Vanishing

Carl fingered the necklace at his throat. The heart-shaped locket contained a photo of his wife's younger brother, who had died in infancy. Carl wore the locket because it had belonged to his wife, Annie. She was dead too.

At least, Carl assumed she was dead. No one actually knew what happened to the people who disappeared. Investigative reports about the mass disappearances frequently called Annie "Patient Zero," as Annie was believed to have been one of the first cases.

At the time of her disappearance, Annie's case hadn't been widely reported. She had just been there one day and the next, gone. Police suspected Carl of having done something to her, though they had no proof. If Carl hadn't been numb with grief, he might have been furious with the police's suspicion, their repeat interrogations. However, he had been too deep in his grief to notice much in those early days. And of course, the police stopped badgering Carl soon after Annie’s disappearance. Another person had disappeared in Carl and Annie’s neighborhood, a child this time. Then an elderly man. And then more people, too many to recall accurately.

The Vanishings, some newspapers called them. Carl hated that term - it implied a silent disappearance, something quiet and painless. However, in many of the homes of the people who had disappeared, there had been signs of struggle. Violent struggle, with broken furniture and nail marks on the floor. Other odd aspects emerged, too: despite the destruction, all blood splatters had been carefully cleaned away. Though it was impossible to verify, rumours circulated that every vanishing had occurred at night.

Fringe media outlets made hay of these details. The same conspiracy theorists who trumpeted UFO sightings soon claimed vampirism and blood sacrifices. Mainstream society scoffed at these theories, but crucifix sales went up and garlic was hard to find on grocery store shelves. Despite these precautions, people continued to vanish. Soon the mainstream media and the fringe outlets alike stopped publishing theories. They stopped publishing anything at all, and the survivors got on with the business of staying alive.

Carl circled his living room, checking the barricades one last time. A hodgepodge collection of tables, shelves and other furniture lined his walls, blocking windows and other entry points. It had been weeks since Carl was able to eat at his dining room table or sleep in his own bed. Every usable piece of furniture had gone into building the barricades and all he had left was a single chair.

Carl couldn’t remember exactly what had prompted him to make the barricades. Maybe it was the fear he saw in people's eyes, on the infrequent trips Carl had made outdoors. Maybe it was when he stopped going outside at all, for fear that he would find himself too far from home when night fell. Or maybe it was noises he had heard from his neighbor's last night. Carl still hadn’t decided if the screams had been more human or animal in origin.

He pulled his pistol from his belt and checked that the safety was off. The pistol was a purchase he’d made when Annie was still alive. She had been furious and complained regularly about keeping a weapon in their home, and asked sarcastically how Carl could expect to shoot the gun well without practice. Indeed, Carl had gone infrequently to the gun range to practice. However, he felt confident he could shoot someone coming through his own front door.

Carl adjusted the chair directly in front of the door before sitting down. The sun was setting. Carl tucked his wife's locket into his shirt, and raised the gun.