Free The Vanishings by Tim Lahaye, Jerry B. Jenkins

threw on a top, shorts, and slip-on shoes. She trotted down the road until shewas right behind Shelly. “Hey, girl!” she said. “What’s the matter with you?”
    Shelly turned and faced her, pale and trembling. “Shel, what happened? Are you all right?”
    â€œHaven’t you heard?” Shelly said, looking at Vicki as if she were a stranger.
    â€œHeard what? What’s going on?”
    â€œPeople are missing,” she said. “Disappeared. Vanished. Right out of their clothes. Watch the news. It’s all over the world. Three trailers here burned to the ground. Lots of people lost family. Mrs. Johnson vanished late last night drivin’ her husband home from the bus stop. He couldn’t grab the wheel in time, and the car hit a tree. He’s hurt real bad.”
    â€œShelly, are you high? drunk? walking in your sleep? What?”
    Shelly turned and walked away. Vicki called after her, but Shelly didn’t respond. Vicki looked down the road to the cluster of trailers at the end of her area. People milled about, talking. Were all these people off work? She stepped off the road as a fire truck left the area. Could Shelly be right?
    Vicki hurried back to her trailer and stood on the top step to survey the area. She saw two trailers that were now just charred remains, one with smoke still rising. Peopleheld each other, crying. She didn’t want to go back inside, afraid of what she might find. But she had to.
    She pulled the door closed behind her as she stepped back into the living room. Where was the remote? Her mother didn’t like late-night TV. She would have stayed up reading. For the first time, Vicki looked at the chair where her mother would have been waiting for her the night before. Her mother’s slippers were on the floor in front of the chair. Curlers and hairpins were strewn about, as if they had been dropped. Her mother’s flannel nightie and thin robe were draped over the chair. Her Bible appeared to have fallen, hit the chair, and flipped over, landing page-side down on the floor, forming a little black tent.
    What was that in the middle of the chair, atop her nightclothes? Vicki slowly moved closer. It was her mother’s dental plate, the metal bridge with a porcelain tooth she was so self-conscious about. She never took it out in front of anybody, thinking it made her look old to have bridgework in her mouth from a childhood bike accident.
    Vicki could barely breathe. Hands shaking, her whole body shuddered as she turned on the television. “. . . these grisly scenes from around the world,” the announcer was saying,“evidence of the mass disappearances that occurred in every country at approximately midnight, Eastern Standard Time. . . .”
    She was light-headed, and her stomach churned. This had to be a dream. She felt her way to a chair, unable to take her eyes from the screen. She pinched her arm and winced. No dream. “Here again,” the newsman said, “is one of the strangest images we have received from this phenomenon no one can explain. This video was shot by the uncle of a soccer player at a missionary boarding school in Indonesia. Watch as the players race down the field. In slow motion now, watch as all but one player disappears. Their uniforms float to the ground as the ball bounds away and the sole remaining player stops and stares in horror. Watch as the cameraman keeps the video rolling and turns from side to side, showing he is one of few adults remaining, the rest having also disappeared right out of their clothes.”
    Vicki heard a throaty moan and realized it was her own. As the TV droned on and bizarre images came from everywhere, she made her way to her parents’ bedroom. Her father’s leather necklace, the one that so embarrassed her, lay on his pillow. The necklace had the initials W. W. J. D. carved into it, which her father proudly told her remindedhim that in every