Fade (2 page)

Five-hundred and seventy-three. That was the number of
just
the children that were supposed to be leaving for the other Earth. Some of them had been outside, playing, feeling safe again, when the Fade attacked. Six months of planning and secrecy and just days to go before the first wave was sent, and the Fade had somehow found them. Some filthy traitor had sold all those little souls and every parent who was to make the trip for a comfortable position in the inevitable kingdom they saw coming.
But, they’d been so careful who knew.
Jonas shook the thought from his head—
no time
—but it went right on floating around as he started toward the others.

Jonas reminded himself that even if just one of them got away—one child—it would still be worth it. Also, if this worked, the enemy’s technology would be damaged beyond repair because he had stood. One man. Like Kyle, he stood. They had all stood, hadn’t they? Not one of the troops had ran when the children were in danger. Jonas sighed.
Perhaps there was that. If this planet fell, at least there was that.

Explosion. Jonas’ body took flight into a wall. The building shook. Came a sickening roar from up the hall. Clambering to his feet, he shot to where the women and children were. The large conference room was in shambles. One of the women was already buried under the rubble of a demolished wall on which one of the five Golems—those nauseating giants, flesh hanging from their bloated bodies as if it would slough off at any moment—stood battling the others. The Wraith wouldn’t be far behind.

“Jonas!” He was grateful to see his wife still alive. She called to him, getting to her feet, her palm against a bleeding forehead. “Save the children!”

“I’m here, Elizabeth!” He watched her use her own mental abilities to create out of the wreckage two, large humanoid shapes, formed of fallen stone and metal. Elizabeth gritted her teeth, and she and her stone and metal puppets began to attack the Golems.

A few of the Fade warriors were more machine than flesh, their physical beings not quite present in this dimension. They were the Fade’s spies, and because of their ghost-like appearances, the humans began calling them Wraiths. They weren’t much in a fight, but along with the Wraith's own technologically-enabled mental abilities, they had a single weapon. They could emit nanites which infected the bodies of nearby humans, destroying higher brain functions, but mutating those bodies for strength and size, creating formidable, but ill-formed slaves: the Golems they called them.

“Get the kids and go, Jonas!” Elizabeth yelled.

Jonas already had the three children who emerged from the rising filth and concrete dust. (He had picked out four tiny shadows lying limp in the rubble.) He almost broke then and there, but ran with the remaining children into the stairwell that had almost been blocked by the damage. The Golem had caved in the roof above them. It was amazing any of them had survived. He stopped there, holding the children close. “I won’t leave without you, Elizabeth!”

The dark-haired Danna crashed into another of the Golems, sending them both flying up and out of the room. The redhead, her arms ablaze, ignited the head of another of the creatures in a relentless barrage of flames. Its sick arms flailed and then it slumped to the ground, a sizzling mess. The redhead turned her attention to another of the Golems, but stumbled, crying out from the pain of her wound. She looked far too pale and sick for the fight. She shuffled against a wall, grabbing at her back. “If you don’t go now,” the redhead said to Jonas, “this is all been for nothing.”

Another of the women had started for the redhead to help when one of the Golems yanked her up, stuffing her left side in its slobbering maw. Her entire body crackled with electricity, igniting a blast that blinded them all for an instant, exploding the Golem’s head. But it was too late. Her limp form sailed across the room.

Jonas became aware that the woman might have lived if he still had the full brunt of his own powers at his disposal. Sure, millions of others might live because they were taken away—because he had time to help formulate the plan—but that was no comfort as he watched her tattered remains slump onto the floor, her 10-year-old lying under the rubble a few feet away.

Danna wobbled back in, “that one’s dow—” She saw her friend's body and fell to her knees. “Why are you still here? Get the children out. There are more coming.”

Jonas’ eyes went to his wife who was now cradling the redhead. Elizabeth spoke, holding in her tears. “We can’t go.” Her eyes were wild, as if the words were holding a gun to her head, forcing her to say them. “We have to hold them back. You know we do.”

Jonas held his baby daughter against his shoulder, crying, as the other two little girls held to his legs. “Shh, Lucy,” he said, herding them down the stairs. The words came perfunctorily, his nerves sizzling. Then he was staring at the fabled machine on the floor in front of them.

It was small enough to fit in a backpack, yet it had brought a world of horror to them. Now, though, the portal might be their world’s great hope. It would keep these remaining children away from the diseased life they’d faced for the past few years and, if the rest of the plan worked, the changes they had made to its power down sequence would deal a major blow to the enemy. When they were safe where they were going, the portal’s last gust of energy would power a very specific cascading EMP that would leave the weapons and armor that gave the Fade such an advantage defunct. For the first time, the battlefield might be balanced, maybe even tilted a little in their favor.

A small, blue circle opened in the room. Without hesitating, he began to walk the three girls through the portal. Angela wailed, but followed nonetheless. Cynthia, her pale face dripping with tears, pulled at his hand, reaching out, crying for her mother as they disappeared into the light.

TWO

C
ynthia stared up at the sky thinking nothing ever changed. Haircuts and language maybe, but life was what life had always been. That she ached for more was some cosmic joke on humanity. Drugs helped. But when there were no drugs, smoking helped. That’s what she and her best friend Jan did while everyone else swept crepe paper and glitter from below the cardboard Eiffel Tower in the gym. They had slipped out when Mrs. Walker began throwing her hands up and gasping for air because they’d ran out of red masking tape. This was forever where Cynthia saw herself and somehow where she always ended up—just outside of where she was expected to be.

Jan sat on the edge of a listing picnic table, lighting up another clove, sticking it between her black lips. She pointed at Cynthia, who rested against the wall across from her, "You, me. Hanging out tonight, ma'am."

Cynthia suppressed the urge to frown. In general, that would have been good news, but she was tired and just wanted to go home, curl up with a French philosopher or two and get nice and baked. Still she’d been present for the event that was Jan’s mom that morning. The woman had been slurring her words before they even left for school. She knew Jan’s mom, and an early morning drunk almost always meant a late afternoon rage-a-thon. Leaving her friend to her mother’s drunken rant would be, in her estimation, a shitty thing to do. So, she agreed to go with a press-on smile.

When they slipped into the gym again, which stank of glue and trying too hard; everyone else was gone except Mrs. Walker, who still stapled this and taped that with the ferocity of a middle-aged woman who defined her self-worth by how well a plaster Arc de Triomphe looked. The teacher called out preoccupied thanks for the girls’ help, maybe never noticing that Cynthia and Jan had been missing. The girls grabbed their bags and headed out to Jan’s car, which now sat alone on that side of the building.

Jan breathed in deep. “Freedom!”

“Just a day-pass, Jan-Jan. Hell continueth tomorrow, my friend!” Cynthia said.

“Don’t be stealing my false sense of liberation! My self-delusion is all that gets me through the day.” Jan laughed, the two thin strips of black in her otherwise wrapping paper red hair danced into her face.

“My apologies:
Freedom!
” Cynthia said, throwing a fist in the air like some suburban freedom fighter.

As they made their way over to Jan’s car, Cynthia took in the lot. It was almost always full of cars and crowds of students milling around like fashionable zombies. It somehow felt
wrong
being there without them and the authority figures with their cheap ties and K-Mart dresses. It made her want to get a six-pack and do donuts on the football field, knowing that the only person who could stop her was a frantic English teacher trying her best to turn a school gym into some semblance of
A Night in Paris
. Then she shivered at the thought of prom.

Cynthia figured prom was supposed to be some modern rite of passage. At best, it was the gaudy celebration of passing from learner to learned. But she could not find it in herself to feel as though that were something to be celebrated. Most of the kids, in her opinion, had it as good as they ever would. But, that might be as good a reason as any to have a party. Eat, drink and be merry while there were still cheerleaders, free rides and denial to be had.

“I’ll call you at about six-thirty, chick.” Jan shifted her backpack to her other shoulder and dug keys from her purse. Smiling, she zipped her black and gray plaid tank top down several inches. “Ha-ha! No one can stop my inappropriate cleavage now!”

Cynthia smiled a second too late, pulled from her thoughts. “Alright, you rebel, you. See you tonight.” Cynthia rolled on her heels as she passed her friend, walking backward, twirling her own keys as she talked. “
Oh
, can’t believe I forgot to tell you! Guess who asked me out yesterday?”

“Dalen Young.” Jan gave a half-hearted smile and rested against her car, letting her bag drop to the blacktop.

“
Whoa
. How’d you know that? And why, pray tell, do you seem so unimpressed by the news?” Cynthia crossed her arms. Her blue eyes, masked black with eyeliner, narrowed.

“I heard him asking around about you. And I’m not
un
excited. It’s probably just that my excitement seems like Cancer-ward gloom compared to yours.” She laughed, but it was empty.

Cynthia pursed her lips and arched an eyebrow. “If you
say
so.”

“I
do
, and you can tell me all about it tonight.” Jan stuck her tongue out and sat down behind the wheel. When she drove past her she honked twice, laughing and pointing to the other side of the school where a late Cynthia had been forced to park that morning. Cynthia flipped her off with a smirk, unaware that those would be among her last few moments of normalcy.

***

Cynthia watched Jan’s car disappear and took a deep breath, letting it out all at once. She was glad the stupid gym was decorated for the stupid prom and all the stupid mandatory volunteering was over. Her pleated skirt was never intended for climbing ladders. And high school boys were predictable in their capacity for lechery.
And
changing was out of the question.

She rounded the corner to the front of the building where she saw her car—a sight that sang liberty. Two trucks, both mud-caked Chevys, also sat in the lot across from hers. Three or four students stood in and around them. She gave a glance at the small, laughing group who seemed intent on something she couldn’t see. She imagined a rabbit or cat they were making life miserable for and frowned, but kept walking.

“That’s at least a three-pointer!” One of them yelled, and they all cackled.

At first, Cynthia continued to ignore them. She was certain she would not find whatever they were laughing at as hilarious as they. Then, as she got closer, she caught a glimpse of their target. It was the homeless guy—which summed up about all Cynthia knew about him. Hell, it was all
anyone
knew about him. He was the unwanted mascot of Black Oaks, who stumbled about town mumbling to himself, his long, oily hair always sticking to his pale, dirty face. Right then he was a ball on the ground, encircled by beer and cola cans, fast food cups. Someone threw a pocket full of change at him. At the sight, Cynthia achieved the high point in her righteous indignation and marched over.

“Leave the freaking retard alone, guys!” She said.

“We’re just having some fun, Cynthia. Chill out.
Hit the bum, get a stuffed animal!
I got a can with your name on it...” The guy, some senior whose name she couldn’t place, finished in a sing-songy voice, rattling a crushed Bud Light can at her.

“Oh, does it say ‘slut’?” one of the girls asked to more laughter, which Cynthia ignored.

“Karma’s a bitch, boys,” Cynthia said.

“Don’t believe in karma,” a tall, square-headed blonde said and took the can, lobbing it at the homeless man. “But,” he looked around the bed of the truck, “we’re out of cans. Perfect timing on your holier-than-thou routine.”

Cynthia rolled her eyes, turned her attention to the man on the ground, then gasped at the sudden, sharp pain just behind her ear.

“Found one!” They laughed another team laugh and did leave.

“Freaking jerks,” she said and crouched by the man’s side. “Sorry about that. Evolution let them down.” She waited for a response or movement. “It’s okay now. They’re gone.”

She stared down at his filthy, ripped coat, and pretended the odor shooting out of him wasn’t as bad as it was. Then she reached out a hand. He rolled onto his back like a fresh wad of dough and stared up at her. Her hand fell away.

“Don’t hurt,” he said in a child’s pained voice.

“No, sweetie. You’re okay now.” Compassion overcame any fear of what slimy thing might be caked on his hand, and she took it to help him up. For a moment, Cynthia could feel the man’s weight against hers, making it seem that he understood what she was doing. Then he stiffened. His eyes fixed on hers and he jerked free of her grip, almost pulling her down with him.

“Danna?” He asked what seemed like a nonsense question to Cynthia and groaned. He then dropped his head and gargled a scream as he began slapping his forehead—
Thack-Thack-Thack!