by Kyle Dane
But also, this dude doesn’t deserve my tears. Should've hid himself better last night, and if he didn’t have a good shelter, should’ve used the free lodging of the community Safe House down in the city like most people do. What was he thinking? Wandering the mountain during an active Red-out is suicide. Oh...maybe he was counting on that. He’d taken all he could of this living nightmare, reached the limit of his perseverance, fell down the deepest pit of despair, so he intentionally waited outside to greet death head on. I’ve come close, myself, to that slippery edge.
Another scenario is that he was wasted drunk and simply forgot the Safe House locks its doors at 3:00pm on the day of a Red-out. Once the doors shut, there's no getting inside no matter how hard you knock or fervently you beg. Being an outcast in the dark all on your own, which usually means death, is the punishment for procrastination. And I thought it was unfair when I was tardy to Mrs. Kemp’s algebra class; she made me recite multiplication tables while doing air-squats in front of the entire class. At least I wasn't butchered by monsters.
∆∆∆
As I brush beyond my shelter, I look back and muse over one feature I'm proud of: its camouflage effect. To help keep me undiscovered, I've blended the structure into the mountain's natural image of rock and plant life by plastering cream-colored, extra textured stucco to the external walls. Pieces of artificial tree limbs and leaves I snagged from a craft store are superglued in various places on top of the stucco. From one hundred feet away—even as close as ten—you'd never know it was a man-made residence. If I can't be found, can't be killed. By Lashers, anyway.
Wild dogs, on the other hand, are an unavoidable hazard I deal with almost daily. It was the people's consensus to ban them as house pets on the basis that they attract Lashers; they never shut up. Defensive barking, growling, fearful whimpering, panicked breathing—Lashers are drawn to such distressed, survival type sounds more than any other noise, like shiny lures in the dark. Their hearing’s incredible. Almost don’t need eyes, and yet, to make them even more lethal, their sight is extremely sharp. If they see you or any other life form, whether man or beast, they attack. If they attack, you die—gauranteed. Hiding...that’s our single greatest chance of survival.
It’s sad to see man’s ex-best friend cast out of society, doomed to battle other predators in the foothills such as coyotes, occasional wolves, and me, for food to eat and territory to piss on. Honestly, I couldn't care less. Not an animal lover. Not a people lover, either. But the wild dogs are a scar on society’s beaten face that uniquely reminds me of our depressing reality.
I continue my westward descent to the city. Piñata day only happens after the first Red-out of each month, and I need to show up early before the crowd hits. I hate crowds.
Wow. Sun's getting hotter. I point my head skyward with closed eyes, allowing sun drops to soak into my skin and fill each pore with welcomed warmth. My face is quickly enlivened near the point of overheating. Feels good though; I was born for the sun. Wish I didn’t have to leave California.
I unzip the black coat down below my white T-shirted chest for a bit of heat relief but leave the green beanie untouched to keep my ears warm. They get cold easy. The ends of my hair—two inches or so—hang out the bottom of the beanie and graze my traps.
While walking along the mountainside towards the city, I hear the song of birds coming from the trees, many of which stand scantly clothed with only mounds of snow but very soon to be vested with new blossoms and greenery. The birds’ whistle-like melody harmonizes to the tempo of the snow’s notes made under each hundred and eighty-pound step I take. It’s a multi-instrument, nature-made composition that welcomes the emerging spring season in a way that’d almost seem peaceful, if I believed in such a feeling as peace. Paranoia and pain are the P words most familiar to me.
∆∆∆
Salt Lake City. I reluctantly enter the miserable Utah metropolis, descending from the far northeast corner. The transition out of country wilderness into concrete modernization begins with rows of cookie-cutter tract homes, followed by snow-topped buildings of all shapes and sizes that fill my view. Even a few skyscrapers, although they're shorter than the one’s I remember from Los Angeles.
The closer I get to the human beehive, the more nature’s symphony is gagged by intense cries of crippled emotions. The mournful living. People who either lost loved ones last night during the red hours or are merely enduring the anniversary of death from an earlier Red-out date. I hate it, so I grab earbuds out of my snow pants and aggressively mash them deep into my ears. The speakers are connected to a handheld music device. I press play. Heavy metal music rages inside my head, instantly rescuing me from unwanted noises.
I keep walking. A little faster, now.
I’m in a parking lot. Other than abandoned vehicles and loose trash, the lot’s empty. The flat ground under foot turns into a street with buildings on both sides that tower upward, blocking out the sun and making the temperature feel at least twenty degrees colder through this shadowy engulfment.
“And what’s this?!” shouts a woman’s hostile voice loudly enough for me to hear through the roaring rock concert.
I remove the headphones and look to see a familiar group surrounding an unfamiliar old man outside an apartment complex. Seven girls. Three guys. They call themselves, the Deez, a self-proclaimed street gang. Some people fear them. I don't. Can't even refer to them as a true gang, simply because they’re not worthy of the esoteric title, the dark depths of which they couldn't begin to comprehend. Just a small cluster of misfits, hardly dangerous, hard for me to take seriously.
“Please…don’t,” the old man humbly begs. He lies stretched at the ankles of his conquerors with fearful worry written upon his shriveled face. What looks like a young German Shepherd pup is held high by the neck in the clutches of the group’s foremost authority known as Viper. Two pink Mohawks shoot out the sides of her head and long dreadlocks slither over the center of her scalp down to the small of her back. Also pink. She’s a large, copiously-stacked woman who could easily overpower most men I've known.
“Where’d you find it?!” Viper demands. “Dogs’re against the law. You keep dis, you jeopardize all us.” She’s going to kill it as if she really cared about public safety. But she’s just being a bug-squishing punk hurting the weak and vulnerable.
As I approach, I see an assortment of items in the Deez’ hands: a blanket, some jewelry, an expensive-looking picture frame...the gang is relieving the man of his property to add to their own stash of goods. Daylight thievery out in the open plainness of sight, and they don't come close to worrying or hurrying because they know they won't be challenged by anyone. More air to inflate their ego.
I walk unstressed about the possibility of being the Deez’ next victim since they only ambush easy prey—something I’m not, as they already discovered months ago when they first attempted to jump me. I left the skirmish with little more than sore fists. Sore from beating up the Deez.
Still, I feel emotionally uncomfortable watching them torment an already tormented, life-drained old man, and, in response, my body does something surprising. The muscles tighten. Fists clench. Pace slows down dramatically upon arriving parallel to the situation as if I’m actually considering a hero’s intervention to charge the pack of punks with a raw fury intent on battering them all.
Ruko, what’re you doing?! Don’t be a fool.
Before attacking, I’m checkmated by the voice inside my head that never leaves me alone. It’s a callused, pessimistic spirit that was born after my parents were killed...after I came to know firsthand the world’s true color of cruelty. My way of coping.
The elderly guy travels far into my eyes, desperately searching for a rescuer within but there's none to be found. I choke out the wallowing emotions of compassion, relax my muscles, turn my head, and pick up the pace past the group and away from the guilt...guilt that now echoes down the street in the form of a haunting puppy yelp, followed by its owner’s
agonizing cry of tragic loss.
“You don’t mess wit Deez!” scoffs Viper, the self-glorifying snake.
The guilt I thought I ditched at the scene freezes over my heart like a bitter cold front. Part of my conscience is feverishly sick with regret while the other part protests; split brain syndrome is what I suffer from.
You did what was right, Ruko. Can’t get involved. You’re not the bad guy. You’re a victim as much as anyone. Don't tempt your anger into doing something regrettable.
Anger...
My father once taught me about “Righteous Rage” as he called it, which means being angry for the right reasons. He sat me down after I threw a major temper tantrum at Mom, and then, after convincing me of my inappropriate behavior, explained to me in another of his infamous rhyming phrases that “being mad isn’t always bad.” Anger can be a necessary force that empowers good people to act out against the evil in the world; for example, fighting off a kidnapper to defend your kid.
I get that. But no action can save us from the Lashers. Nor can I stop the widespread contention and cruelty between human neighbors that’s spreading more widely day after day, year after year, consuming our broken society like a fire. Therefore, the rage I feel towards the evil—righteous or not—is pointless. In the end, what would helping that old man accomplish? If it's not the Deez, it'll be another gang or some other trial that terrorizes him. I can't stop everything from happening, so why bother stopping anything?
∆∆∆
Through the grove of buildings and homes, I make out the red, white, and blue flag. It stands atop the capitol building motionless in the wind’s absence. I’ve made it to Capitol Hill. A few dozen people congregate on the grounds. The Piñata probably won’t drop for another five hours, but arriving early is important. Some people get it. Most don’t.
I take a seat on the sidewalk’s edge and patiently wait. My eyes are on the ground between my legs, mostly exploring the scuff marks on my white, shin-high mountain boots. These foggy eyes are tired, though, from last night's limited sleep and battle to stay open; it's impossible to sleep during Red-outs.
I lick my lips. A painful sting follows from being cracked and split down the middle. I reach into a pocket for chapstick. The movement reawakens me a bit. Liberally, I apply the black cherry chapstick, stroke after stroke, all the while the city continues to pulse sound waves of grief. Both tearful whaling and shouts of anger reverberate from house to house and building to building, filling the valley with mass depression I'm forced to endure since I won't listen to music in public. If I did, couldn't hear someone sneaking up to mug me. So the earbuds hang out of my shirt and over my chest, rock concert paused—just gotta take it.
A closer examination of the surrounding area reveals families huddled together who tear-swap and offer expressions of comfort. Others idle by silently with blank expressions on their faces like deer stoned into a sea of nothingness. Their mouths have been sown shut by the seamstress of unspeakable calamity.
I look back at the flag. As a child, those colors gave me a sense of security. Freedom. I was raised in the belief that the U.S. was the world's most powerful and prosperous nation that’d endure throughout all time. Yeah right. Can't stand behind the flag for salvation from Lashers or the corruption plentifully found on our own turf. We're nothing but a desperately dependent country on life support, which is a truth I'm reminded of as I sit here waiting on the Piñata. I look up at the sky. Still nothing.
An orange-haired woman dressed in a blue hooded sweatshirt, brown sweatpants, and flip flops, rocks back and forth talking to herself. Her tone fluctuates just about every other word from a low whisper to a heightened yell. No idea what she’s ranting, but now I see that she’s not totally alone. In her hand she holds captive a black rat with a missing tail. Not a friendly gutter-dweller. The apparent pet-by-obligation bites the woman’s hand and fingers to escape but she doesn't care. With unflinching focus, the deranged woman feverishly talks into the blue while gently stroking the rat from head to broken tail as the rodent wiggles hard to break free by clawing and eating at her hand’s bloodied flesh. She keeps petting, nonetheless.
I move my eyes away from the disturbingly odd relationship between rat and woman and onto something a bit more pleasant. Six police officers dressed in their finest have assumed positions for the Piñata drop. I respect them. Representing those who didn’t sign up for power but strictly to serve. Protect. Most walked away from their duties after the Red-outs started, but these ones willingly volunteer their service. Sure, I think they’re compensated by the government—better food maybe, and/or a safer, more isolated place to bunk down at night, but still, they’re at a high risk of death doing what they do.
I rescan the cops’ uniforms at a snail's pace this time. Nice belts. But without the holster and gun they seem more like defenseless mall security. A result of the executive order given long ago by President V'lore to abolish the 2nd amendment all the way up to local police departments.
∆∆∆
“Look, Mom!” shouts a young child.
My people-watching abruptly ends when a girl gleefully points upward while tugging at her mom’s purple coat. Above us all in the middle of a blue sky is a tiny black dot that swiftly demolishes the distance between it and the Earth, increasing in size the closer it gets.
Along with others, I forsake my seat in hopeful suspense. Sure enough, the earlier-than-expected object takes the familiar shape of a supply drop. It’s like watching a floating house that’s gracefully tempered by a parachute triple its size descend from the heavens. Yup, a floating Piñata full of food and we’re all ecstatic children elated out of our minds.
Cries of sadness begin to subside at the heavenly mercy; some people cheer and clap. The precipice of salvation. But the feeling of rescue is a hallucination I won’t succumb to, because in just moments when the Piñata’s opened, Capitol Hill will become a war zone for supplies—anything but peaceful. A collective indifference to public safety and the illusion of endangered resources create chaos similar to Black Fridays we used to have after Thanksgiving Day. But worse. Pushing, trampling, and fighting are the brutal norm. Pure pandemonium.
I tense up and prepare. Concealed in jacket pockets, my hands equip themselves with the Iron Bells: not-so-typical brass knuckles. Traditional bumps run across the knuckle area while two larger masses of iron hug each side. Weighing in at five pounds each, they’re more like demonic dumbbells from a gladiator’s gym. Wish I didn’t have to carry them—they’re heavy. Or use them—they’re messy. But self-defense against savage people and animals is a fact of life I can’t afford to ignore. Although I won’t get involved in the battles of others, I will fight for myself.
As the cargo drifts farther from the sky’s possession, I recognize the flag printed on the parachute. Australia is the allying country on rotation today.
CRASH. The relatively small crowd clusters around the fallen Piñata, which is swamped by the enormous, deflated parachute. I discover myself in the middle of the group with anxious people in front and behind me. The six officers work to remove the parachute, pulling with hasty might. Additional hands join in the effort to release snags and undo security straps, and for a brief spell people work as an organized team fully unified in a common goal. This will change though.
Sure enough, as the individually packaged supply containers become visible and ready for the taking, a new atmosphere emerges. I can feel it. See it in the people’s eyes. The tension builds. It starts. Human desperation attacks the pile of goods like a swarm of locust, while police try hard to enforce stability by authoritatively handing out one container per family of up to four members. Families with higher head counts receive two containers. Some accept and move on. Others selfishly go for more even though one, if rationed, is plenty of food for a large family until the next drop. Logic means little to illogical, paranoid minds.
With tiny effort on my part, I’m at the front lines of the Capitol Hill chaos, having been
pushed forward by the human wave behind me. Close up, the stress on the police officers’ faces is more clearly defined. Same pressure they endure each drop day. But also notable is joyful satisfaction in helping a helpless crowd, which is obvious in the senior officer’s smile as he hands a container to a young mother—the one whose daughter pointed out the early drop.
The mother accidentally drops the container the second it’s handed to her because of her struggle to hold the container in one arm and her three-ish-year-old daughter in the other. Promptly, the policeman bends down to pick up the container for the needy woman. The sight of kindness—a rare thing to witness these days—fills me with warmth. A happiness of sorts. But the feeling is short-lived as a large man aggressively snatches the box out of the mother’s hand and yells, “Mine!”
No. It can’t be. My stomach drops and lungs trip over a skipped breath in a battle to accept what I’m witnessing. That feeling you get when surprise-punched in the gut and the wind is knocked out of you, leaving you wide-eyed and breathless. He's one of them...a Tyro...but what's a Tyro doing here?!
CHAPTER 4: FLASHBACK
I sneer in both anger and fear at the all-too familiar tattoo centered at the neckline on the back of the man’s shaved head. The red eyeball insignia, which is first hot branded into the skin then colored over with ink, is a distinguishing mark used by the Tyros Clan: an elite gang that makes the Deez look like innocent cub scouts. The eyeball symbolizes their creed to be ever watchful for any opportunity to seize more power.
But why is he here? The West Coast is their domain. Could just be a passerby. Better be. I look around and see that he’s the only one here. Good, because if their territory ever expanded to Utah, I’d leave the state in a heartbeat.