Red Lashers

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Red Lashers Page 9

by Kyle Dane


  “During the first…” I stop. The words seem to be stuck in my throat, held back by the protective impulse of fearful emotions.

  Hayvin will judge you. Won’t understand. Don’t tell her, Ruko! This’s the perfect opportunity to part ways.

  I gaze out in front of me—eyes away from Hayvin—and talk freely. Openly. As if I were speaking to myself in the mirror. “During the first Red-out, both my parents were killed. I was…alone. Wasn’t long before the Tyros Clan found me and offered to take me in. They introduced themselves as a survival group, not a gang. They promised protection from the Lashers. From everything. Was the only option I could see and, at the time, I was grateful.”

  I pause to assess Hayvin, almost expecting an angry interruption, but she remains silently attentive, pacing a little less.

  “They trained me to fight, for self-defense they claimed. For hours on end, day after day, we’d spar and study...human anatomy, vital pressure points, kill spots...it became my life. They fed me. Kept me alive. Did everything they promised, and for a while it felt like I had a real family again. But after three months, they moved me and all new recruits to another facility...the Tyros Clan headquarters. That’s when I realized who they really were. Evil psychos that are just as monstrous as the Lashers. In fact, they look up to them for inspiration. They envy their power. The day came for full initiation. My head was shaved, branded, and I was forced to do my first Hunt.”

  “What’s a Hunt?” Hayvin asks in a quiet, almost fearful tone.

  “One night every month, Tyros have to kill someone. Was our membership renewal fee.” A sarcastic smirk comes out. “They hunt alone, like Lashers do, but as proof of success we had to bring back something that belonged to our victim. Something covered in their blood like a piece of clothing, something from their pockets, a body part...those earned the most respect. Hayvin, it was pure evil. And they expected teenagers to do this. But not me. I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. But wasn’t ready to be thrown out in the streets to die either, no matter how much I hated them, hated every minute I spent with the Tyros. So…I…” My thoughts transition. “…remember when Brac mentioned my leg?”

  Hayvin nods her head.

  To prove my innocence, I decide that a physical demonstration is necessary. I stop talking, stand up, and begin to undo the belt around my waste.

  “What…what’re you doing?” Hayvin demands.

  I proceed to shamelessly pull down my jeans to my ankles but leave my boxer shorts in place. I lift the left side of my boxers, almost to my groin.

  “Ruko?! Seriously, what’re you…” Hayvin stops questioning my sanity as she peers in disbelief at a cluster of gashes—twenty-two to be exact—that run down my upper thigh. “What’re those?” she asks.

  The demonstration is over, so I pull my pants back up, sit down, and reply to her question.

  “Twenty-two people that I didn’t kill. I was with the Tyros Clan for almost two years, did twenty-two Hunts, and each time, I brought back an object covered in human blood like they expected. But it wasn’t from another person. It was...”

  “...your blood,” Hayvin finishes for me. “You tricked them.” Her warmhearted voice returns.

  “But they eventually found out that I was deceiving them and were about to kill me. That’s when I came to Utah. Just a couple skips from Cali but far enough to disappear. A chance to start a new life. Clean slate.” I comb my fingers over my head. “No…I don’t like long hair. But it hides what I don’t want to see.”

  Hayvin sits next to me. “Ruko, you should’ve just told me the truth. A past life, however ashamed you feel about it, is just that...the past. I would’ve been okay with it. Honestly, the truth about you is beautiful. You stood for good even when everyone else around you stooped low in evil. That’s pressure most people would cave to. But you didn’t,” says Hayvin.

  Her perspective is one I’ve never considered before; maybe there’s truth to it. But still, I’ve got plenty of other mistakes she doesn’t know about...things I wish I could undo.

  “I can’t stay here anymore, Hayvin. I have to leave,” I say, as I veer around the undeserved admiration she’s trying to give me.

  “Okay. So...where’re we goin’?”

  My heart grins at Hayvin’s quick forgiveness of my past—that I previously supposed to be unforgivable—and my deception regarding it. And, I’m left stunned by her obvious commitment to me—willing to go where I go. What an incredible person she is!

  “Well.” After some pondering, I propose an idea. “What would you say if I took you to Florida? Back to your home?” The spontaneous proposition carries a good feeling mixed with intelligence. If it’s true about the natural resources on her farm and the isolated location from Lasher territory, then the trip makes sense; it’s a diamond in the rough. Plus, it’d be plenty far from the Tyro’s turf. Can’t get farther east than Florida without becoming extinct by UN border patrol bombers.

  Hayvin’s lips smile. “I’d love that.”

  “Alright then. Guess...guess we should try to get some rest. Need to leave first thing tomorrow. With the Tyros Clan knowing I’m here and that we know about the bakery, it’s only a matter of time before the news reaches Sankeela Sano.”

  “Who’s that?” Hayvin asks.

  “Someone worse than Brac. Sankeela is head of the Tyros Clan. Most dangerous of them all. My betrayal runs deepest in his blood. Took it personally. Last I knew, he lived in California, where he created the Tyros, his main territory. But the second he’s radioed about tonight, he’ll come looking or me. And you.”

  I cringe at the thought of what he'd do to Hayvin and refuse to share details. “So trust me...we can't stay beyond tomorrow.”

  “I do…trust you.”

  “I'm staying with you at the Safe House tonight.”

  “Thanks, I’d like that,” she says in a half happy tone. I imagine she’s still working things out in her head—my murky past, this stressful present, and our uncertain future.

  As for my past, I get the feeling Hayvin won’t hold it against me. To the present, sleep is all that matters right now because we’re exhausted, and the long drive ahead would end in death if we fell asleep at the wheel, which would kinda defeat the purpose of escaping Utah. Regarding the future, well, I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 10: PARANOIA

  “United States Safe House: an everlasting monument for those we have lost. May we never forget. May this facility never falter but stand resilient as are the citizens for whom it was built to protect.”

  The inscription is etched above the entrance of the SLC Safe House. Annoyingly bulky lights—mounted on each side of the plaque—illuminate the poetically corny words as if it’s important they’re readable at night. No one cares. Why waste electricity?

  The enormous dome-shaped, solid steel structure stands at least twenty feet high in the middle. Several people are outside lazily reclining against the building, holding the world-wide prescribed, problem-solving beverage in their hands. The smell of alcohol is powerful and beckons me to join, along with the invitation of a kind stranger.

  “Come! Have a drink! It’s on me!” He cheerfully waves us over.

  I’m almost tempted. But ignore the man.

  “Wha-what?!” His party face is replaced with a question mark at my cold response to his generous offer of free beer. I already know it wouldn't be free, though. Not really. It’d carry a price I’m not willing to pay, ever again.

  The memory of her, Mia, flashes the reason I don’t drink alcohol anymore. I think that was her name. Can’t remember for certain but with certainty can recall the horrified look on her innocent face as Sankeela forcibly carried her off to his private chamber, after nabbing her from off the street—a young, homeless girl.

  Sankeela was intoxicated. I was worse. With both hands gripped around a beer bottle, I basked in drunkenness, kicked back laughing and actually thinking it was funny the way Mia looked as she dangled over Sankeela’s shoulder
. Was only after I sobered up that I was able to process the full magnitude of what happened. By then, it was too late. He already violated the helpless girl, and any chance to intervene was gone. Had I been in control of my mind, maybe I would’ve stopped him. At least tried. Now, I must live with the visual of Mia desperately gazing into my unconcerned countenance for deliverance from a lust-consumed man.

  All my life, the world has pressured me to believe alcohol is a good-time, happiness-producing healer. But it's not. Only makes my problems worse, compounding emotional turmoil. Promises to the contrary turn out just like the bottle does: empty trash on the side of the road.

  The very next day...that was when I finally deserted the Tyros Clan, forever. Or so I supposed. Yet, here I am running away again, to Florida this time. Seems that no matter how far I travel or how much time lapses, I can’t ditch the past. It follows me. Just the smell of beer can reopen deep wounds.

  I appreciate Hayvin’s pep-talk of encouragement to let go, but how do you let go of what so stubbornly sticks to you? Choice? Is it that simple? Choice to forget? To change? Learn from mistakes? Try a little harder? Be a little better? I’ve heard those messages many times before, but the world—not to mention my own life—gives me little hope to believe in them.

  And yet, as it now dawns on me, I really have witnessed positive change in my life’s journey—actual, tangible progress that I guess is worth acknowledging: I’m no longer a drunk.

  ∆∆∆

  Hayvin and I stride past the massive steel doors that pave the only entrance to the Safe House. They’re twelve feet tall. Two feet thick. The behemoths are powered by electricity and only operated by designated officials. The only time they shut is at 3pm on Red-outs, otherwise they remain open and ignored while smaller glass doors are used by the day-to-day public.

  Hayvin pulls open one of the six glass doors and walks in. I follow behind, figuring this is a good time to let her lead since I don’t know where her Florida group hangs out.

  As I enter, I'm stung by an old feeling that tells me I don't want to be here. But I brave onward anyway.

  The Safe House is dark, aside from an isolated glow that lives in the entrance lounge. Metal-framed, vinyl-cushioned chairs and couches are bolted to the floor. Next to each piece of furniture is a light shining up from under the ground.

  Beyond the lounge area are tall, linked divider walls that create pathways to different areas of the giant, auditorium-style structure. A path to bathrooms, one to a cafeteria, and another that leads to a sleeping chamber. Makes me feel like a mouse in a maze.

  We take the middle path. Small night lights are spread across each wall, but it’s still dark, darker than the entrance lounge. My breathing becomes panicked as I begin to feel trapped by the walls. Claustrophobic. If there were windows, maybe it’d help, but there are none. The place is airtight.

  I take deep breaths and try to relax, but my anxiety only heightens the more I breathe. The air is suffocatingly stale and has a rotten, muggy odor produced by the worn furniture and the collective body odor of worn people—total strangers. A soup of filth. I raise my wrist to my nose and inhale deeply for relief.

  Strangers. Another problem all together. Anyone could be in here with us, lurking in shady pockets. Anyone. Psychos, schizophrenics, rapists, murderers, Tyros. And there’s only one exit. I hate this place. Instead of feeling secure, I feel vulnerable. Paranoid. Why am I here? Should’ve convinced Hayvin to stay in my shelter with me, instead, even though there’s no room for two. I'll just add this to the ever-growing list of stupid choices I've made recently.

  Finally, we arrive at the sleeping chamber, which is the largest room of the Safe House. Rows of beds—dozens, each bolted to the cement floor—fill the area. Some are occupied. Most not. That changes, though, during Red-outs, which is when this place is most crowded from people packing in for protection. When it seemed—back when I used to stay here before my mountain shelter was constructed—that I held my breath all night long, not just because of fear or paranoia, but literally to keep myself from gagging over the rotten human odors that were at their very worst. Really, that’s why I use cologne...bad smells remind me of this terrible place, my California dumpster, and all the horrible scenes of death with which they’re associated.

  Hayvin quietly leads me to the far corner, where about a dozen individuals peacefully marinate in their individual dream worlds. At least I hope they’re peaceful, because people deserve a recess from reality.

  Hayvin gestures that this is her group. Her area. Her home, as of a few days ago.

  I contemplate my sleeping arrangement for the night. The vacant bed appears just as hard and uncomfortable as I remember them to be. The metal frame is securely bolted to the floor, and a thin, dirty mattress is fastened to the frame. Probably looked nice once, when it was brand new. There’s no pillow, which sucks, but it’d be worse if there were one, because it'd be soiled by slobber, sweat, skin grease, and tears of foreign bodies. Even blood.

  I lie flat on my back and peer up at the towering ceiling. My hands are crossed over my chest, because I don't want to touch anything.

  Hayvin. I kink my head to the side. She’s looking at me. “Good night,” she speeds out, then looks away.

  “Night,” I reply.

  I realign my tired head with its tired body and close the curtains to dog-tired eyes. However, my brain stubbornly refuses to power down and instead begins to do what it always does after my body retreats for the night—it thinks even more. Watered down reflections of the day, including the past three days, spin in circles like a speeding carousel. I feel my eyes moving in their sockets behind shut lids, almost spinning in unison with my thoughts. Why do they move? What’re they trying to spot in the darkness? A sign? A reason? An explanation for the crazy thread of events that have been both great and terrible? So much to register.

  “Uhhhh,” a breath of stress escapes me. So overwhelmed with these new problems beating at my doorstep as if the normal everyday troubles weren’t enough.

  “Grahaaa!” cracks the voice of an old man sleep talking.

  I hurdle inside my chest, and my eyes flick open as if they were never shut. I hate being startled. I’m already on edge thinking about Tyros. Plus, I’m becoming more and more filled with the memories of unforgettable torture that took place in this very room. Can almost hear the pleading and screaming coming from behind the steel doors from people who—for whatever reason—showed up late to the Safe House. I remember when the muffled begging finally stopped. The Lashers found them. And after the killing, I could hear Lashers scouring outside, beating and scratching against the doors to get in to us; they always knew when people were inside, because of some idiot who couldn't stay quiet. Like that guy just now.

  Some Lashers would stay by the door for the entire duration of the Red-out. Sometimes they hit the metal walls so hard, it boomed into the room like a cannon, and I’d swear they were going to burst through and slaughter us all like helpless chickens in a coop.

  Here it comes. The rage. It begins to rumble within me, and I urgently need an outlet. Something. Anything. I grab my own wrists and squeeze as hard as I can. Probably injuring myself but I'm too emotionally wounded to notice any physical pain. Eyes shut tighter and teeth grind with a biting force powerful enough to chip another molar. I squirm in bed, wrestling out the anger, the fear, the depression, all the invisible demons of the past and present that relentlessly prey on my grief-stricken soul.

  CHAPTER 11: FAREWELL

  I wake up to a choir of noise buzzing in my ears from various people talking and moving around. It’s morning. My eyes open to the rude reminder that I’m not in the comfort of my quiet shelter. No. I’m in the unsafe Safe House. Anyone could’ve been watching me while in the defenseless state of recharging. I’m anxious to leave.

  “Good mornin’,” Hayvin’s sweet Southern sound greets me.

  Good morning? Yeah, it’s morning. Not sure if it’s good, though. My positive Ab
bud side is still hard asleep; loves the snooze button. Maybe it’ll wake up later. Bud...I’ll miss that guy. And our gym. The mountains, I’ll miss those too. My fishing spot. My shelter. Change isn’t something I’m wired for, so the prospect of restarting my life from scratch leaves me shorted out of being electrified in excitement. Today I’ll be dumping all of Utah. Forever.

  “Hi,” I croak back to Hayvin in a drowsy voice, as I stare at the ceiling. Another feature of the Safe House I despise. Its space is divided into four giant projector screens that, twice a day, play the same redundant video. Once in the AM and once at night. A government streamed recording.

  On Red-outs, the short film plays back to back on repeat from 3pm all the way to sunset, with cheesy soldier boy music, a stupid pump-up speech from Vice President Doughblee, and an extra cheesy sign-off:

  “If only President V’lore were here now to captain us through the storm that came without forecast or understanding. May he rest in peace. And may we honor his legacy by steadying on to victory over the wreckage, keeping our eyes fixed upon the sunrise of hope.”

  I’ve memorized every word. It's meant to inspire us but only reminds me how badly off we are. Not even the government knows what's going on. The enlightened elites. With all their scholarly degrees, silky words, fancy apparel, and costly toys—they’re powerless to save us. Many are corrupt, to boot, with President V’lore having been among the worst of them. Yet, they audaciously memorialize him as some kind of divine savior. I’ve only ever heard about one savior of the world...and it’s definitely not him.

  Doughblee claims that politicians still living are suffering just as much as us common citizens, and he assures they’re doing all they can to end the crisis by remaining in contact with outside allies, coordinating supply drops, building more Safe Houses, yada, yada. Nice. Great. But that’s about it, for hope. Dying off more slowly is the only thing those breakthroughs guarantee. Besides, I don't believe they truly care about us. They’re just trying to keep us alive so that if and when we survive this Lasher terror, they will still have someone to rule over. That’s the real reason for the Safe Houses. They’re nothing but chicken coops designed to keep a future investment of livestock—us—safe from night hunters. Can’t get eggs from dead chickens.

 

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