Red Lashers

by Kyle Dane

  “Wow,” the reaction comes out of me. Amidst a forest of endless green, in this small pocket I’m now blinded by the color white. Towering several dozen feet into the sky are giant, exotic-looking trees covered with hundreds of brilliant, pure white flowers each the size of a large dinner plate.

  “The Snow Queen is…a tree,” I deduce.

  “Yup, sure is,” Hayvin answers. “At least that’s what we’ve come to call em’. Snow Queen trees.”

  “How’d they get here?” I ask.

  “No one knows. They almost resemble magnolias but are definitely something different,” Hayvin answers, then moves on to the reason for being here. “So, who do you think this Stranger guy is?”

  “Not sure. Craskol’s description made it sound like he’s a big wig. Possibly government. Someone who has far more information about Lashers than any normal person.”

  Hayvin and I begin a casual but cautious sweep of the nearby area. We separate, somewhat, in our slow movement. Eyes open and alert.

  I extend my presumptions, “He may even have a hand in it.”

  “Do you think he’s dangerous?” Hayvin asks the wise question.

  “Well...Craskol isn't dead. That's a good sign.”

  We scan deeper into the bush for a couple more minutes.

  “So...if you were the Stranger...where would you be?” I riddle.

  “What about there?” Hayvin straightaway answers in a voice that’s void of her usual spunk: near-fearful. Her pointed hand directs me to a distant structure a few hundred yards outside the patch of Snow Queen trees, almost completely hidden by thick forest canopy. It’s a wood cabin. An archeological discovery that adds a hefty brick of evidence that the Stranger is in fact a real person and not a figment of Craskol’s imagination.

  CHAPTER 14: ZADIUM PROJECT

  Hayvin and I exchange glances and—without saying anything—agree to investigate the lonely structure.

  Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The sound of our shoes crushing last winter’s dried leaves and limbs announces our approach. It's the only noise other than bird chirps echoing atop the forest canopy. If the Stranger’s home, he’ll surely know we’re coming; that the population of his isolated neighborhood just went from one to three.

  Paranormally, the cabin seems to be floating above the ground as if under a dark spell. Wood stilts. I’m clueless to the reason why it’d have stilts, especially ones so tall, but now’s not the time to ask Hayvin for enlightenment. We’re here, head-level to the raised floor. If we walk any farther, we’d literally be underneath the house—not a place I want to be because of an infestation of spiders.

  Hayvin follows me up the stairs. Creaky steps make stealth impossible. I expect a paranoid woodsman to burst out of the house any second now, guns rampant. But nothing. Is he asleep? Even here?

  We're at the front door. I yell at it, boldly, to establish dominance, “Anyone there?!” I about fall over when my question is actually answered by a man’s voice beyond the door. Didn’t understand what he said, though, because of the faintness of the voice.

  “What’s that?” I bravely follow up.

  Hayvin looks at me nervously.

  “Come in,” it repeats in a calm tone.

  “Don’t you want to know who we are, first?” asks Hayvin.

  Instantly after her question, the sound of someone getting out of a chair is followed by hurried footsteps to the front door. I organize myself for a fight.

  The door swings open and out pops a short, scruffy man in his mid-fifties. He’s got a thick beard that’s burnt orange like a California fire, plainly more prosperous than his balding head. He looks at me—dead in the eyes—then, instead of throwing a jab like I expected, he throws a question. “What’s your name?”

  “Ruko,” I answer.

  The man promptly turns to Hayvin with a cloned interrogation. “What’s your name?”

  “Hayvin.”

  “Okay. Now I know who you are, so come in.” The man swings his backside to us and slinks into the shadowy light of his lair, leaving the front door wide open. Clearly he has zero interest in harming us, nor does he care to know if we’re here to harm him, for that matter, which is apparent in his sarcasm and displayed disregard to me. It’s not like I’m a small, unintimidating guy. I’m greatly taken back—offended even—at his bravery towards me. Whatever.

  I enter the cabin, on guard, with Hayvin at my back. A stench like old popcorn mixed with dirty socks, invades my unhappy sniffer. The culprit’s location is hopelessly lost amid endless clutter that’s currently distressing my OCD levels. The Stranger—assuming this man is the Stranger—sits down in a dirty, grayish-brown chair that may have originally been a lighter shade. The place is a pigsty. On second thought, even a pig would feel uneasy here.

  “We were told you could help us,” I say, wasting no time uncovering the reason for our random visit.

  “Oh? By whom?” asks the Stranger.

  “Craskol,” answers Hayvin.

  “Haha, Craskol that rascal…ahhhhh yes, how I miss that man. He helped me build this grand palace you now behold.” The Stranger authenticates his connection to Craskol. His sarcasm gets under my nerves but I choose to overlook it. No Southern accent like Hayvin or Craskol. Obviously this dude’s not from around here. Talks like me.

  “You never told us your name,” Hayvin points out.

  “My name?” A solemn expression falls upon the man’s face. “What name did Craskol give me?” he asks, eyes cocked to the side.

  “The Stranger,” I answer.

  “Correct. The Stranger is what you can call me.” He breaks from the randomly serious mood and re-energizes. “So, what did my sweet, dear friend Craskol tell you?”

  “That you have answers,” I reply.

  “Answers? That I do. Although I confess...I didn’t tell Craskol everything. You see, I keep my gold nuggets to myself. Only share certain things with certain people at certain times. It all depends on circumstance. Most certainly,” riddles the Stranger.

  “Will you talk to us?” Hayvin requests. I can tell her patience is slipping, almost to my level.

  “Depends,” he answers.

  “On what?” I ask.

  “How hungry you are.”

  We stare at one another for an uncomfortable second. Then, the Stranger halts the awkward moment by making it even more awkward. “We need a sandwich,” he declares. Then he slaps his knees and stands up. His sudden movement jolts me back into fight mode.

  “It’s sandwich day…so…gotta pay our respects.” The Stranger speaks in reverence as if sandwich-making was a sacred, national holiday we should all be observing together.

  He grabs a few things from a cubby space and returns to his seat. On the small table between us, he places a tub of peanut butter, homemade bread, and a sealed jar of nasty-looking things floating in brown liquid. I think they’re pickles.

  The man spoons out a glob of peanut butter and clumsily smears it across both slices of bread. Then he does the unthinkable: dives his hand into the pickle jar, pulls out several pickle slices and places them on the bread. He turns his back to us and appears to be doing something else to the sandwich that he deliberately conceals from our view.

  Hayvin and I look at each other, both considering vacating the premises without further questions.

  “Peanut-butter-pickle-sandwiches...I can’t think of anything better,” says the Stranger. His sandwich-gripped hand extends my way. “Take a bite,” he insists.

  Seriously? Take a bite?! This dude's about to get punched in the face.

  The Stranger challenges the negative response found in my contentious stare. “Do it, boy,” he orders a second time. “Same goes for you, dear.” He targets Hayvin, whose reaction is no different than mine. He returns to me for a final offer. “No?” he grumbles. “That’s too bad, because…”

  To my dread, Hayvin steps forward.

  “Hayvin, what’re you…”

  Too late. She’s already grabbed the
food offering and taken a swift bite.

  “Why'd you do that?” I ask.

  Hayvin gives the sandwich to me with an authoritative eye. “Just bite it.”

  “Ohhh snap.” The Stranger raises his eyebrows and a low whistle leaves his lips. “The pants have spoken.”

  With trust in Hayvin's intuition, my teeth sink into the nasty, possibly dangerous sandwich, followed by a few quick chews that end in a brave swallow.

  “See...that wasn’t so bad,” opinionates the Stranger.

  “Why’d you have us do that?” I ask as I return the insane creation back to its psychotic creator.

  My question is answered with a grin. “Now I know I can trust you. Because you’ve chosen to trust me. Shoot, I could’ve put anything in that sandwich. Poison. Spit. A blood-sucking tick from my back. Anything.”

  I think I’m going to throw up.

  The man’s own face now collides with the appalling meal, confirming it was in fact safe to eat. But his bite is far more vigorous than ours. Pickle juice runs down the sides of his mouth and splashes onto the wood floor.

  “I think...” He chews with an open mouth. “...that a pickle juice, germ-sharing pact is much better than blood, don’t you? A less painful trust exercise. Then again, germs—just touching the wrong thing can cause the worst of diseases.” The Stranger keeps munching. “So...now that we can talk in trust...what would you birds like to know, exactly?”

  Annoyed at the stupid question that should have an obvious answer, I respond, “I want to know what it is. An explanation for...”

  “It…is science. Surpriiiiiiise.” He gives us a second to process the vague declaration, then continues. “Science has few limitations. Take the genetically modified magnolia trees outside, for instance. The Snow Queen Oasis, as you locals so named. Beautiful trees aren't they? Was a project I worked on twenty years ago. Engineered them to grow four times as many white flowers, all of which are two times larger than they should be, and most impressively, the tree is fifteen times stronger than its normal counterparts with an accelerated regeneration rate. Just try to pluck a leaf or break a limb. Good luck. If you damage the tree with an axe, go back the very next hour...you'll see absolutely no cut mark. Wondrous, huh? It was foundational work for the Zadium Project. That’s what the red mist is called, Zadium. A scientific breakthrough in making people healthier. Stronger. Truly immune to sickness, injury, and any form of physical harm. The fantastical notion of limitless invincibility has been mankind’s pursuit since the beginning of existence; innocent, altruistic innovation at its finest.” He looks at me with an amused face. “That’s how it started, anyway. But someone had his own agenda.” The Stranger takes another bite of the atrocious sandwich.

  “Who?” chimes Hayvin.

  After swallowing, the Stranger asks, “What do you know about your dear President V’lore?”

  “That he went missing before the Red-outs started,” Hayvin answers.

  “Hmm…missing.”

  “V’lore have something to do with this?” I ask.

  “Some-thing? Try every-thing. I was part of a secret science division created by V’lore to invent the Zadium, which was to be his gift to the world.” The Stranger’s tone becomes aggressive. “But he wasn’t interested in helping the world, rather to lift himself above it. In his mind, this gift would entitle him to a permanent place in office, to be forever praised like deity...a glory lust! Recognition! That’s all he cared about, no matter the cost to get it. His obsession worsened, recklessly spending more time and resources on the project, neglecting his most basic responsibilities. That neglect is the reason he became so hated by so many people.” The Stranger pauses to catch his breath while bringing an inhaler to his frazzled face. “I apologize...a wonderful case of asthma hits from time to time.”

  “If that’s true…I’m confused,” says Hayvin. “Even if V’lore’s motive was selfish, what he was tryin’ to accomplish sounds like a really good thing that could help people. Why couldn’t he just tell the public and clear his name?”

  “First of all Mrs. Hayvin, intention is everything. Sooner or later, one's actions manifest congruent with intentions, for good or bad...a formula that always balances out in the end. Secondly, the Zadium Project wasn’t ready. There were terrible effects. More time was required before public buy-in could be won, but time wasn’t on V’lore’s side, now was it? With his second term in office coming to a close and facing extreme opposition, V’lore was cornered. And to say the least, is not the type of person you corner. Every president must deal with the stress of public opinion polls and ratings, it’s expected, part of the job. But ever wonder what might happen if a very prideful, short-tempered person—who desires more than anything else to receive public praise as the world’s greatest president—is instead given the highest disapproval rating in presidential history? Imagine what that type of president might do if he had power at his fingertips to inflict vengeance. Ruko, Hayvin...that is precisely our scenario. Instead of humbly accepting the truth about his poor leadership and foolish choices, V’lore became infuriated on a psychotic level as though America betrayed him. So he decided to use the Zadium as a weapon of destruction instead of a tool for healing. Revenge against the ungrateful America that wanted him out of office. And so we see…intentions equal eventual actions. It’s a formula.”

  “And you went along with this?” asks Hayvin.

  “Myself and others attempted a revolt but failed. Obviously. I escaped. The others either wound up dead or chose to drink up the deception V’lore tried to feed us all…that this monstrous punishment was in the country’s best interest, a necessary purge to eradicate those who stood in the way of the Zadium’s glorious progress and our nation's evolution.”

  I almost don’t know what to ask next...my mind is swimming in questions. “How’d he do it? How’d he get people to change into Lashers? Only some turned that night.”

  The Stranger looks at the ground for a couple seconds, hesitating to answer. “I’ve already shared valuable, classified information with you that for seven years hasn’t been fully accepted by anyone worthwhile that I've tried to persuade. People are funny. They want to know things, but if what they hear is not what they expected or wanted, if they discover that personal involvement to do something difficult or dangerous is required, then they choose to disbelieve and turn the other way. So the question, Ruko and Hayvin, is do you?”

  “You’re asking if we believe you?” Hayvin responds.

  “Umm, yes. That's question number one: do you believe that our own government is the culprit to this endless hellathon? And, I might add, do you believe they can be stopped?”

  I’m unable to say anything.

  “Yes,” Hayvin answers first.

  The Stranger glances at me. This is another of his tests that I need to pass in order to get more info, so I nod my head in the affirmative.

  The Stranger then spurs with a secondary question as he advances to a new level of earnestness he hasn’t yet shown. “If you had a way to stop President V’lore...to stop the Lashers, would you? Would you actually do it?”

  I find myself besieged to say the heroic word that should come out easily. I finally voice the brave response, “Yes.”

  “Would you?” The Stranger’s stare bypasses my eyes and peers into my very soul. “Then humor another question…do you currently suffer from or have a history of any respiratory illnesses, heart disease, lung cancer, severe alcohol or drug addiction, talking to yourself past midnight...things like that?”

  What?! Just when I think he’s going to stay serious, he gets childish again.

  “No.” I yield to the Stranger's stupid game of doctor-to-patient assessment. It’s an answer to get him to shut up, but also happens to be an honest one, minus the part about talking to myself past midnight.

  The Stranger turns to Hayvin. “And how about you, girl? Same questions apply.”

  Her answer is quicker than mine was. “Of course I’d do anything
. Whatever it takes. As for the other question...I’m good. The only thing, if you really must know, is I have an enlarged aorta, since birth, and used to take heart medication for it. But I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

  “Hmm.” The Stranger looks at me again. “One last question for you. Tell me...why do you want to stop the Lashers? What’s your intention?”

  “They’re destroying our country and need to be stopped.”

  “True. But that’s too superficial. Why do you really want to stop them?” The Stranger re-asks.

  After a pause, I revise my statement to the deeper truth of the fuel that drives me.

  “They killed my parents. And although I can’t get them back, I’d like to help other kids keep theirs.”

  “Now...that’s an answer,” the Stranger solemnly states. The half-eaten pickle sandwich is tossed onto the table, and up rises the Stranger from his chair. Before I have time to think, he’s touched the flesh of my forearm, leaving behind a small, white, circular sticker.

  “What's this?!” I flare up.

  “Leave it alone,” the Stranger orders when I reach to pull it off. Suddenly, it changes colors to dark red. “Just wait.” He stares intently at my arm as if expecting or hoping for something else to happen, like he’s conducting a laboratory experiment and I'm the clueless mouse. My eyes join his in babysitting the sticker for a few more seconds, until, yet again, it changes color but this time from dark crimson to bright scarlet.

  I finally grab the demonic sticker and tear it off me. “What is this? What just happened?!” I demand.

  A shimmer of pleasure passes over the Stranger’s face. “A lie detector test. And you passed. It tells me that your body’s respiratory fitness is…intact. I needed to know for certain. Don’t want you drowning on me.”

  “Drowning on me?” What’s he talking about now?!

  The Stranger turns his back to us and moves to the far wall of the room, mouth still chatting, “The Zadium—by itself—does nothing. In order for someone to transform into a Lasher, they need to be genetically prepped with something we called, the Primer...the first step of the process.”