She’d simply vanished.
Jonathan, obviously severely distraught, tried first appealing to the leader of the Runners, Edward Palermo.
“She’s my fucking wife, Ed! Bring her back, for Chrissakes!”
“I don’t know where she is,” Edward said. “You knew the rules. You chose to disobey them. I cannot help you.”
Jonathan had needed to be escorted out of the warehouse where the Runners met before their nightly Run. He then barged into the Hunters’ warehouse where they met each night before the Run, strode into James Kendul’s office (Kendul being the leader of the Hunters), grabbed him by the throat, slammed him against a wall.
“Give her back, you fuck!” Witters screamed in Kendul’s face.
Two Hunters had followed Witters into the office, each grabbing an arm to restrain him. Word of the disappearance had traveled fast through the society, so Kendul knew what Witters was upset about. He maintained the same calm demeanour as his colleague, Palermo, but was perhaps a little colder.
“We do not know where they go when they disappear,” Kendul said. “I’m sorry for your loss. Go home, Witters. She’s not coming back. The sooner you wrap your head around that, the sooner you can get on with your life. Lashing out accomplishes nothing. This is the way it has always been. You knew that before she vanished, and you know it now.”
Witters was then roughly thrown out of the Hunters’ warehouse.
From that day forward, he did nothing but drink – never showing up to another Run – until everyone who mattered to him disappeared.
Jonathan Witters died alone of liver failure in his shitty little apartment.
And there’d been more than a few others like him over the years Henry and Milo had been running. They had discussed this particular series of disappearances more than most because they’d known Jonathan so long. Not long enough to get close, to become someone they – whoever they were – would target, but long enough to do more than just register he was gone.
“Taken by God,” Milo said the day after Witters’ body had been found. They were at Henry’s apartment, drinking, playing video games. “All of them.”
Henry had remained silent at first; just took a sip from his can of stout, frowned, mumbled something Milo couldn’t make out.
“What was that?” Milo asked.
“Doubtful,” Henry said, clearer this time.
“Why doubtful? What else could it be?” Milo said.
“Look, we always go round and round on this, Milo, and I don’t want to do it again. You know I don’t believe in any of that shit. I don’t know where they go when they disappear – just like I don’t know what happens when we ‘ascend,’ or whatever the hell you wanna call it. If that’s even true, and there’s no proof that it is.”
“Alright, alright, settle down,” Milo said. “Just trying to give their lives a little more meaning than if they’d vanished into the fucking void, you know?” He took another swig of beer, glanced sideways at Henry. “So sensitive, my word.”
Milo grinned, nudged Henry with his elbow, trying to lighten the mood, but Henry wasn’t having it.
“Nah, man, I’m just not interested in assigning magical explanations to real-world events. I don’t know where they go, but who’s to say that real people don’t come and take them away? We don’t know that for sure. All we know is what Kendul and Palermo tell us, and what our ancient –” and here Henry put down his controller to make air quotes with his fingers “– holy books –” picking his controller back up again “– have to say on the subject. And that’s less than useful, since they’re as vague as humanly possible in their descriptions, saying only that they’re ‘removed from the offender’s life.’ Shit, I’d be more inclined to believe aliens steal them than some god has anything to do with it. What kind of shitheel of a creator would do that? And if he did, then fuck him.”
The two clattered their controllers for a while in silence, destroying aliens on Henry’s TV screen, then Milo said, “God doesn’t give a shit what you think, Henry. If he exists, he will fuckstart your face for that level of blasphemy. And then your mom’s. And then your cat’s. He will fuckstart all the faces, and there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it.”
Milo grinned, glanced over at his friend.
After a moment, Henry grinned a bit, too, said, “Shut up, dickhead. I don’t have a cat.”
* * *
Tonight, shadows moved quickly against a backdrop of random white, like the snow on a TV screen. Same running crew as always. Same Hunters, too, save for a few new faces on both sides. Young faces – fathers teaching sons.