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Red Lashers

Page 8

by Kyle Dane


  Humbled by the profound counsel, I say nothing, even though most of me wants to argue at the apparent contradiction of logic. People would kill for a place as gem-like as Hayvin’s farm, and yet she voluntarily abandoned it.

  “That’s why I left,” Hayvin says more. “On the farm I would’ve been absolutely alone. By leaving, there was a chance to find my brothers. But, if I never find them, the trip’s already been worth it. Growing close to people like Big Morda and Craskol...they may be weird but are the kindest people you’ll ever meet; they’d do anything for you. Make you laugh. Give you the shoes off their feet. They’ve become good traveling buddies. And…by leaving home...I found someone I didn’t expect.”

  I realize Hayvin’s talking about me.

  “We still don’t know each other much, but somethin’ just feels…right…about being with you, Ruko. When you came up to me at Meilos, I felt uncomfortable at first, not gunna lie, but also somethin’ else I couldn’t explain if I tried. A feeling like I already knew you, and we’re just picking up from where we left off. So...I’m glad I came. And it’s not a bad place here.”

  “Why Utah?” I ask.

  “Johno was livin’ out here for work before the Red-outs,” Hayvin answers. “Figured if he was still alive, he’d be here. But I haven’t seen him. Other people were also headed this way. A lot of rumors it was safer than back East, because not as many Lashers, better living conditions like electricity, and…”

  “There’s no electricity where you’re from?” I ask.

  “No, none at all in Florida.”

  “Serious? What about your Safe Houses? How do they operate? The big steel doors?”

  “There aren’t any Safe Houses. No drop zones either. Conditions aren’t good. From what I know, hardly anyone's left livin’ on the entire East Coast. Most have been killed or fled to the West.”

  Why wouldn’t the government build Safe Houses for the East Coast? Doesn’t make sense.

  “So...if there were no supply drops...what water did you drink?” I ask.

  “The water out there is fine. At least where I lived. No contamination. You can just boil creek or lake water and drink it and be just fine. But I’ve been spoiled. I mostly drank spring water from the well on our farm, and, well I’m not dead yet,” she tells.

  I’m baffled. Natural water is supposed to be hazardous everywhere in the country.

  “Anyway, I saw an opportunity to tag along and keep the promise to Mama. So I came,” Hayvin finishes her story.

  “Well, I really…I really respect you. I mean, it must’ve been hard to leave. But…” I find it difficult to whisper the thought my heart is screaming. “…I’m glad you did,” I confess.

  “Thanks. So, I told you my life story. What’s yours?” Hayvin inquires.

  I shutter inside at the question that might as well be a sword slicing up the day’s happy feelings. Not ready to talk about my past—don’t want another pair of ears to judge and condemn me. Maybe that's the real reason I avoid people.

  “There’s not much to tell. I’m originally from California. Been here over four years. Just trying to figure things out as I go along, you know?” I give general details, nothing too specific.

  “Oh, cool. So what brought you here, exactly?” Hayvin asks.

  “Look, I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry, and we’ve got a trophy-sized trout here that needs smoking, so, we better get to it...I promise I’ll share more about myself later,” I say through a fake smile that’s just as fake as my promise to divulge my backstory. No way I’m doing that, especially the reason I came to Utah. But how? How do I keep the skeletons of the past from being exposed when they’re literally part of me?

  I reach around and touch the back of my head—so grateful for long hair.

  This whole thing’s crazy. All of it. No doubt I haven’t heard the last from my parental self for breaking such a big rule as relationship abstinence, the rule that has kept me safe from the associated agonies, including the dread of discussing dark things of the past.

  Right now I just want to focus on the light of today—this rare moment of peace—and hope it lasts through tomorrow. Yeah, here’s to hoping.

  CHAPTER 9: SKELETONS IN THE BAKERY

  Hayvin and I walk down the middle of the street, side by side. No active cars tonight—not at this part of the city, anyway.

  Our hands were just interlocked, but only for a brief moment. I pulled away. Can only do it for so long before feeling overly-weird about it. She grabbed my hand without fear, assuming I'd be okay with it. Her bravery baffles me. Sure, I like holding her hand. I do. The way they matchup finger to finger, skin to skin; two puzzle pieces perfectly compatible as if they were made for eachother. It's a feeling like an itch being scratched. Not the annoying kind from a mosquito bite you ruthlessly claw at to the point of bloodily dismembering your own body part. No. An itch like “awww yes, this is me; I never want to stop scratching.” Need to slow down, though. Still shell-shocked.

  We cross through an electric railway station, one of many that used to service the public, but like most everything else, it’s not in operation. If it weren’t for a few pockets of lighted windows in buildings and occasional whispers from late-nighters, I’d say we’re walking in a city of ghosts. A city that becomes more dead and dark with each new Lasher attack.

  Some people survive just fine in the concrete jungle, like Abbud, which is what most people try to do. It's the easy, convenient thing to stay where you've always been, do what you’ve always known, and simply go where the crowd is. But because of this...because they’re unable to think outside the confines of the city box, they’re a constant target for Lashers. The sacrifice of comfort in exchange for safety is worth living where I do. I’m reminded of my wisdom each time I visit this place.

  ∆∆∆

  “Look!” announces Hayvin as she signals to the right side of the street.

  Her sudden shout kicks up my adrenaline into an assumption of danger—I quickly look, getting ready to pull out the Iron Bells for a fight.

  “An old bakery!” she finishes with joyous verve.

  Okay...no danger...she's just enthused.

  The tattered sign reads, “Mrs. Daily’s Bakery.”

  My heart groans upon realizing where we are. We stop walking to observe the abandoned shop.

  “We had a bakery like this back home,” Hayvin says. “Bubbas Batch. The bread was so good.”

  I reciprocate, “The bread here…was also good. Fresh. Warm.”

  “Huh? I thought you said you’ve been here for only four years. Nothin’ was open after the first Red-out, which was seven years ago,” says Hayvin. The world of currency-based trade and Monday-through-Friday work weeks ended the second Lashers appeared, so her assumption is safe. But in this rare case, inaccurate.

  “The old lady who owned this place, Mrs. Daily, kept it open. She’d give away free bread the day before each Red-out, to comfort people I guess,” I tell.

  “Where’s she now?”

  “Six months after I moved here…one morning, Mrs. Daily didn’t show up to open the doors. The bakery remained closed ever since,” I finish.

  We offer a moment of respectful silence while staring into the lifeless store through broken windows. Faint starlight illuminates sections of the bakery but is overpowered by dense shadows. Moving from left to right, my eyes re-imagine it as it once was. Full of color and life. Selfless charity. Kindness.

  My eyes recognize Mrs. Daily’s black baking apron. It hangs against the back wall on a wood peg behind the counter, faithfully awaiting its owner’s return. I also see one of her colorfully-patterned head bandannas dangling next to the apron, her trademark clothing article that covered her entire head. The bandanna combined with big, gold, hoop earrings gave her the look of a gypsy.

  “Let’s go inside,” Hayvin suggests.

  I hesitate.

  “Come on!” she playfully insists.

  I give in, having failed to think of
a good reason why we shouldn’t. We approach the door and jiggle the handle. The lock has been conveniently broken. It’s as if Mrs. Daily’s ghost wants us to enter. Perhaps she’s inside, waiting to greet us with freshly baked bread. I halfway expect it.

  We enter. It’s just as quaint and homey feeling as I remember; the way a hole-in-the-wall joint should feel. Can almost smell the lingering residue of her last batch.

  Suddenly, an eerie, haunting sensation materializes in the air. I look around in frightful paranoia as my ears tell me we’re not alone in the bakery. Mrs. Daily’s spirit? Spider webs drape down from parts of the ceiling and cover the walls, adding to the cryptic scene. I swat a thick web from my face while trying to focus on muffled clatter that creeps deeper into my ears.

  “Do you hear that?” asks Hayvin.

  Good. She hears it too, which means my head’s not hallucinating.

  I nod. The sound is coming from within the far wall. Rats? We cautiously make our way to the back of the bakery, and, as we do, the noise becomes louder.

  With faces pressed against the dusty, cinderblock surface, we listen. Clashing metal and busy footsteps echo through, as if a construction crew was hard at work. Hayvin and I gaze at each other in bewilderment.

  “This’s crazy,” I say. “Had no idea anything was on the other side of this wall.” Then it dawns on me. I hazily remember Mrs. Daily explaining that the bakery used to be an entrance to an old clothing factory. The factory part has been shut down since the 1940’s, but the front entrance was spared to be used as a piece of commercial real estate. This wall is the divider between the two. But who'd be inside the factory? Sounds like a lot of people.

  I strenuously ponder the possibilities, wondering if we should leave, when unexpectedly a hostile voice shouts from behind us.

  “Hey!”

  “Ah!” Hayvin screams.

  My own head about twists off its neck to see who it is, and now I can’t move. No. I’m stuck in shock at the sight of two Tyros Clan members standing between us and the bakery exit. The darkness conceals their features, but they’re for sure Tyros. I can feel their dark spirits, like a sixth sense. I was wrong; the Tyro I encountered the other day on Capitol Hill was not a lone traveler. There are more.

  “What’re you doin’? Snoopin’ around?!” one of them interrogates.

  My heart jumps in my throat and crawls out my mouth, taking my voice box with it, leaving me unable to speak.

  Hayvin tries to answer, “We were just goin’ on a walk, and…”

  “Shut your mouth, Lasher Bait!” The shorter of the two yells at Hayvin.

  I scowl in anger as my heart quickly returns to its rightful spot. A feeling of extreme protectiveness over Hayvin is manifesting; I won’t let her get hurt.

  “I asked YOU!” shouts the Tyro, who now points at me. Good. I'd rather they concentrate on me than Hayvin.

  They take a couple steps closer. The new proximity reveals an increased seriousness to the situation. The Tyro doing most of the talking wears a familiar face. A face I wish I didn’t recognize. But I do. Yes, I know him. It’s Brac—second in command of the entire Tyros Clan and one of their most lethal fighters. It doesn’t take long for him to also recognize my face, aged since the last time he saw it.

  “No…HelLion?!” The Tyro pulls out a flashlight from his pocket and shines the light in my face. “It’s you. You’re alive,” he begrudgingly testifies. “You remember me, right? Your ol’ buddy Brac!”

  Although my heart’s returned, my larynx hasn’t; I remain speechless.

  “We’ve been looking for you. Nobody leaves the Tyros Clan…while they're still breathing. Oh, and how’s your leg?!” Brac booms.

  Hayvin’s baffled. “What’s he talkin’ about, Ruko? You know these guys?”

  I don’t answer.

  Brac responds for me, “Haha, you mean your little friend here doesn’t know who you are? Haha!” he laughs louder. “You’ve tried to become one of them, huh? Thinkin’ maybe you’ll start a little family…with this Lasher Bait?!” He points at Hayvin.

  The other Tyro—unknown to me—puts on a menacing smirk and then moves in on Hayvin, as if to grab her.

  “Hey!” I roar, finally uttering sound.

  The Tyro stops in his tracks, startled at my confidence. Seems he arrogantly believes this battle has already been won. Couldn’t be more wrong. He doesn’t know me. Obviously. I continue to crush his cockiness with the fight in my eyes.

  “Daño,” Brac calls out the Spanish word for damage, which is apparently the name of the other Tyro. He looks to Brac, who gives a side nod to back down. Daño obeys and takes a step backward.

  “You can grow your hair out, but you can't erase the branding on your head.” Brac slaps the back of his own bald scalp. “You’re still a Tyro...in need of disciplining.”

  “You’re a...Tyro?” Hayvin asks in a shaky, betrayed tone.

  I ignore her. Now’s not the time for a story. We’re both in mortal danger. What do I do? The Iron Bells in my pockets aren’t an option. Whatever my plan of attack, I’ll have to move very quickly, because Brac will be packing a gun, the one I know he’s squeezing right now with the hand that’s concealed in his jacket. To my immediate left is a table with a couple chairs stacked on top.

  As I plan my move, Brac verbally antagonizes Hayvin but doesn’t dare move closer. Unlike the new guy, Brac’s seen me fight. If it weren’t for the distinct pistol advantage, he’d think twice about brawling with me. But then again, I’m also outnumbered. Size wise, we’re contenders of equal height and build. Daño, however, is considerably shorter than me but has a much wider, thicker-boned frame, large head, and arms like a silver back gorilla, which is plain to see even underneath coat sleeves. He’ll know how to take a hit.

  “That’s right little Lasher Bait…your garbage boyfriend used to be a Tyro…called him HelLion…cuz he’d EAT girls like you for breakfast…like an animal,” says Brac.

  “Mmmm…delicious,” Daño supportively chimes. Their words are fertilizer to the rage inside me that continues to grow.

  “A traitor now, but…was one of the most ruthless fighters we ever had. I mean, he’d do things that make me look like a saint. Haha. In fact, I remember one time…”

  Now! Like lightning, I grab an upside down chair by the leg off a nearby table and smash it into the side of Brac’s head. He had time enough to pull out the handgun but not point and shoot.

  While Brac crashes onto the floor, I turn to the greeny Tyro and block an already propelled fist, just before I’m hit. Countering with a normal punch to his head won’t do much, so instead, I use my palm to uppercut into his nose with a quick pump action. I knee the thug in the groin with a jumping assault and, after another punch to the face, for distraction, I slam his log-of-a head into the tile checkout countertop as hard as I can, which is enough to check him out of consciousness.

  I scurry to Brac, but as I turn around to finish the job, Hayvin takes the initiative. As he rises, Hayvin knocks him back to the ground with a chair of her own, swinging it high up and down on top of his bald head—a merciless assault.

  I stare at Hayvin in pleasant surprise, to which she unpleasantly says, “Used to chop firewood back on the farm.” Her tone is glazed with threats directed at me. I don’t fault her. She’ll have questions that need answering.

  “Let’s go,” I urge.

  Hayvin drops the chair and follows me out of Mrs. Daily's Bakery and back onto the street. We run.

  RaaaaAAAAHHHHHH!!! An on-the-go emotional quake of anger rumbles as I run. Why is this happening?! It’s true, then. The Tyros Clan is here. An entire legion of them. And worse...Hayvin’s involved. And worse still, she knows a side of me I never wished exposed.

  ∆∆∆

  “Stop!” Hayvin screeches. “I don’t know if I should be running with you...or away from you!”

  We’re a safe distance from the bakery and hidden in an alley. Now’s as good a time as any to catch my breath and th
e hard-ball concerns Hayvin’s about to throw at me. I lean against a building, panting hard.

  “Show me...show me the REAL reason you have long hair!” Hayvin commands.

  “It’s true. I was…a member of the Tyros Clan,” I confess. Saying the words is harder than I could’ve imagined. An immense guilt assaults my conscience. Guilt I’ve partially repressed by simply refraining from speaking the words out loud. But now, my dark past is out in the light. The disappointment of betrayal shows plainly on Hayvin’s face and only amplifies my shame.

  “You’re a murderer!” she accuses.

  I defend, “No, Hayvin. I’m...I’m many things but not a murderer.”

  “You were a member! A Tyro!”

  “I’m telling the truth. I can explain everything,” I assure.

  “Okay, go for it. Start by explaining why you lied to me about your hair!” Hayvin roars in an overly-dramatic tone with a vicious stare that's similar to how the wild dogs stared me down a couple days ago. I actually think I’m more afraid of Hayvin than the dogs.

  I repress my natural impulse to yell back. “Can you please, please just sit down and try to relax? I’ll explain and…and answer your questions. But I need you to calm down…please,” I beg in an empathetic voice.

  Hayvin retracts her hostile stare, a bit. “Tell me the truth.”

  Grateful she’s giving me a chance, I sit down and begin elaborating the thing I’ve tried hard to forget—my backstory. Hayvin remains standing but pacing. Her frustration is understandable. She thinks I was a murderer, and two fat fingers of convincing evidence point right at me: Brac and my branding scars.

 

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