Red Lashers

by Kyle Dane

  Hayvin inserts the key into the door and turns.

  “W-wait,” I stammer in response to an urgent thought. “What if someone's inside?”

  “No”, Hayvin answers. “We’re miles from the nearest city. No one knows about this place.”

  Habitual instincts kick in. “You don’t know that. There could be anyone…anybody could’ve come while you were gone. If someone’s in there…they’ll kill to stay. Let me go first.”

  “Okay...Ruko ParanoidPants.”

  I set down the bags in my hands and cautiously open the front door, flashlight in one hand and an Iron Bell in the other. I’m welcomed by darkness; who knows what it might be concealing.

  The white beam of my flashlight erases away the darkness with each wave of my hand, until it's distilled from every nook and cranny of the entryway and family room area—no human or animal life is seen. An empty couch. Fireplace. Picture frames hanging on wood walls. Wallpaper clinging to the lower half of the walls with repeated images of a cowboy on a horse lassoing a bull. Large grandfather clock. Open floor plan that flows into a kitchen view. Those are the things I see. Nothing that can kill us.

  “K, come on,” I say to Hayvin.

  The next area to search is a bedroom. I creep along the hallway.

  All at once, I hear the noise of panicky movement coming from the other side of the bedroom door. I stop. So does the noise. Someone or something is on the other side and knows we’re here.

  I wrap my fingers around the knob and waste no time barging in, fist ready to fight.

  “Grrrrrrrrrrr!” A small, cat-like fluff ball thats defensively curled up in the corner of the room growls at me. It’s a...baby fox. Tiny teeth and a continuous puppy growl do their very best to intimidate me away. It works. As fun as rabbis is, I think I’ll pass. My body puts itself in reverse while keeping light on the wild critter, just in case it jumps forward to bite me. Door shuts.

  “Haha.” With cupped hands, Hayvin tries to shove an escaped laugh back into her mouth. “Awww. Ruko, she’s adorable. Let’s keep her.”

  “No way. It can stay the night, but tomorrow...that thing’s breakfast,” I say.

  “What?! That’s awful. Poor little thing’s terrified. We’ve got real food to eat.” Hayvin counters.

  Just barely became a people-lover again. Animals? That’s moving way too fast. Zero pets for me. How’d it get inside, anyway? Oh yeah. My mind is refreshed by the image of a damaged wall and an olympic weight set smashed into it—the look of unrepaired aftermath from someone's temper tantrum.

  ∆∆∆

  After checking the remaining two bedrooms and bathrooms, I determine the house is unoccupied, with the exception of Mrs. Fox.

  Trusting my assessment of safety, Hayvin disappears into kitchen darkness, then returns with two homemade candle lanterns, the fiery light of which chaotically dances across the walls.

  “Here you go.” Hayvin hands me a lantern. “Mama and I made em’. Had to be ready for power outages during hurricane season.”

  “Thank you,” I reply.

  “You’re welcome,” says Hayvin with a shine that outrivals the lantern's light.

  “Hey...” I begin.

  “Yeah?”

  “...I’m sorry...about your dogs,” I say, finally acknowledging the sadness of her story with a verbal tissue.

  I’m caught off guard by how much the condolence means to Hayvin; her face says thank you as she inches closer to me. Her gorgeous sunflower eyes entrap me in a perfumery stare, pulling me in with each blink.

  To the voice of an eccentric power, something nameless, I forfeit the fight of restraint I’ve waged since the day I first met her, and as the white flag flies, our faces become magnetized—the closer they get to touching the harder it is to pull away.

  She’s about to kiss me. I’m about to let her.

  Ruko! Don't!

  The short space between the heights of our heads is quickly vanquished. I shut my eyes and trust instincts to do the rest. Contact. Hayvin’s lips are so incredibly soft. I can taste the dried orange slices she recently ate in the car. The sweet citrus mixes with her own natural flavor. Although my eyes are closed, never have I seen so openly the possibility of what a happy life could be like. A tangible fantasy that just became all the more real.

  We break apart. The kiss was a short but sweet confirmation that our relationship is something more than just for friendly kicks and giggles or survival convenience. Not really sure what it is—still figuring that part out—but whatever the definition, I’m hopeful. A kiss on the more passionate side would also be awesome, in the future. And sex? Yeah, of course that’s crossed my mind; I’m just in no hurry to rush the romance. Survival and adjusting to a new living environment are the occupants of my priority list right now—not starting a family or a sexual wildfire. And until I’m ready to commit to her with an “I do...her I won’t do.” Dad, he’d be proud of that rhyming phrase. And my self-discipline.

  “So, where am I staying?” I ask.

  “Umm…well...” Hayvin laughs. “...my brother's room is occupied by your new fuzzy friend...”

  “...breakfast, you mean,” I correct.

  “Ruko!” She punches my arm, then points to the door on the right. “You can have Mama’s old room, if you want.”

  “Mama’s old room will be perfect. Good night,” I say, then migrate to my new quarters.

  “Sleep tight...don’t let the bed foxes bite,” Hayvin playfully warns. Her lips dance into a final smile as she enters her room and gently shuts the door.

  Dang, that was amazing. Kissing Hayvin is now my eyes’ new favorite reason to close. Sleeping has officially been bumped down to second place; of course, that’s only ever enjoyable when I can rest peacefully without nightmares of my parents. But if any night stands a chance at good dreams, it’s tonight. We’ll see. Maybe a pleasant memory will replay. How about one of them kissing? Yeah, it was nasty to me, then, but now that I’ve matured a bit, I realize I’m grateful to have had parents who were actually—genuinely—in love with each other. Their affectionate kindness in the home was the glue that kept out family together and one of the things that helped me feel secure as a child—not alone.

  Fox......why are you alone? Where’s your parents?

  CHAPTER 13: SNOW QUEEN

  Can't stop thinking about it. Is the Stranger a real person? Does he have real answers? Living in the very place of Craskol's claims, Florida, makes it impossible not to be in the slightest degree curious. I've been here for two months now. Maybe it's time to talk to Hayvin about it.

  The door to my new gym cries open as the bottom scrapes against thick, brown, shag carpet. I march toward the bench press...I'm there in three steps. Chica Gym, as I call it—what once was the bedroom of Hayvin's brother, Klay—is smaller than what I'm used to but better than nothing and works just fine for my therapy sessions. No loud yelling allowed, though, like back at Meilo's Gym. Don't want to freak Hayvin out. Besides, I've been feeling less and less need to yell these days, because there's less and less anger inside me. Don't know where it's all going but I'm glad it is.

  “Hey Chica!” I energetically greet the girl for whom I dedicated the gym. She jumps into my open arms and starts purring the same way she always does in the morning, expressing the joy I’m sure any fox would feel towards the person who rescued and adopted it.

  No, she didn’t become breakfast. When I entered the room the next day, my heart instantly softened to a doughy mass of compassion as she crept up to me with eyes full of need. I saw myself in her. We have a lot in common. We're both scared orphans.

  “Dormiste bien?” I ask how she slept as she bails from my arms and starts playing. So full of energy. Smart. Beautiful...her light-gray coat has patches of gold and white fur, specifically on her face, neck, and chest. “I’m gunna workout, Chica, hope that’s cool with you.”

  Hayvin. I think about her as I grab a forty-five pound plate for the bench bar. Yesterday, we did our typ
ical jog around the farm and through the forest. Incredible is the best word to describe the rich beauty of the six hundred acres of wild land she inherited from her family. Trees as tall as buildings. Pines, oaks, palms, magnolias, sycamores, and many other forms of plant life inhabit the area, including dangling vines and mint-green moss that hang off almost every tree. Sub-tropical woods are jungles compared to out West. The sea of green is home to deer, turkey, bear, bobcat, boar, coyotes, several species of snake, huge banana spiders—Mom would hate it here—and much more. Not another human for miles. True wilderness.

  The run made for a great cardio workout but also a spiritual pump-up I didn't expect. We took our regular route along the creek that runs through the forest, a great place to catch crawdads—bite-size lobsters—and to chill in a hammock between palm trees while listening to the sound of trickling water as it flows. But then, Hayvin detoured us from the creek trail to a spot I’ve never been before. I noticed a cluster of trees with words of white paint written on the trunks: “Mama.” “Food.” “Hibiscus flowers.” “Luka.” “Sunshine.” “Jenness.” “Dead mosquitoes.” “Trees.” “Rain.” “Sleep.” “Health.” “Prayer.” “Trials.” The list went on and on. One word for every tree. No rhyme. No reason.

  Hayvin must have anticipated my confusion at this strange grove of words. “See all these trees?” she began. “This is my list...a list of things I'm grateful for. When I'm tempted to complain or feel sorry for myself, I come out here and add to the list by writing a blessing on a tree. It's my therapy. And there's always somethin' to jot down. Just like a new tree always grows out of the ground, I can recognize a new blessing growing in my life to cheer me up. No day is perfect. But with the right attitude, it can at least be good.”

  Not sure why Hayvin decided to share her personal forest journal with me—maybe I’d been complaining more than usual—but the message of focusing on my blessings instead of my problems spoke right to my core.

  “RUKO.” My heart about burst when I saw my name written on a tree of its own with a noticeably fresh coat of white paint. A young sycamore. Hayvin didn’t directly draw my attention to it, but I know she wanted me to see it, which is why she intentionally led our jog past the tree. I didn't say anything. Couldn't. I don't deserve to be counted as a blessing in anyone's life.

  I rack the second forty-five pound plate on the other side of the bar, slide down onto the bench, and pump out some chest reps. But now...I stop mid set. The bar idles on top of my chest as I turn my head to look at the forty-five pound plates with disbelieving eyes at a sudden realization—I heard absolutely no screech sound when I racked the plate! No touching of the metal, whatsoever. Abbud. I can nearly see him grinning at me. Seems he was right, after all. My soul is learning to relax because I'm choosing to let it. And Hayvin—is definitely helping.

  Knock. Knock.

  “Come in,” I welcome. There's only one person it could be.

  The door reopens against the thick carpet. Hayvin's head pops in. She pauses and looks at me as I lie with the bench bar frozen on my chest. “Um...we really gotta stop meeting like this.” She smiles. “I got a surprise.”

  “Yeah?” I fight out while muscling up the heavy bar off my chest and back to the rack.

  “Yeah. Meet me at the Smoke House, when you're ready. No hurry. Finish your workout, first. Those muscles are lookin' kinda sad,” Hayvin jokes.

  “Haha, funny,” I blurt. “I'll be there soon.”

  ∆∆∆

  Soon comes sooner than I thought as growing curiosity about Hayvin’s surprise—plus my need to talk to her about something important—cuts my workout short. I exit Chica Gym, walk through the kitchen, and go out the back double doors. I coil around the side of the house towards the smallest of three sheds on the property, the animal processing and cooking shed called, the Smoke House. Another is the Pump House, where the well is located. It’s a manual, non-electric pump but does the trick and provides an endless supply of fresh, spring drinking water straight from the aquifer. The ER or Emergency Room is the third structure, a large storage shed comparable to a four car garage that’s loaded with farm equipment, hunting gear, and emergency supplies.

  On the short journey to the Smoke House, I observe the beauty of the day. Blue sky. Fresh breeze blowing, which offers some relief from the heat. Ancient pecan trees are scattered throughout the unmowed yard along with green bushes that bloom pink hibiscus flowers.

  I open the mud-brown, humidity-rotted door and step into the Smoke House. The shadowy shed is poorly lit from a small lantern that sits on a tool bench. A myriad of farm items hang from the rafters, including chains, water hoses, old metal tools, saws and other sharp looking things.

  The old twenty-two rifle leans against a big water barrel, on top of which is an opened box of ammunition. Hayvin's been hunting. It's the only firearm left on the farm that the Kes’s managed to withhold from the government. Makes living off the land a breeze.

  And then there’s the crossbow, pond and creek fishing, trapping, many fruit trees, a forty acre field of wild blackberries...it’s a survivor’s paradise here.

  Hayvin stands on a rickety chair at the shed’s nucleus with her back facing me as she saws vigorously at a turkey that's strung upside down by the legs from the ceiling. That's the surprise: a wild gobbler. She's super focused but attentive enough to notice my presence.

  “So what do you think?” Hayvin asks. Feathers flutter to the ground as she fillets the well-endowed breast and places large chunks inside a plastic bucket.

  “A turkey? That's awesome,” I say.

  “Shot him early this mornin’ while you were snoozin'. Wild smoked turkey...one of my favorite things about Florida country life.”

  “Hayvin?” I start, randomly ready to bring up a serious topic I can no longer ignore.

  “Yes?” she answers.

  “Did Craskol ever talk to you about a man called, the Stranger?” I ask.

  “Ummmm,” Hayvin thinks. “Not that I can remember. Why?”

  “Really?” I requestion. “You never heard Craskol ramble about Lasher theories?”

  “Well yes, but never took him seriously. So if he mentioned the Stranger, I wasn’t paying attention. Who is he?”

  “Supposedly someone who has answers. Someone who lives around here.”

  Hayvin takes her bloody, goopy hand off the turkey’s chest and steps down from the chair. “You think Craskol was on to something? I mean, I don’t know I’d trust too much of what he says. He’s not the most reliable source of information,” Hayvin reminds.

  “He knew things,” I enlighten. “Said something few people would know about Lashers…the way their hearts beat. His friend, the Stranger, supposedly told him, among other things that might be important.”

  “What do you mean, their hearts?” Hayvin asks.

  “They beat fast. And loud. You can actually hear the heartbeat, if you’re close enough. I’ve experienced it, once, so I know it’s true, but have never heard anyone else talk about it...until Craskol opened his mouth. So I can’t help but wonder if the other things he said are also true. Like why the Lashers exist…why this is happening...he even claimed they could be stopped,” I explain.

  “K, so where does this Stranger guy live? Let’s go talk to him,” Hayvin encourages. I’m gladdened by her support but not the question.

  “Somewhere in Florida, but Craskol didn't exactly give an address. All he said was that the Stranger...” I try to remember the nonsense instruction. “…could be found where the Snow Queen lives. Absolutely crazy.”

  “Ruko, I know exactly where that is.”

  I’m stunned. “Really?”

  “Yes. It’s actually called the Snow Queen Oasis. A place only locals would know about. And guess what? I’m a local,” Hayvin tells. “Don’t know why you waited two months to bring this up, but if this man has information that can help us or at least give some kind of closure, then I'd like to hear what he has to say. Why not? Want to h
ead out tomorrow?”

  “Today.” I don’t want to procrastinate any longer.

  ∆∆∆

  Now on the road, my belly—full and content—digests its turkey lunch while my hungry mind salivates at the thought of truth and answers being just a drive away. And as no surprise, my apathetic side challenges the ambitious.

  Not a good idea, Ruko. Stay home. Stay safe. Ignorance is safe. If this guy is real and somehow has real answers, you’ll only be disappointed. Hurt more. Hate more. You’ll be just as helpless as you are now, unable to fix anything. Why do you even need answers? On Hayvin’s farm, you’re safely disconnected from the world and from Lashers. You don’t need to solve the mystery anymore. You can let it go! Just keep hiding where you are, wait it out, and stay alive. Don’t get involved in all that mess.

  I’ve experienced six Red-outs hiding away on Hayvin’s farm. In luxury. Everything turns red like normal, but no screaming victims fill the night air. No sounds of Lashers groaning. Could one venture this far away from typical Lasher territory? I refuse to take the chance that they couldn't, so we still hide during Red-outs, high up a pine tree in an old, camouflaged deer stand that’s used for hunting. But it almost seems pointless. Hayvin’s place has truly offered a changed life.

  And yet, now that I’m basking in my own mini utopia—what I’ve always desired—the unfulfilled hunger for answers regarding the widespread dystopia that continues to plague the rest of the world lingers inside my gurgling stomach. And it’s more than just mere curiosity. No, the thing that compels me is what I believe to be a call of duty. But to what end? I can’t save the world.

  ∆∆∆

  “Alright, we're here. Snow Queen Oasis,” Hayvin confirms, after thirty-five minutes of driving through foreign woodlands.

  “Why do they call it that?” I ask for the first time.

  “Step outside and see.”

  We both exit the Absorber. Hayvin leads the way around a patch of ordinary oak trees, the only thing blocking the great secret to the Snow Queen mystery.