging skin around Pret’s mouth bunched, the wrinkles deepening as she frowned. “Too bad. I like games.”

  “I mean, it’s not a hard game. I can play if—”

  The woman interrupted her. “Oh, no. I thought of something better. I do palm readings. That’s fun. Would you like to indulge an old lady in an old parlor trick?” Pret smiled once more and Cynthia shrugged with her own half-smile, finding herself sort of interested in what the woman might say. She didn’t believe in that sort of crap, but it was the closest thing to fun she’d gotten since being pulled into the lady’s room.

  Cynthia poked her flattened hand out, and Pret sat up, taking it like it was food and she hadn’t eaten in weeks. She stared at it, serious, examining each crease and curve, and then began to explain. “This line here,” she dragged a thin, bone-white finger down the arch of the line closest to her thumb, “is your life line.” She moaned in dulcet tones to herself. “Far too long, child.”

  “What does that—?”

  “This here,” she poked a long, thick, yellow nail into another line. “Well, you’ve had a hard life. It will get harder. I promise you that.”

  “Wow, a little morbid for a parlor trick, Pret.” She joked, but something about the way Pret’s eyes gobbled up her hand shook her.

  Her almost white eyes lifted to Cynthia’s. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to enjoy a kill like this.”

  Cynthia stood, pulling her hand with her as she took a step back.

  Pret smiled. “Some of my people think it’s pointless. But they don’t und
erstand that ripping someone apart from the inside out is just as fun as the other way.”

  Cynthia was crying now. She turned, confused, ran to the door, which was a wall now.

  “You don’t even know Jonas, do you?” She clucked her tongue. “I don’t understand that. He didn’t die. He’s how we found you.” Her head shook. The bed was gone, and Pret stood where it had been. “But that’s a question for him.” Her chest jumped up and down like someone were trying to escape from inside as the old woman laughed.

  Cynthia beat against the wall until it felt like her bones would break. The walls began to creak. Dust from the drywall puffed out. The room closed in on her like a hand. Blue light began to show through the cracks that became gaps that became a foggy real world, cast in cobalt. The last thing she saw before she passed into unconsciousness was the thing from the hall at school. The last thing she saw was its jittering, horrible face.

  ***

  A cool palm seemed to caress Jonas’ throbbing forehead. Coming in and out of wakefulness, he imagined that it was Elizabeth who’d somehow found him, across worlds, and would smile that smile of hers if he opened his eyes. But they were so heavy, and he didn’t want her to stop touching him. It had been far too long since he’d felt that. He could have sworn that he heard her whisper her love right before full consciousness rushed at him like a possessing spirit and he opened his eyes.

  His head rested half in the mud and half in a slough, its water rocking into his face due to a quartet of ravens bathing several feet away. He moved. They fled. A few squawks and the sound of beating wings against the air followed them. There was no Elizabeth, and he frowned, weakening. Sitting up, he flung his long, wet hair out of his face, then wiped at a wad of mud on his cheek. A deep breath. It was the sole sound to be heard in the woods aside from the low, chirping buzz of locusts. The time he had spent in these woods was a fuzzy mess, in and out of reality. But as he sat there, he felt stable. The mind-quakes were over and he was himself again. How he had gotten there in the first place was still a mystery though. He had a vague impression of teenagers standing in the back of a truck, laughing down at him. But the memory felt untethered, frustratingly without context, like a half-remembered dream that seemed important.

  There was a sloppy sound of wet clothes coming unglued from the muddy ground as he got to his feet. A stone dug into his hand as he pushed himself up and he winced. He held the hand up to examine it. Then, he brought the other up beside it. Neither looked right. They were calloused, thinner, stained. How long had he been gone? Then a more important question came. Where were the children?

  He stank. That was another thing he noticed aside from the Grizzly Adams beard and the mop of stringy hair languishing on his head. The smell reminded him of rotted apples and old cola, and he forced it out of his nostrils, angry at himself for letting all this happen. He should have found a way to stop it. He should have found a way to be there for the girls. That was his lone job, the only damn job a broken soldier was good for, and he even screwed that up somehow.

  Bits and pieces of what happened stuck like pinpricks of light through the fog in his mind. It wasn’t enough to paint a coherent picture, or tell him how long he’d been… crazy or whatever had happened, or even how he’d gotten better. There was just enough to frustrate him more.

  Jonas opened his mouth and found it dry; his throat shut tight. He licked his lips and tried his voice, unsure how long it had been since he’d used it. “Jonas.” He tasted his own name, and then cleared his throat and spat. Wanting out of these woods, he looked up at the sun, the trees, and walked north, hoping it was a good direction. The old boots he wore slipped on the muck. Gushes of brown water leapt out of them with each step, but he managed to stay upright. He thought of those little girls again and picked up his pace.

  Jonas found the end of the woods and tramped out, finding himself on the edge of a highway. Cars growled by and a huge billboard across the road raved about the new Ford. He stared at the year of the new model and trembled. That long? It had been that long since he went away? For the first time, the thought occurred to him that the war was over for him. If more than a decade had passed since he’d brought the girls there, if that long had gone by without an incident—and things looked much too normal to indicate the Fade had come—then it was doubtful the Fade were going to find them.

  His thoughts then changed from fear for the girls to curiosity about their lives. Were they safe? Were they happy? Did his daughter have a family who cared for her? Did he have any right to pull her away when there seemed no need—no ghoulish alien army bearing down on them? A heavy drop worked its way down his cheek. If they’d found a peaceful—a normal—existence, then he had to stay away. But, he did have to know. He had to find them and make sure. Then he would go about rebuilding whatever kind of life he could manage in this place. Although unlike they’d all imagined, his job would be done—the children safe.

  Jonas stepped out onto the gravel beside the highway and stuck out his thumb. Then he thought about what he looked like and dropped the arm. Home. He’d have to go to what was meant to be home for all these years. Then he could start his final mission.

  The first thing he did after arriving on this other Earth all those years ago was open up two cases which were filled with several types of valuables that the scouts who had first explored this Earth had reported were worth money there. Turned out to be the same diamonds, gold, silver and other, shiny trinkets his Earth had found worthy of a hefty price tag. He sold every bit of it, amassing a small fortune over the first six months he and the three girls were there.

  By some miracle, the shelter was finished by the time the headaches started all those years ago. He hadn’t lasted long after the headaches began. They had warned him that some of the scouts had experienced minor vertigo, and even gave him meds for it. Said it was nothing. Losing one’s entire self for almost fifteen years wasn’t nothing. Something about being on this alternate Earth had stolen his mind. Like it had rejected him for not belonging there. But, thankfully, it hadn’t affected the children.

  The shelter was all but underground, but the inside had been bright and comfortable, for the kid’s sakes. But he only got to see them enjoy it for a short time. It seemed that no sooner had the last bit of paint dried than he began having blackouts. Waking in strange places, or looking up from a soggy, lukewarm bowl of cereal to see that three hours had passed. He was sure he’d finished his last meeting with the adoption agency before the bleeding from the ears and the great, sudden spouts of blood from his nose began. He’d forgotten one of the girl’s names in those last weeks; woke up in an alley all the way in town the next; lost almost two days at some point. That was when he knew he could not take care of the girls. If he could have sent them back, he would have. But it was too big of a risk. He remembered that much, the rest just in broad strokes.

  Now, here he was, almost a decade and a half older, with only vague recollections of dropping the girls off for the last time. He’d told social services that he had a brain disorder and was the last of their family. He just recalled that. That was now his last somewhat clear memory of them, hearing one of them call for him as he stumbled out of the office. There was more, a lot more, it seemed, just out of focus. But it was all he could piece together right then. He put it out of his mind for the moment. It was overwhelming him.

  His clothes stuck to him, the smell of mud and his own filth crawled ever into his nose as he walked the highway, the woods at his side. Rivulets of water slid down his face from his wet hair, tickling him. Cars zoomed by, pushing at him like weak fists. So Jonas stepped further into the ditch, not wanting to add being run over to his bad day. That was when he saw it.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the thing rushing at him. Even over his own stench he recognized its faint odor. But he reacted a moment too late. At once, he was no longer on the side of the road, or even on Earth. The Wraith had gotten into his head, showing him an auburn sky filled with scre
eching, gangling things. They circled him like buzzards. Their droppings smacked the ground around him, sizzling as they ate at the hard, dry earth. One of them swooped close, and the air from its skin wings knocked him forward. Jonas scrambled to his feet. Another of the things lunged at him. Its claws found his back and it rose again, wet ragged pieces of him in its grip.

  Gasping, he returned to himself, to the real world, to see the empty, alien eyes of a Wraith inches from his own. Jonas had hoped in his most desperate prayers never to see such eyes again. Of the entire Fade force, the Wraith could do the least physical damage. But it was one of the most feared warriors. They sacrificed physical forms for technological advantage. The knowledge that they could enter your mind at any time, tinker with your thoughts, conjured worse fear than that of blade or gun. And they were quite sadistic in their creativity.

  The Wraith were greedy with their words unless they were in your head. But this one’s gasping, echoing voice chilled Jonas. “I found you.”

  With that, Jonas began to feel it climbing into his mind once more. His head already throbbing from the first round. This is going to hurt like hell, he thought, squeezing his eyes tight. In one moment he was wrestling the Wraith, the next he was twenty years younger, sitting in Elizabeth’s studio apartment, having tea. Fear hadn’t worked, so now the Wraith was pulling at strings Jonas feared might just make him dance. But back and forth, he fought it. It was their first date. The hollow eyes of the creature again. She would kiss him soon. For the first time. He wanted to stay so much. In fact, every inch of him argued to stay in that fantasy. But he had to fight. She was leaning in. He could smell the tart fragrance of her perfume. Feel the warmth of her breath as she drew closer. Her mouth opening in a teasing smile.

  The Wraith screamed and so did he. His brain felt like it might swell right out of his skull and his eyes felt like someone were pouring alcohol into them. It took everything he had, which wasn’t much, but the Wraith was backing off, pulling away. Jonas’ head clouded. The fantasy tried to rise one last, weak time. Jonas writhed in a cold sweat, his muscles weakened so that he could barely move. Blacking out. If he blacked out, he would—