Fade (16 page)

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
talk
ing about?” Tears pooled in Jan’s eyes. “You need help, sister.”

“No. No!
Lis
ten. 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 with 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.

Neighbors were huddled in their yards, whispering, pointing. He would drive it on the rim. Getting away was all that mattered. He couldn’t be… His head swam, then bright circles of pain began to radiate behind his eyes. He pulled at the door handle and felt it give, felt his hand slide from it, felt himself falling. The sirens were so close, then so far away.

***

“I have known, Kah’en,” Aern towered over his beaten servant, his leathery black skin shining with sweat. Two Fade warriors held Kah’en up by his blood-clothed arms, “and have waited.”

Kah’en opened his mouth to speak, but coughed instead.

“This Jonas is not as clever as he thinks, either.” Aern’s yellow smile and bright red eyes seemed to float before him, the darkness settled in the woods almost as dark as Aern’s skin now.

“There are others.” Kah’en managed to say.

“Yes, and only you know who they are. But it just took one to betray you. And you are the head of this foolish revolt; I will cut that off and the body will die.”

“Then do it. But,” Kah’en’s breath came hard, “know that you are dishonoring the—”

Aern pulled loose the scepter that always hung at his side and swung it into Kah’en’s face. “You. You will live to watch your revolt die. But you will no longer speak to me.” Aern was shaking. “I trusted you, warrior. You were of the Queen’s chosen!” he said in a hiss.

Aern turned, walking away, then stopped, his back turned, a dozen gray, crisscrossed scars standing out like light there. His thick neck twisted a little to his right, but merely enough for Kah’en to hear him. “You began to say that I am dishonoring our people. Our tradition. No? You are wrong. I am doing what billions of our people would not. I am restoring order. I am making right the Universe.” Aern dropped his eyes to the black thatch of trees sprawled out before him. “This is why I will always be your master. The humans call us murderers and heartless. I dare not think we are either. We simply strive for a higher purpose. You used to know this, Kah’en.

“When our Queen rises, we will take our place as the Universe’s center, and all will be as it should. Are we to be reviled for this? For merely fulfilling our destiny? For ridding the world of those who would oppose? The Queen would do no less, and our Queen is perfection.” Aern sighed. “I do not revel in your death, Kah’en. Know this. You were a great warrior and representative of our Queen. But no more.”

The lone sound for a time was Kah’en’s labored breathing.

“You may have one more word with me. I grant it to you,” Aern said, in what Kah’en imagined was nostalgia for their past relationship. But Kah’en did not hedge.

“The Queen is majesty. You were our greatest hope of finding her. You speak of destiny, but you just swing your blade wildly in frustration now, Aern. You will end us. Because this great expedition is no longer about the great Queen reborn, but about you.”

Aern was silent, but his fists were tight balls. “You have lost your faith, Ka—
Traitor
. Death is too good for you.” With this he walked away. Kah’en’s eyes widened. He had just been given a sentence far worse than any slow death Aern could have imagined for him. He would be banished.

THIRTEEN

Y
ears before, Aern opened his eyes to find himself on the cold wet ground of the battlefield. Defeated, but not dead. A low wail of silence buzzed in his ears. He placed the palms of his hands on them trying to press the high squeal away. Aern pushed himself, sore and stiff, to a sitting position. Ash and snow eddied about the pavement where his army lay dead. There had been ten of them, and they’d been ambushed by the Earthers where there weren’t supposed to be any Earthers. The sound of the wind slowly replaced the whine in his shell-shocked ears.

He stood, ignoring the trembling in his long, barrel-wide legs. Armor, which once gleamed in the bright of day like the corona of a star falling upon you, or the bright rage of some mad god, was dull now. He was bleeding, but a quick examination let him know he would live. But they had left believing him dead. His enemies had left him to rot, running off too soon to brag of how they had abolished his terrible reign. They would wish they had put a bullet in his head, or lopped it off. Eventual defeat was inevitable, time and fate decided such, but defeat from which a warrior rose and left the enemy unpunished was unfathomable.

Great gusts pressed on him; sore and weak, he was unbent. The elongated skull of some alien beast hung from his shoulder, clanking hollowly against his metallic side. He narrowed his eyes against the onslaught of wind and snow, studying each of the dead—some human, most his. Two of his men seemed to have escaped. He took a few, limping steps forward and crouched to close the eyes of one of his dead. It was in that action that he knew the scepter was gone.
He searched the ground, scorched from their battle, struggling to see through the growing mist of snow that was foreign to his planet. The scepter was nowhere. The smell of blood, thick and heavy, and the odor of wasted rounds and explosives tinged the air. He would remember that smell. It would be the odor he gave back to them—both for their attack and for even touching the scepter. It was the element that linked them to their great Queen, and he believed it would be his duty to put it back in her hands at her resurrection.