Fade

by Chad West

  “Are we in doubt, my friends?” Kah’en swallowed.

  “No. No! This is just no small thing that we do.”

  “Agreed,” Tall and Thin said. “We make ourselves traitors.” He looked up, eyes wide, ready to clarify. “But we must! …I know we must.”

  Kah’en lived with that epithet for a moment, feeling even farther away from men he would call brothers. In a way, to be a traitor and a Janar was worse than if one were of the Fade. The Janar had been the first, and they stood with the Queen as she gave her wisdom to the Fade. “We are not traitors. We do that which will save those who follow the Queen. If we all die on this blind quest, who will be left to speak her name?”

  Both the warriors nodded, looked more hopeful even. They were nervous. But of course they were nervous. They had served under Aern for all of their adult lives and to betray him was almost unthinkable. He felt that, too. But Kah’en was of the chosen of the Queen. This was his duty—to hold her name high and always. With all of his being, he believed that to be what he was doing. And her name was above Aern’s in all things.

  He watched the others go, his mind on his task. The sound of those sent to gather supplies returning brought him out of himself. He heard the clink of the bottles of the human’s alcohol that Aern grew so found of during the war. The muffled sound of struggling females wouldn’t be far behind. But as he came into the clearing in which they camped, it was the various pieces of machinery they had gathered that he was most interested in.

  Each wire and tool brought them that much closer to repairing Aern’s powered armor. If they accomplished this before the rebellion, there would be no rebellion. Even if all of them turned against Aern they would be thrown down like dolls of rag. But the first thing Aern reached for was a bottle of the human’s wine, waving at the inevitable young women to be prepared for him.

  Aern’s gaze caught his and he beckoned Kah'en as well.

  Kah’en watched as he gulped the wine. The women’s muffled screams were white noise. Aern would have at those disgusting things, but then they’d be mutated into Golem as it should have been to begin with. His disgust must have been apparent. Aern put down his wine.

  “I revel because we are close.”

  You revel, thought Kah’en¸ because you are a drunkard with no thought for tomorrow. “Yes, Aern.”

  “This is the point where I would search our ranks for some warrior who I thought was worthy enough to share my good bounty with for the day.” He placed a heavy hand on Kah’en’s shoulder, his smile shrank. “That has often been you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No.” His cherry red eyes went to the ground. “No, no. I will remember that warrior. Not this one.”

  Kah’en’s muscles tightened. His head buzzed with anticipation. “What do you mean, Aern?”

  “Let’s not… We have fought alongside one another for years. Trusted each other with lifeblood. I try to see your betrayal as having nothing to do with me. But it still must be punished.” Aern’s sharp and yellowing canines showed longer than necessary with his last word. His heavy brow tightened.

  “There is no betrayal, Aern.” Kah’en took a step back, stopped by the hands of one of Aern’s personal guards.

  “Please.” Aern sat back. “Calm. I would rather you take this as the Janar I respected. One last act of respect for our cause, at least.”

  Kah’en’s head dropped.

  “Your death will kill the rebellion. This is best. But, you will be remembered as a traitor. I truly find that sad.”

  Kah’en believed that he did.

  “I will take you myself to your human comrades and they will be punished with you.”

  Kah’en’s eyes widened.

  “I have known long enough to have you followed to your meeting with Jonas. He has been followed also and I know where he and his hide now.”

  “Aern…”

  “No more. Sentimentality is at an end.” He nodded at two warriors who took Kah’en from Aern’s makeshift throne of logs and pelts. “When we finally meet, I will not tell the Queen of your treachery. For you, there is that.”

  ***

  Jonas opened his eyes and let out a loud, wavering gasp. Angela jumped, dropping the rag with which she’d been dotting his bleeding nose. Cynthia, looking frail, arms crossed, stared down at him.

  “What happened?” He pushed himself from the couch and looked around for Lucy. “Was Lucy hurt?”

  “She’s okay. You were doing your thing and then just fell out. She’s lying down.”

  “I guess…” The memory—Lucy’s memory—punched into the forefront of his brain and he flinched. “I guess I was pushing myself harder than I thought.”

  “Don’t kill yourself, old man.” Cynthia tried to smile, she and Angela following him to his room. He could feel how unsteady he must seem to them.

  “I’m—” He swallowed hard. “I just need to lie down. I’ll be fine. Thank you, girls.”

  They left Jonas sitting on the edge of his bed. He was tired. He had indeed pushed himself too far. But what he had seen in Lucy’s mind played itself, full-screen. He wondered why he had seen it. Perhaps a part of her had wanted him to. But the content was much more compelling than any question of why.

  He heard Cynthia clear her throat as she passed, and then her door closed. If Lucy hadn’t gotten up, that was Angela he heard in the kitchen. He caught himself, realizing that he was planning on sneaking out. He couldn’t do that. He had to be sensible.

  Staring down at the gray carpet, his breathing picked up. He gritted his teeth, that sick bastard’s face clear in his mind. Screw sensible! He stood and put on his shoes. There was no place for sensibility in this situation. His girl had been molested by her own damned step-father. He stopped. Don’t overreact, Jonas, he told himself. Do be sensible. He stood by the door of his room for a long time, then grabbed his jacket and walked out into the hall.

  “Jonas? Where are you going?” Angela asked, meeting him in the hallway with a cup of what smelled like tea. She had thick bags under her eyes.

  “I need to go out. Fresh air,” he said, moving past her.

  “Um,” she said, staring after him.

  Cynthia opened her door and poked her head out. “Where’s he going?”

  Jonas pushed through the door and out into the warm afternoon. Second thoughts were more distant now than they would be later—as regret would be later. He drove. The address, like the memory, was clear in his mind. As was the tactile memory of every recoil at every fetid touch; it was fading—that deep sense of being there—but the memories alone fueled him like gasoline. He saw the Fat Sack in his mind’s eye, and everything he had trained to do to his world’s worst enemies ran riot in his brain, vying to be chosen.

  Flares of the setting sun leapt from the hood of his rental into the nothing that was behind him. Trees, oaks, tall and thick, were a blur. The motor growled as fierce as four cylinders could manage. Fleets of trees turned to shabby, out-of-the-way homes where the paint peeled like dead skin, and then to what Black Oaks might call downtown with its country stores-slash-gas stations, Kroger and various shops offering everything from haircuts to shoes, none of which Jonas noted. The sign which said: Turner 8 Miles, that he saw, and pressed harder on the pedal.

  The memories he shared with Lucy were becoming simple facts now. The emotion she associated with them was almost faded, but his own deep emotional response was fierce. He still knew the way. He still knew that her step-father would have gotten off work half an hour before, and would be tinkering in the garage until her step-mother got home. Much of what she knew had leaked in around the edges of that memory, begging him to do something about it. Lucy’s step-mother wouldn’t arrive for another hour. Plenty of time.

  The neighborhood was flush with blooming trees and the same basic house design every three or four homes. Turn right. People walked their dogs, kids skateboarded and rode their bikes, a woman jogged. Left. Then right. A small group of kids slid out of a
minivan in their filthy football gear. One more right. Life went on all around him, but he was not there to observe life, but to avenge for a type of murder. Ahead, on his left, a shabby, red Ford truck sat half in the garage, and a man in a blue work shirt leaned into its cab.

  Jonas slammed on the brakes; his car slid, squealing to a stop, a loud bump as he hit the curb caused the man in the blue shirt to jump and turn. That face. The wretched face that haunted his daughter—that face would never be the same, by damn.

  ***

  The fact that it was several miles to town hit her the moment Cynthia felt a safe distance from the shelter. Any thought of turning back was edged aside by her cold, nagging need. There was still light, but it would be getting dark before she got to Joey’s. She had nabbed two hundred bucks Jonas left lying on the grimy dresser in his bedroom after he left, and would spend every penny sating the hungry thing in her brain.

  She spanned the distance to town without so much as a labored breath. If these new powers just knew how to dim the irresistible requirement that drove her on this quest. But she would be useless to them if she were fiending. If they came under attack again, which seemed more and more likely, they would need her and this would let her be calm, reliable. It would dull the ache and the fear. She kept telling herself that.

  She stopped to get her bearings. A bead of sweat made a cool trail down her ribs and she flinched, shivered. The neighborhood looked different on her feet than when she was driving through. A stop sign, “GO” messily sprayed below it in white, caught her eye. Suddenly, she knew that Joey’s house was two streets over. The sun melted into an orange, burgundy pool behind the tree line. Being out after dark did not appeal to her right then, so she took to speed-walking, and the house soon came into view. She licked her lips as her pulse pounded in her head. She moved faster. Her extremities tingled. The core of her stomach rolled.

  “Cynthia!”

  It didn’t register at first that her name had been said. The recognition that it was Jan’s voice crept over her head like a kidnapper’s hood. Her skin buzzed, she paled, stopped, and whirled about. “Jan?” Her voice was the squeak of a prisoner after a week of solitary.

  “Where the hell have you been? Your mom lost her job! You know that?” Jan was yelling, barreling at her in huge, stomping steps. “I called to make sure you were okay when you weren’t at my house after school, and found out you left a lame-ass message for your mom saying you were sleeping over. So, she didn’t show up to work because she was out looking for you. They fired her ass. That’s on you!”

  Cynthia felt her face twist into horror. “Jan. No, you’ve got to get out of here. I… I’m in trouble.”

  “Trouble? If you’re in trouble, so am I! And everybody else who loves your stupid ass.” She shook her head. “I knew I’d find you here eventually. I’ve lived outside of this damn place all night and day waiting for you!”

  “This isn’t what I’ve been doing. I promise.” Cynthia was crying now. “Please tell my mom I’m okay. I’m sorry about her job.”

  “You tell her! Go home, Cynthia!”

  “I will. Just,” she looked around with worried eyes. “Just leave, okay? Just get away from me?”

  Jan stared, moving her head back and forth constantly now, her jaw open. “Who are you?”

  Cynthia was frantic, assured that enemy eyes were watching from the dark, licking their collective lips in anticipation of ripping her friend apart as soon as she was out of sight. “Just… Just, come with me!”

  “What?”

  Cynthia tugged at her arm, almost pulling her friend down—hurting her. “Just come with me. They’re going to hurt you.”

  “Ouch! Let go! What are you talking about?” Tears pooled in Jan’s eyes. “You need help, sister.”

  “No. No! Listen. I’ll explain everything. I promise.” She began to ball. “Please. I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.” Her words were barely comprehensible.

  Jan took a few quick steps back. “I’m not going in there with you, Cynthia. I’m going to call your mom, tell her that she needs to call the closest drug rehab and have you committed.” Jan was crying hard now. “I’m will not watch you self destruct!”

  “No. You don’t understand. Just listen to me for a minute!” She lurched at her friend, tripped and fell into her. They both fumbled to the ground. Jan let out another yelp of pain and pushed at Cynthia. Jan sat up, her hand leaping to the back of her head and bringing it, red, to her face.

  “What are you doing?” Jan screamed, her voice cracking. “You stupid, coked-up bitch. You just left us.” She stared at her for a long time, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. “I’m trying to help you if you’re in trouble, dammit.”

  Cynthia sucked in as much air as she could manage, hating what she had to say. “I don’t want your help, Jan. I just want you to leave.”

  Jan stared, her eyes widening, mouth an O of disbelief. “You… I’m your best frie—”

  “Just go, goddammit!”

  Jan shook in surprise at the outburst and wiped at her face. “Go. Home. You know my number, baby.” With reluctance, she turned and walked away.

  Cynthia watched her friend’s taillights fade into the distance. She grabbed her face and squeezed, screaming at the ground—a hollow gargling sound. She stood, mouth lax, staring after the darkness. Swallowing into her dry throat, she covered her mouth, everything seeming askew. After a while, her head tilted slowly toward the ramshackle house to her right. Feeling numb and empty of strength, she took one uneasy step toward it.

  ***

  Jonas rocketed from the car and was on a track toward the man. Gerald. The Sack. Jonas’ face was a deep plum, his eyes sparkled with rage. The Sack’s mouth dropped open and he took two steps away, raising his hands like a cornered fugitive. Jonas growled as he took him, throwing him to the ground.

  “What the hell?” The Sack said, scrambling up. “What are you doing?”

  Jonas seethed, still moving forward. The Sack got to his feet, staggered back into the garage, looking about, getting his hands on a hammer. He grabbed it just in time to feel Jonas’ fist scraping across his face. He stumbled, but didn’t fall this time, nor did he drop the hammer.

  “What the hell do you want?” He asked as he steadied himself and swung the tool. Jonas took the Sack’s arm out of the air and twisted it behind his back, taking his hammer, and pushing him further into the garage. Tripping over a push mower, his head dented a cardboard box with Christmas Decorations scrawled on it in black marker. “I’m going to kill you,” The Sack said.

  “No. You’re not.” Jonas was on him, pulling him to his feet. Jonas turned him around and pushed him against the wall, which caused the tools hanging farther down to chime, a few of them rattling to the table underneath. Great globs of red began to fall out of Jonas’ nostrils. The Sack cried out for help.

  “No,” Jonas said.

  His yelling stopped, but his mouth still hung wide in pain, like his volume had been turned off.

  “This. What you’re feeling. This is a one.” Jonas could feel the man shaking in pain. “A three will most likely cause you to void your bowels.” Jonas smiled with no humor. “And so on.”

  “Why…” The Sack began to mouth and grabbed at a sudden pain in his side as Jonas kicked him there.

  “You have the guts to even wonder what you did to deserve this?” Jonas’ teeth ground together. Blood bibbed his chin, lazily dripping to his shirt. “Two.” He said in a whisper.

  Several veins in the man’s eyes burst, creating sudden, vast continents of red. He stiffened, fell to the floor, coughing, moaning, near tears. Jonas lifted him by his shirt. Punched him. Again. Again. The burns on his shoulder stung, the cuts on his side ached, but the tactile sensation of his fist hitting the man’s face was intoxicating. Every punch hurt—bone on bone—but it was worth it. Causing this sort of damage, seeing the bloody, swollen results of each blow, was much more satisfying in some ways than toying w
ith the man’s mind.

  “No! You don’t pass out.” Jonas said.

  The man took in a deep, raspy breath and his eyes widened as adrenaline shot through his body. Jonas wiped at his face, feeling dizzy with anger and his own, hard-earned adrenaline.

  The man was crying now. “Please. Stop.”

  Jonas hefted him, pulling his face close to his own.

  “I want you to feel the warmth of my breath.” He kneed him hard between the legs. The man folded over and became dead weight in Jonas’ arms. “I want you to remember the smell of it, the sense of it on your face forever. And forever fear I might come back.” Again his knee crushed the Sack’s manhood. He seethed one word. “Lucy.”

  The Sack’s red eyes widened. Fear like Jonas had never seen took over his face. “Please,” he said in a whimper.

  Jonas snarled. “Please?” He kneed him again, tossing him away as the man began to vomit. Jonas took a few steps back. “I am not what I used to be. But I could trap you in your nightmares for the rest of your life. I could make it so that you could never…” He stopped. He nodded to himself, crouching low.

  “I’ll never do it again! I’ll—” he said.

  “Shut up!” Jonas closed his eyes. In a moment he grunted, fresh blood flowing from his nostrils, and now sliding from his ears. “You couldn’t if you wanted to now. You even think about touching anyone and… well, you finding that out will be half the fun.”

  Jonas turned, lightheaded, and began to walk away. “Also, you’re going to tell. Everyone. That should be nice when you’re in prison.” He was done. He had come there with murder lurking behind a wall of denial in the back of his mind. But a now calming part of him was glad that he had overcome the urge. Jonas stepped out of the garage, past the man’s truck and heard the first sirens—saw them flicking bright in the dark distance. He started to run to his car. His throat constricted. Cold sweat prickled on his forehead. His chest felt empty and cold—his arms anesthetized and heavy. His feet weighed a hundred pounds.

  The front tire he’d run up onto the curb was flat. He cursed and looked up, no longer able to see the lights of the cruisers behind the trees on the hill above, but the siren’s wail was closer. He couldn’t be caught. Jonas stumbled forward.