Red Lashers

by Kyle Dane

  I assess the veteran policeman and plea within my head that he back down and let the Tyro take the container. For his own sake.

  “Hey! She was here first!” The officer attempts to be a hero for the young family by repossessing the package from the monster-sized Tyro who must be near seven feet tall and thick as a house. “Look, there’s no need to…”

  Pow! goes the sound of the enormous brute knocking the cop to the ground with a vicious assault, before he finishes his sentence. The woman cups her face with shaking hands—jumbled in hysteria—then shouts at the thug, “Animal!”

  This isn’t good. They need help.

  Look away, Ruko. Not your problem. Focus on getting a supply box. That’s why you’re here. Remember, tragedy happens every day, all day long throughout the entire world without you ever knowing about it, never able to help. Why is this any different? Pretend you don’t see it.

  I obey the thought and apathetically close my eyes—teeth grinding as I do.

  But...my attention springs back to the scene as I hear the Tyro’s loud response to the woman’s insult. He refers to her by the clan’s core mentality of all people outside their brotherhood, which is especially amplified towards women; those sexist pigs regard females in the worst of ways. “What’s that? Lasher Bait!” Translation: “I’d happily throw you to the Lashers and watch them kill you. You’re nothing to me.”

  With a deceptive grin on his muggy face, the Tyro moves closer to the woman while reaching into his pocket, likely to pull out a gun—what's left of them are hoarded by criminals—but his hand decidedly comes out empty. No lethal weapon needed for a petite, nonlethal mother who scarcely reaches five feet tall.

  I stir around nervously. The other police officers are fully occupied, and the people closest to the situation do nothing because they’re either afraid to step in or just don't care.

  Don’t you dare get involved, Ruko! commands the voice that senses my frail twigs of resistance breaking.

  The dazed policeman climbs to his feet but is no match for the opposition. Neither is the woman. Smack! The Tyro strikes her across the face. Her daughter screams. A snapshot of my own mother flashes before my eyes and causes the last twig of anger inside me to finally snap. Enough! Can no longer stand idly by and watch. I won’t.

  Undeterred by his superior stature, I rush through the crowd towards the violence that escalates into another brutal hammering against the policeman, leaving him folded to the floor. He crawls on his hands and knees only to have his teeth kicked out by the merciless Tyro who circles him, leisurely displaying dominance like a cat playing with its food. Could've ended his life already but instead makes sport of the situation. The thug again sews his sights on the woman who desperately calls out “Help!”as she holds her daughter close.

  Faster I file through the tightly-rowed cornfield of people, building momentum and not taking my eyes off the reason for my rage. I pop out of the thickness and into the clearing created around the three-person ordeal, then, like a bullet, shoot forward and side-tackle the Tyro as hard as I can just before he punches the mother. We both fall to the ground, a bit dazed. But I'm quickly back on my feet. He remains on the ground—paused in perplexity by the attack of an ordinary citizen.

  Bulging, unflinching eyes now stare into mine with evil intentions. But mine fume back with equal conviction as I stand between him and the small family. The Tyro’s hateful countenance turns all the more red in volcanic madness, and I wouldn’t be surprised if lava spewed from his ears.

  “You’re gunna wish you hadn’t done that, LASHER BAIT!!! RAH!!!” The Tyro charges.

  I’m ready—firmly planted, hunched slightly down with the right side of my body facing the oncoming threat as the unseen left side patiently waits. Not yet...

  The Tyro train builds speed for a violent wreck fixed to take me out with the power of his bulk.

  Now! In a perfectly calculated dodge to the right, I swing my dominant left arm as fiercely as my muscles can engine. My iron-armored fist connects with the Tyro’s face, the bones of which shatter upon impact, and the giant crashes to the cement just beyond the backside of my stationary body. But I don’t bother turning around to see the gruesome wreckage, because I already know he’s totaled in a cold knockout—the price for underestimating me.

  The supply container quickly goes from the ground, to my hands, to its rightful owner.

  “Thank you,” the crying mother extends a verbal note of appreciation. I reply with an introverted smile. She hurries to help the officer, but I refuse to look into his face, the face of a real hero; not worthy of his praise. One act of kindness doesn’t cloak the shame of apathy that dominates my life. In fact, I already feel an antagonistic sense of regret for breaking a core commandment of the self-created rule book by which I govern my life.

  You got involved, Ruko. Whatever. Don't do it again!

  Gawking stares fill me with a renewed desire to fall under the radar. I speed-snatch a supply box for myself and mentally route my day’s second usual destination: the gym.

  ∆∆∆

  I tiptoe northeast back up the mountains, away from the stress of traffic. As I increase elevation, down below I see and hear the mass of people and slow-moving cars bound for the drop zone that’s getting more packed each minute. Hundreds of strangers statewide who—without socializing or offering gestures of friendship—will obtain their portion of resources then vanish as if they never came at all. Social disconnect. Every woman and man for themselves.

  I seclude myself to a tree-occupied area that seems like a safe place to sit and sift through the supply box. One compact fishing pole, hand and body warmers, matches, two flashlights, four sets of batteries, body wipes, razor, deodorant, toilet paper, a card game…

  I pause inventory assessment to read aloud the purple and gold cover of the game. “Slappers,” I begin. “The perfect, fast-paced, slappy-happy mind game for two to six players. Haha,” I laugh sarcastically, knowing I’ll never have another person in my life with whom to play such a stupid game; my family of one won’t be expanding anytime soon.

  Not fond of littering. But in this case, I choose to oblige the impulse to toss the game to the ground. It buries itself in deep snow, and I proceed to take inventory, having saved the best for last: food and purified water. The latter being the most crucial for survival.

  Water from natural sources is deadly if consumed, having been contaminated by the red mist. The government issued a national warning that no one even bathe or swim in untreated bodies of water, just to be safe. Occasionally, they put out stories of people who failed to heed the warnings and later became sick and died, sometimes within hours.

  I definitely avoid the water, unless I’m fishing. Thankfully, there’s been no apparent danger in eating fish, so long as they’re cooked thoroughly. Regardless, I’m very careful and always apply hand sanitizer.

  My belly groans. The sight of croc jerky heightens the hunger I’ve ignored all day. I love crocodile. Australia normally sends dehydrated camel meat—also good—but there's something about chomping on crocodile that adds a unique flavor of exotic excitement. Only had it twice before. A rare delicacy.

  What time is it? I check my left hand to consult with the Super Amigos watch I snagged from Sterlings Market a while back; it’s a rubber, overly-colored kid’s cartoon hero watch. The only one not stolen. “2:04pm? Sure...why not. Let’s try an early dinner.”

  I pull out and open the protein-packed package of aquatic dinosaur. A slice a quarter inch thick—and as wide as my hand—is now between my teeth. I tear off a small piece of the jerky by jerking my head away from my hand fast and hard and begin to chew. The salted meat tickles my taste buds. Tough. But delicious.

  As I plunder through the rest of the consumables, an overwhelming sadness creeps its way into my soul. It’s the feeling I expect the day after each Red-out, yet I’m always taken by surprise. An emotional collapse. This time it invades at the glimpse of a liquor bottle that I pull
out of the supply box and bring level to my scowling eyes.

  A haunting memory of her, Mia, burns before me, and the sadness now shakes into a tremor of rage, and I fear that if I hold onto the glass bottle for a moment longer it’ll crush under the pressure of my increasingly intense grip, severely filleting my hand, which is an injury I don’t want.

  “Ahh!” I hurl the alcohol into the nearest tree. The yell of aged regret is followed by a glass grenade explosion. I spit out the half-eaten croc bite. RAAARGGGGG! My hyper-peeved stomach growls a complaint at the teaser but is outvoted by a heart and mind that aren’t into food. I simply can’t eat right now. Too worked-up. Time to move on.

  ∆∆∆

  The Tyros Clan...I’m still shocked by the very unexpected incident on Capitol Hill. Anyone who has lived in California knows just how dangerous these animals are; each member is trained in lethal combat arts, advanced weaponry, survival tactics, and many other things passed down from their leader who once fought in the Mexican Special Forces but was dishonorably discharged. They have the mind and means for evil things and are never obstructed from their plans.

  Sure, they’re way outnumbered by the general population but have no trouble overpowering the streets of their territory. I’d say Tyro muscle in the U.S.—in terms of their influence and power as a group—is unrivaled, second only to the Lashers.

  Should've finished off that Tyro when you had the chance. Lucky he didn't recognize you, Ruko, you stupid fool. If Sankeela catches wind of this, you're dead.

  My stomach clumps. Charged emotions rapidly multiply, soon to reach an explosion point if I’m not tethered down by the weight of gym equipment...and fast. Only a few more minutes away. Meilos. That’s the name. But might as well be called Heaven on Earth, Great Escape, Salvation Central. The gym has come to mean many things to me, way more than a tool for muscle vanity or even physical health.

  It’s my therapy center. A place where the chained emotional torment inside me is unleashed without limit. It’s a sacred temple. Where I vanquish demons and confront mistakes of the past. It’s a gladiator arena. Where I battle Lashers, Tyros, bad memories, the societal contention and cruelty that surrounds me—all the things I hate most. It’s a hall of freedom. I can yell, shout, throw weights into walls, run, lift, destroy a punching bag, and yell some more. I’m allowed to get angry, there...sweat it out of my system and spray it all over the building. Everything I can’t do in the asylum of my day-to-day life, I can do at the gym; it's where the straitjacket comes off and rage turns on.

  CHAPTER 5: DYING FIRE

  So hungry. Hours of gym therapy have me beyond starving. About to pass out.

  While hunched down in squatting position outside Meilo's, swimming in sweat, I finally pack food down my throat. I start where I left off with the croc jerky appetizer, followed by a vitamin-rich MRE entree, trying to remember to breathe between bites. I lose balance and fall backwards onto my butt. Not fazed.

  “Mmmm,” I exhale an airy grunt of satisfaction as I swallow the last savory morsel, then guzzle an entire twenty-four ounce water bottle until my belly's bloated like a water balloon.

  I look up. The sorbet sun sinks behind the horizon, retracting its neon-orange and pink colors as it allows darkness its turn to reign over the city. Cold air is back. I long since shed my normal winter clothes down to the tank top and gym shorts I was wearing underneath, but now it's time to re-winterize. As I do, I make the last-minute decision to attend tonight's Assembly. Why not? Got nothing better to do. I won’t participate but will sit and listen. People arguing about Lashers is often amusing, and I need some entertainment in my life.

  I grab the front part of my soaked hair and pull it back into a tight topknot with the hair tie from my wrist—my preferred hairstyle—and head to Assembly Park.

  On my way through the city's concrete and metal jungle, I picture the wall surrounding our country. An impressive, thirty foot tall sight. I've seen it once before where it splits California and Mexico. Funny how the wind of irony can blow back in your face. Our own wall, which was built by American hands long ago to keep others out is now used against us by the United Nations to keep us quarantined from other countries.

  A giant prison. That’s what America has become, all of us forcefully trapped to live amongst the Lashers. Escape attempts over the border to Mexico—from Tijuana down through Monterrey or Canada, from Vancouver over to New Brunswick—end in death by high voltage electricity or a bullet to the head from motion-detecting turrets or soldiers, no questions asked.

  Ocean sectors aren’t an option for escape, either. The sea is closely monitored by naval fleets that will happily deliver an immediate air strike or submarine missile to any boat that trips the radar. Regardless, there’s no part of our border that isn’t heavily patrolled or under constant surveillance.

  The outside world’s desperation to protect itself from America’s nightmare, keep it from bleeding onto their own soil, is hard to blame. At least there’s the Piñata...we haven’t been completely abandoned. Also, we’ve been given a chance to sort this mess out from the inside, when they could’ve nuked us off the map as a lost cause a long time ago; although, I bet every country has an anxious finger hovering over the red button. Being a prisoner is better than a corpse. I guess. Where are those thank-you cards, again? Must’ve misplaced them.

  ∆∆∆

  I enter Assembly Park. The snowy grass under my shoes welcomes me into one of the only nature-crafted landscapes of the city. It's large and open with a couple monuments of state history, an underused playground, and old trees. The bushy, evergreen spruces lightly laden with snow, stand tall in black shadows. I walk between them. Giant, undecorated Christmas trees is what they are.

  Bright orange flickers against the far distant spruces and partially reveals the deep greenery of the leafy needles. The Assembly campfire has been ignited. I get closer. A group of bodies stands huddled around the fire's warmth while white steam blows out their faces. A vacant bench several feet outside the fire circle is left for me. After first wiping away a small pool of half-melted snow—a soaked butt would suck—I plop down on the reclusive seat.

  I count twelve individuals. Five I recognize. Seven are strangers. The tail end of introductions are made, but I refuse to participate. Not a word. Pay more attention to the scenery than the Assembly. Stars sparkle brightly like white gems glued to a black velvet sheet stretched above the Earth. The moon’s skin is freckled with dark-gray blotches of old age—but overall, white is the color it casts. Wish it’d stay that way. As for size, I have zero preference, because it doesn't matter the shape it takes in terms of its influence relative to Red-outs; last night was a half moon, but the Red-out was still just as full-forced as ever.

  I cross my legs.

  Wow.

  Already sore from the gym. Muscles throb and burn exactly the way I like, which means my therapy session was a good one.

  Assembly attendance has decreased dramatically over the years from thousands to hundreds to a mere handful. Sure, the population is running out, but people are also giving up. When the weekly meetings first began, they seemed productive; there was a spirit of energized hope that could be felt in the exchange of ideas, theories, and potential solutions for defeating our mysterious enemy. Trying to understand Lashers became a nationwide religion, of sorts. However, we know little more today than we did at the start, so what once inspired the expectation of rescue, gives only useless longings for a tomorrow that never comes. The result? Faith has been frozen, ambition abandoned, and the drive to endure stalled. It's plain to see from the small congregation...the fire is dying.

  How different they all look from my own appearance is intriguing. Dirty. Unkempt. I’m sure the smell matches the look but is currently being masked by campfire perfume. No, I'm not glamorous either but there’s a stark difference.

  I caress my freshly trimmed chin mowed just yesterday; I shave almost daily. Even took a quick cold bath using a gallon jug of my d
rinking water, which I do at least once a week. Cologne. Yup, I even sprayed that on my neck and wrists, my daily spray-on shower. Why? Why bother grooming and cleaning my body so consistently? Helps me feel like I haven’t thrown in the gloves, like I’ve still got a reason to wake up each day and get ready. Not sure what I'm getting ready for, but the routine helps delay my degeneration.

  “They have long fangs...I've seen bite marks,” says a familiar female voice that officially initiates the Lasher discussion. Haven’t heard that claim before, but it’s probably false.

  “I heard they’ve evolved and now have giant feet that can stomp you to death! So…” mutters a second familiar voice, strong hint of New Jersey. Made the same hilariously-garbage comment a few Assemblies past, last time I attended. What a ground-breaking contribution. Not.

  After more useless chatter, the Assembly becomes unanimously silent to a wide-eyed staring contest with the orange flames. They just stand. Blank faces. A cluster of prairie dogs loitering in clueless wonder. Can’t help but smirk to myself at the comical scene; humor's scarce these days so I find it where I can to help take the edge off even though I know it’s really not funny. The sanity of people like these is an ever-fraying thread, unraveling more and more with their withering odds of survival.

  “Y'all, I just don't understand how somethin' so monstrous can exist on God’s beautiful green earth,” says a rather large, middle-aged woman in a strong Southern accent. One of the seven strangers.

  “That’s just it Big Morda...them jokers don’t come from Earth! I'll tell y'all what happened,” shouts the bone-skinny man standing next to her.

  Awesome. Here comes another self-created Lasher theory. This should be stupidly entertaining. Please don't let me down, buddy.

  “So...what happened is…uh…them Lashers are really aliens from an uncharted planet. That’s right y’all...body snatchers! They captured President V’lore and-and keep him in some sort’a dungeon. That’s-that’s why he disappeared! Classic invasion strategy...start-start with the leader then go fer the followers,” elaborates the man in a staggered, equally pungent, country-fried zing as Big Morda. They're definitely not from around here. And he’s definitely not sober.