The Faders

They call them the Faders.

Their names are simple; they’re the ones who simply Fade. No one knows how it happens, only that it does. It could happen to anyone for any reason. I watched a mother Fade, leaving behind her bewildered three-year-old daughter. I watched an older man hobbling atop his cane, before it landed on the ground with a soft thud, with the man nowhere to be seen. The worst, the one that never seems to leave me, is the tortuous wailing of a mother, frantically rattling an empty baby carriage. The blankets were still warm. I still get goosebumps remembering her screams...

The most terrifying part is that no one knows where they go. Maybe if we did, it would be better. It would give a vague, fuzzy semblance of hope. Knowing most people that would be enough to carry them. The possibility that their loved ones were well and alive, but simply out of their grasp would ease some agony. Instead, the Faders disappear, leaving behind fear and chaos in their wake.

The streets are empty nowadays. Missing posters line every wall facing towards the street, with some spilling into the empty back alleys. The most recent are ten years old, back when we had the privilege to write the Fadings off as kidnappings. No one puts up posters for the Faders anymore. Stores and restaurants were all forced to shut down five months ago; they stand silent and sentient on deserted street corners, filled with stacked chairs and dust. Government mandates try to limit how many people leave their houses. Still, it doesn’t help with the Fadings, but at least you never have to see Fadings in public anymore. The only thing people can do is pray they’re dead and no longer suffering.

For a long time I didn’t have to worry about the Faders. I thought it was so outlandish, so absolutely absurd, that it couldn’t possibly happen to anyone I know. Even when the number of Faders climbed higher and higher, I still felt like I was just watching the news. Fadings felt like another news story, never a disaster. It was another channel, existing only within the millions of pixels on the screen. I got to furrow my brow in sympathy, toss out cheap mumbles of ‘sorry’ to vague photos of unfamiliar faces, and then turn the TV off. I could keep my distance from the Fadings. At the end of the day I could sleep, and pretend the Faders never existed. I underestimated how long I could close my eyes. I thought perhaps, I was lucky enough to never see a face I could recognize on TV. That was until Andra became a Fader .

_______

Andra had the personality of a poorly knit wool sweater, but in the best ways possible. She was simple, and didn't like to think too hard for too long. She was forgetful, occasionally a little too emotional, and a lover of the dramatics. But she was possibly the most genuine and sweetest person I had ever met.

The first time we met was at my old retail job. She worked as a greeter, standing nearby the door and chirping at customers like an exuberant mockingbird. She was always in motion, dashing about the aisles, popping out of corners, and flipping through the racks of clothes. I only observed her from afar, I wondered how she could stay so energetic through an eight-hour shift. Andra never shied away from bluntness.I remember the first time we ever talked. I was looming outside of the store, near the flooding trash cans and loose pieces of trash. She walked right up and said,

“Your name is Yelena, right? That’s a weird name.”

It was cold that day. I wore a muted yellow cardigan; the leaves were a collage of red and orange in the trees. Andra had on something fall themed… maybe it was a leaf or a pumpkin… I can’t remember.

I mumbled in return, “Yeah...but I only go by Lena.”

Andra laughed. She had a distinct laugh; it was like a speckle of sunlight flashing through gaps of leaves. I remember her laugh the best, her eyes being second. They were like green lakes, speckled with red and orange leaves, smelling like the earth after rain. Andra had told me there’s a word for that. I wish I could remember more, but it was so long ago…

She may have sat next to me, or she might have kept standing, but I remember she said, “My full name’s Andromeda, but that’s too much. I just go by Andra.”

I said something about the constellation. She laughed, and mentioned how passionate her mom was about stars… or, maybe it was her dad. Our conversation continued, and she kept coming back since then. Even when I quit, she still liked meeting me in places. Andra could never pick just one spot; there was always something new the next week.

Her favorite was a local cafe… or maybe the Newman Public Library down the street… I can’t remember.

_______

I pull into the empty parking lot, cutting off the engine and pulling my keys out. I currently work at a relatively large grocery store. My aunt’s best friend owns it, and was willing to do me a favor after my aunt Faded. I didn’t have enough money to tell her I’d hadn’t seen my aunt in years.

I alternate Monday through Friday, six am to nine pm with two other people, each of us spending five hours actively working before leaving for the day. Government mandates allow for less than one worker per two hours. Luckily, I got four PM to nine PM. I’ve always been more of a night owl. I wait in my car until the eleven to four worker, Caroline, leaves. I catch her blonde bob of hair scurrying out of the push doors. Her head frantically glances from side to side until she spots me. I give her a nod and she returns a wave before sprinting to her car. She’s the type to believe Fadings happen simply for standing outside.

I can’t blame her, I remark to myself, stepping out and shutting my car door. It sure feels that way.

I yank the door to the store open and step inside. I can hear the familiar, mechanical buzz of the air conditioner in the background, paired with the soft purr of the pendant lights. The store is alight in industrial white, illuminating the empty cash registers and ailes of food. I walk up to one of the nearby registers and pick up my blue vest. I pull it on top of my short-sleeved button up, before reaching down and adjusting my name tag. Yelena. They kept my full name.

Nicknames are slovenly, my manager had told me. It’s best to be formal in work settings. She faded a month or so after that. Karma works in volatile ways, I suppose.

_______

I push another stack of canned chicken noodle soup towards the back. Caroline left me with a huge stack of soup and canned food and a carelessly written note with a scrawled out, sorry, I was busy.

Busy? Busy slacking off in the break room? I sneered to myself. It was no secret Caroline frequently slept off her shift.I won’t say anything to her yet, but I’m dangerously close to leaving passive aggressive notes in her work vest.

I drag my dolly behind, stomping further down to restock the shelf down the way. I began to fill my arms with tomato soup, when I heard a sharp chirp echo through the empty store.

Someone’s here, I thought to myself. I felt a sharp pang in my heart as I turned my gaze down the aisle towards the front of the store. I hate when people walk in during my shift, especially when it’s late. Darkness is pressing against the glass in the front, leaving the electric lights as my only source of solace.

I shake my head. They’re a person… Just another customer coming in late.

I continue to stock soup cans. I listen to heavy footsteps meander down the linoleum floors. I try not to make myself known as people wander. There’s an unspoken agreement between employee and customers during this time: don’t come looking unless absolutely necessary. We both assume we want to be in and out as quickly as possible. As little interaction as possible is best.

I collect another handful of soup, scooting down a bit to stock another row. I hear the footsteps on the other aisle over. I raise the last soup can on to the shelf…

“Yelena…”

I freeze. They sound close, but far enough away. I can hear their footsteps echoing against the linoleum. I quietly set the can down and began to walk towards the other end of the aisle, towards the front of the store.

“Yelena?”

They’re closer. I pick up the pace.

“Yelena!”

I turn to look over my shoulder. They’ve rounded the corner of the aisle I’m on. I pick up in a dead sprint. I can hear the hollow thud of their footsteps, just scarcely behind. I skid to a halt and pick up a grocery divider. I barely have enough time to wind back and strike the shadowed figure in the head with a satisfying thwack.

The figure stumbles, letting out a loud cry. They hit a collection of magazines and miscellaneous goods. They move to stand, but I quickly raise my leg and kick them square in the stomach, sending them sprawling onto the linoleum floor.

I raise the divider over my head, but before I can bring down another swing, they throw their hands up and shout “WAIT! STOP! I have something--”

I swing down; the divider slips through their fingers and hits them square in the face. They yell throwing their hands to their face. I see a few drops of blood hit the white linoleum floor.

Fear is boiled away by rage. “What is wrong with you?!” I shout, tightening my grip on the divider to resist bringing it back down again. “You think you can just run at people alone in grocery stores?” I look around, scanning for any movement from within, before letting out a low sigh. The figure is laying on the floor, letting out low groans of pain while trying to push flowing blood away with trembling hands.

They knew my name. How did they know.. I breathe shallow breaths in and out. That doesn’t matter. I need to--... I turn around. There’s a phone behind the counter.

“I’m calling the police,” I say finally, turning around to step behind the counter. Before I can fully get away, the figure shoots their hand out and grips onto my ankle.

“No--!” the figure garbles, “Don’t! Let--... Let me--” They let out a string of volatile coughs. I glance down towards their hand, gripping my ankle, staining it with bloody fingerprints. “Let me talk!”

I yank my foot away. The figure slowly ambles to their feet. They were dressed in muted brown colors, nearly black from grime. They reached up, slowly and cautiously, and pulled their hood down. He was a white man, maybe in his mid-twenties, with sharp and sunken features. His grey eyes were rimmed with dark eyebags, with a sharp buttoned nose, now bruised with blood flowing down and over his chin. He had long, shaggy hair, jutting out at uneven angles.

The most striking part of him was his pale, blue eyes. Like shards of sharp pale blue ice pointing towards an infinite, black hole. They reminded me of Mary Shelley’s manic description of the monster; watery eyes, she had described them as. Miserable, unhappy wretch.

“Who are you?” I demand, slightly raising the divider.

“I know what they’ve done with Andra,” He blurts. My face runs cold. My hands feel like they’ve turned into TV static. “I want to rescue her...I need your help, Yelena.”

_______