The Disappearing

By Charles Thomas

The lives of three people are thrown into turmoil when news reports claim people have witnessed everyday things disappearing completely from existence. Just as in death, everyone deals with the news in different ways. Jay, a hypocritical drug dealer, prefers flat denial, continuing his path of self destruction. For critically ill Serena, the news is an obvious observation, as she claims to her aloof mother and confused nurses she is able to witness the phenomenon first-hand. Meanwhile, the news team at WATL, led by prima donna Gerald, are on the frontlines of the events, seeing everything through the cold eyes of the news cameras. When the evidence begins piling up and people themselves begin disappearing into thin air, these strangers may find themselves in deeper than they ever expected when they come to find the cause of the disturbance. But is there any hope for humanity in the face of such a terrifying world-ending catastrophe?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Thomas
• Release date: Mar 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463639078

Charles Thomas

Charles Thomas is a novelist, screenwriter, producer, and podcaster in the Atlanta area. Check out his work at atlantascreenwriter.com and his production company hootyhooproductions.com. Also, make sure to check out his podcast Atlanta Film Chat at atlantafilmchat.com, where you'll find tons of interviews with filmmakers, studio owners, politicians, and many others associated with the Georgia film industry. You can find his first novel “Brine” at Crossroad Press.

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Meet the Author

Charles Thomas is a novelist, screenwriter, producer, and podcaster in the Atlanta area. Check out his work at atlantascreenwriter.com and his production company hootyhooproductions.com. Also, make sure to check out his podcast Atlanta Film Chat at atlantafilmchat.com, where you'll find tons of interviews with filmmakers, studio owners, politicians, and many others associated with the Georgia film industry. You can find his first novel Brine at Crossroad Press.

Dedicated to Uncle Frank

This book was written to the music of Scar Symmetry, Avantasia, Kamelot, Swallow the Sun, Lacuna Coil, and Katatonia.

THE DISAPPEARING

Prologue

I know it was here. Right here. Her ancient fingernails tap on the faded dresser.

Miss Ivy Turner’s face is nowhere near as ancient as her fingernails, and neither is her mind. She knows she just had the picture of her great-granddaughter graduating from high school right where it always was, next to her crochet needles and the box of receipts from her trips to the store. She enjoys cataloging everything, which made it all the more baffling how her picture could’ve vanished.

Right here, I tell you. She taps again. She considers looking around the room but there’s nowhere else it would be.

As she walks by Miss Turner’s room, Nurse Manning hears the tapping and pops her head in. Somethin’ wrong, Miss Turner ma’am?

Miss Turner doesn’t turn around, intent on figuring out the mystery. Oh, I know I left it right here, is all.

Nurse Manning walks into the room, concerned. Left what, Miss Turner?

Stacy’s picture was here, right where it belongs, Miss Turner says. Now it’s not here.

Stacy your great-granddaughter?

Miss Turner shoots a look at Nurse Manning. What other Stacy would I mean?

Nurse Manning puts her hands on her hips. Ain’t no reason to get snippy, now, she says. I’m sure it fell down or somethin’. Bound to be round here somewhere.

No … it wouldn’t be anywhere else. More tapping.

Nurse Manning gently stops her. You gon’ break a nail. I’ll help you look, right after you take your meds. She hands her a small cup full of pills which Miss Turner gulps down.

Ok. Done. She hands the cup back to Nurse Manning.

Very good. Now … Nurse Manning kneels down and looks below the dresser and around the sides. Uck. They need to get in here and sweep up. Nasty.

She keeps looking, checking drawers and beneath the bed. Miss Turner watches her and shakes her head. There’s no reason it would be anywhere else, she thinks. She knows.

A fresh-faced RN walks by and sees Nurse Manning underneath the bed. Nurse? You ok?

Yes, Nurse Manning says from beneath the bed, just helpin’ Miss Turner look for something.

She dry?

Nurse Manning crawls out from under the bed. Miss Turner? You need a diaper change?

No. Thank you.

The RN nods.

Better check Mister Daddy, Nurse Manning says, sitting on the bed to rest, I think it’s been a while since anybody checked on him.

Oh good, the RN says, Mister Let-Me-Check-My-Butthole-with-My-Fingers goes unchecked.

Nurse Manning shoots the RN a look and cuts her eyes over at Miss Turner. The RN rolls her eyes and leaves to check on Mister Daddy.

Nurse Manning needn’t have worried. Miss Turner was far too busy staring out the window, staring at her hometown of Fairburn.

Fairburn is a town where you live to tell everyone you live in Atlanta but you never actually go into the city. Too scary. Instead, you get the usual talks of so much traffic! and I don’t know how you put up with it! but none of that in real life. Instead, it’s like any other small town in Georgia with its one big claim to fame that it’s the home of the Georgia Renaissance Festival, another place to pretend you’re something you’re not.

Like most other small towns in the state, Fairburn has its fair share of fast food restaurants, dying mom & pop stores, and abandoned factories and plants. Fairburn is also home to many nursing homes, including Golden Valley. Just down the road is the high school where, just one year ago, Stacy had graduated. Not top of her class, not the bottom, but right square in the middle, and that was just fine with Miss Turner.

But all of that is furthest from her mind now that the picture of that wonderful day has vanished into thin air. While Miss Turner’s mind is strong, she is still up in years, and more and more of her past slips away with every day. In fact, all she can remember of Stacy’s graduation is that picture, and now it’s gone.

… nap?

Miss Turner realizes Nurse Manning is talking to her. What was that now?

I said ain’t it about time for your nap?

Oh … I suppose it is. Now that Nurse Manning said it out loud, she does feel quite tired. The pills take effect swiftly. She was worried about something just now, but she can’t quite place it.

Come on and lay down now, Nurse Manning says, pulling the sheets back for her.

What was I worried about just now? Miss Turner says as she lies down and gets comfy.

Nothing that can’t be solved by a nice nap, now.

Miss Turner closes her eyes as Nurse Manning turns out the lights. Perhaps you’re right.

I know I am. See you in a few hours, Miss Turner. She closes the door.

Miss Turner dreams of her youth, of telling her father one day she’ll explore the world, of running through soft grass as she and her future husband chase each other by the railroad tracks, of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and then she dreams of nothing.

Chapter 1

Gerald Trimmings, field reporter and sometimes news anchor for WATL, adjusts his sharp blue tie as it blows in the wind. He sips his Starbucks and noisily sighs so everyone around can hear him.

Unbelievable, he says, turning to dramatically look out at the passing cars. Peachtree Street was busy as it always was this early in the morning. A rare horn blares as someone finally got fed up enough to slam on it. The morning light shines off a nearby building, making Gerald squint. In his mind it makes him look heroic.

What, Jerry? Manny Fisher, Gerald’s cameraman for this morning’s story, says as he checks his equipment. Manny has done a number of stories with Gerald and has grown accustomed to his huffings and puffings.

They ran out of milk. Milk! Gerald takes another sip and scoffs. What kind of coffee place does that?

A busy one, I imagine, Manny says. Everything looks in order. Just in case, he unzips the large duffel bag near him to see if the extra SD cards are in there. He didn’t want to make that mistake again. Yep, there they are.

Ridiculous, Gerald says, taking another dramatic sip. Almost as ridiculous as this story. What an absolute crock this is. How did we get stuck on this?

I can’t imagine, Manny says, hoisting everything for the trip. Ready?

Where’s …

I’m all set, you guys, Anne Simons, field producer for WATL and also no stranger to the prima donna Gerald Trimmings, says as she hops out of the news van covered in bags. With all the layoffs at news stations lately they kept asking her to do more and more, which meant double the bags she had to carry. Her no-nonsense bandana shines brightly in the sun.

Anne joins Manny and Gerald to look up at the run-down apartment building they were about to ascend.

People really live here? Gerald says.

Yeah, Jerry, people live here, Manny says. Not everybody can afford whatever mansion you stay in.

Pfft. Well, I suppose that’s true, Gerald says. He takes another sip of his coffee and throws it away. Blech. Remind me to get a coffee from a real place when we head back. Ready for the trek?

Lead away.

The subject today is one Ethel Murmen. This old apartment building has an elevator system but today it’s under construction. Anne wonders how the older residents are supposed to get around and figures the owners don’t care.

That’s a better story, she thinks.

The team begins the walk up the stairs. Gerald hears every creak and groan of the old building and the decaying wood and begins to sweat profusely.

Cut that out, Gerald, Anne says.

What? he says, already out of breath.

Sweating. That’s going to mess up the shot, she says.

How am I supposed to stop sweating?

You’ll figure it out.

Manny laughs, taking a second to readjust his equipment. What the hell floor do we need?

It’s on the third, Anne says. She waves to an elderly resident of the complex. They don’t wave back.

Ugh, Gerald says through gritted teeth. Manny laughs again.

Do you need any help? Anne says to Manny.

Nah, I’m good. Do you need any help? Anne shakes her head. Gerald, you need any help?

Gerald waves his bags-free hands around. Quit talking to me right now.

Manny laughs again.

They reach the third floor. A short walk down a dirty hallway littered with trash reveals Apartment 308, their ultimate destination. Anne walks up to knock on the door, but Gerald stays her hand.

Whoa, whoa, he says. Just … He holds up a finger and takes a deep breath. A light flickers overhead as he takes out a comb from his coat pocket and adjusts his wavy blond hair. Manny and Anne patiently wait. Finally, Gerald nods.

Anne knocks on the door. From inside, they hear a soft coo and the shuffling of elderly feet. The door opens and there stands Ethel Murmen: tiny, shriveled, wrinkled, with curly blue-tinted hair, a pink housecoat, and enormous glasses that swallow her face and bug out her eyes.

As soon as Ethel is in sight, Gerald pulls a switch inside his brain to go into superstar mode. He flashes his brightest smile and his nasal, annoyed voice turns into a powerful boom.

Ethel Murmen! Gerald Trimmings, WATL, Gerald says, shaking her hand.

"Oh my goodness! It is you! I called my sister Ruthy up and told her you were coming over and she didn’t believe me. Wow! She steps back to let them in. Please come in, don’t mind the mess."

Gerald walks in first. Very nice, Ethel. Are you looking for a roommate?

Ethel giggles. No, hardly enough room for me really.

Manny rushes inside to drop off the equipment. Anne walks in and closes the door behind her. Hi, Ethel, I’m Anne, the producer of this segment.

What do you do? What’s a producer?

Anne runs the show, Gerald says. No Anne, no news!

Ethel’s jaw drops. Is that true?

Gerald’s exaggerating a little, Anne says.

Oh! Do you want tea? I have Earl Grey. That’s what the English drink, at least that’s what Ruthy says. Ethel shuffles over to the kitchen, which is tragically close to the front door and the bathroom. What do you say? Tea?

No thanks, we’re not here for tea, Ethel, Gerald says, looking out the window. Down the street he can see a small park, really a triangle of green in the middle of the concrete sea.

I’d like some, Manny says, setting up the camera. I love Earl Grey.

Do you? Anne says. I didn’t know that. Manny grins.

Oh! Good! A tea drinking buddy. Tea tea tea, I love tea, Ethel sing-songs as she puts the kettle on.

While that heats up, Ethel, can I help you get camera-ready?

Well, I put on my best housecoat, as Ruthy told me that would be enough, Ethel says.

I see that, and it is a nice housecoat, Anne says, but maybe you have a nice dress you’d like to put on instead? Remember, it’s your time to shine.

That’s true. You would know, because you run the show! Ethel walks into her bedroom. You can come show me what I should wear, how about that?

Sounds good. You boys keep working while we’re in here! Anne points to Manny and Gerald, suppressing a smile.

You’re going to give her a big head, Manny says to Gerald. I’m all set, want to do a test?

Great. Gerald walks over and grabs the microphone from Manny.

And … Manny raises a finger and then points it at Gerald.

Test, test, Gerald says, practicing a few facial expressions. Testing the sound, test, test, watermelon, watermelon.

Manny nods. I think that’s a record time for me setting up.

Great. Here we go, then. Time to report on the end of the world.

Chapter 2

There are times in Jay Clive’s life when he can’t tell if he’s seeing real life or just a hallucination. There’s a nagging feeling in the back of his head that he isn’t doing anything himself, merely just reacting to someone controlling him. Like a physical presence from just behind the back of his head.

Right now is one of those moments. He’s staring at his crappy television in his filthy living room surrounded by sleeping friends after an all-night rager, watching an old man talking about complete nonsense. Jay is sure he isn’t still high considering his tolerance is through the roof and it doesn’t take much for him to come down anymore. Still, he checks his heart rate to double-check—yeah, pretty normal.

It started off with little things here and there, the old man on the TV says. Just walking around town I can tell some things are off. But I didn’t know who to tell.

You said there was a butcher shop here? an off-screen reporter says.

That’s right, the old man says. Just right over there. He points over his shoulder where there’s just an empty space between two other buildings. Power’s Meats. Went there for years. Had really great lambchops. But now it’s gone, and what’s more, I saw the owner Miles the other day just wandering around in front of the shop. Like he knew to come here but wasn’t sure why, you know?

Certainly, a strange thing to report, sir, the reporter says. And difficult to prove.

True. Like I said, I didn’t know who to tell.

Jay flips through the channels to make sure he isn’t watching some movie or show. Nope, it’s the right channel, Channel 3. Jay doesn’t care about the news that much, but it makes great background noise when he’s getting ready to go out. Makes his routine seem much more important, somehow.

My sister lived over in that neighborhood for years, Jim, the sharply dressed news anchor says when Jay flips back. Gotta tell you, never saw a butcher shop there. In fact, I don’t believe any shop was ever in that spot. It was always empty.

Jay grabs his keys off the coffee table in front of the couch. Everyone else is still passed out, so he’s alone in seeing this.

What a load, he says.

That’s true, the field reporter says into the camera. Jay feels like he’s talking directly to him. Difficult to believe, and there are no official records of a Power’s Meats or anything ever being in this spot. However, we have received other—

Jay turns the TV off. Time to go to work. He throws on his leather jacket, combs back his greasy black hair, and heads out.

He has a few minutes to spare so he strolls down the street instead of his usual sprint. Ryu always told him he would’ve made a great horse in another life. It certainly sounded nice, being able to gallop around fields and shit anywhere you want. He isn’t sure which part of that sounds better.

He crosses the street without checking for traffic, figuring they will stop. Luckily for him there are no cars coming anyway. He spies The Spin Cycle laundry and that awful doughnut place that opened recently just down the street. Between them is an empty spot and Jay wonders if some other shop vanished into thin air like the old man said.

What a load, Jay says again.

He decides to cut between these buildings to head over to Piedmont Park. It’s strangely full for a midday Tuesday, but Jay knows where all the hidden spots are anyway and has directed his latest customer to meet him at one such spot. He waves to a young couple jogging on the track. They enthusiastically wave back.

He walks over to the lake. With all the wind it’s full of waves, and they remind him of his grandfather’s home and the pond behind it. Jay always pretended a monster was about to erupt out of the waves and he was the only one who could fight it off. The monster never came, though.

The lakeside winds over near a bridge, but instead of walking across it Jay heads down beneath it, double-checking that nobody sees him. For a second, he thinks he sees that same couple again, but it was just an optical illusion with some branches waving in the wind.

He climbs down the rocks to reach the supports. A rock slips out from underneath him and tumbles down the hill. Jay almost joins it in its tumbling journey, but he manages to steady himself.

The noise of the rocks makes a pale, scruffy man appear from behind the bridge support. He waves Jay over.

Come on, man, come on, the scruffy man says.

Shut the fuck up, Jay says, walking down the rest of the hill.

You’re late.

Like hell. I told you 12:30. It’s 12:25.

The scruffy man scratches his neck. Jay sees it’s extremely red.

Shit, man, I always heard be ten minutes early or you’re late.

You heard wrong, Jay says. You got the dough? It stinks down here.

I don’t smell nothing. The scruffy man takes out a jumbled up wad of cash and thrusts it at Jay.

Goddamnit, Jay says, unfolding the cash. I told you not to wad it up like this. I have to check that your druggie ass knows how to count.

Jay flips through the