Red Lashers

by Kyle Dane

  “You’re…hot,” Hayvin blurbs.

  Now’s not the time for humor, but I half-smile anyway at what sounded like a flirtatious compliment. Or maybe it was just encouragement meant to make me feel better about my new, freakish appearance. Her serious face, however, informs me that I misunderstood.

  “No, really…you’re burning up...like-like a bad fever. You don’t feel that?” Hayvin further explains.

  “I feel great.”

  Hayvin checks the large slash in my shirt that stretches from my left shoulder down to the bottom of the pectoral muscle, which leaves the naked body of that entire area exposed for analysis. My eyes inquisitively follow Hayvin’s hand until they rest upon what was very recently a life-threatening wound yet now is completely healed. I assume every inch of my body looks the same in terms of color, muscle definition, the faint glow pulsing with each heartbeat. What about my face?

  Hayvin tiptoes for a zoomed-in view. “Your eyes...they’re red…so bright…so…alive.”

  “Alive?” I question.

  “Yeah, the red mist is swirling inside your pupils,” Hayvin tells.

  Pupils...good…good to hear I have them.

  “How-how’d this happen? What are you, Ruko?” Hayvin asks, trying hard to grasp my transformation and trying even harder to accept it. As am I.

  Noisy, nearby movement reawakens us to the reality of a Lasher-populated swamp. We have to back-burn understanding my transformation and finish the time-sensitive job at hand.

  “We need to move,” I whisper.

  Hayvin pillages the backpack from Daño’s corpse and straps it around her own shoulder and neck. “The gun isn’t here,” she reports. Must’ve fallen into the water. Just as well. The Tyros had plenty of firepower and look what happened to them. I’m sure they killed a few Lashers in the process but, ultimately, were overcome.

  “Get on my back,” I tell Hayvin as I focus down into the Blue Hole.

  She’s now in the piggyback position with her legs squeezed around my waist and arms twist-tied over my chest. We both steal a quick breath of oxygen from the red air and jump.

  CHAPTER 20: UNLEASHED

  SPLASH! The dive is ungraceful but gets the job done. Fish dart around me and Hayvin as I power-paddle us through the water with speed an Olympic swimmer would envy.

  The deeper we delve, the greater the pressure and lower the temperature; I can feel the changes yet no discomfort. Stranger still is that my lungs signal zero urge to breathe. Hayvin holds her grip and breath just fine but will need oxygen before too long. Every second counts. About five are gone already.

  We enter the cave. The river’s open mouth drinks us in like floating food chunks but quickly tries to hock us back out with a strong current that pushes fervently against our bodies. I swim harder and overcome the water’s might.

  I can tell it’s getting darker, but it’s of meager consequence thanks to my new night vision ability. Plus, Hayvin still has her nightglasses. She activated the flashlight setting for better visibility under water, pointing the way wherever she turns her head.

  The throat of the Blue Hole finally levels out—no longer descending, just swimming forward at a consistent depth of probably thirty feet below the surface. With each butterfly stroke, my hands come close to scraping against the rocky white, jagged walls. They look sharp. I avoid touching them, because I’m afraid I’ll cut myself.

  More seconds run out. Ten more. Still zero indication that mankind has ever been here. The doubt only thickens as new tunnels pop up at both sides of us. It’s a maze. Do I keep swimming forward or take a side path? The Stranger mentioned nothing of this. I decide to stay on the main water freeway but cringe each time I swim past another cave that could very well be our exit.

  ∆∆∆

  Twenty-five seconds—or more—are gone, yet I remain unbothered by lungs that should be screaming at me. Hayvin, on the other hand, squeezes tighter with a distress that can only mean one thing...almost out of air.

  My head steams with an anger hot enough to boil the surrounding water because of the Stanger’s lack of detail and also my own foolish, blind trust in him. I’m wasting life-saving time swimming slower than I could, because I’m afraid I’ll miss whatever it is I’m looking for. Thirty seconds gone. Like the claws of a distressed cat, Hayvin’s nails dig into my skin.

  At the peak of hopelessness, I spot something off the far edge of my eye. Metal. It's positioned on the cavern wall to my right. Yes! It’s a door of white steel that almost flawlessly camouflages into the cavern’s natural rock color. Miracle I even noticed. But...I don’t see a handle.

  I press my hands against the door and push in, up, to the sides...it remains sealed. A digital padlock—that I finally notice—laughs at me, saying we’ll never get in. The Stranger! How’d he forget to mention this locked steel door?! Can’t use the bomb, because its purpose is to destroy the base itself, which needs to happen farther inside. Besides, an explosion here would destroy the tunnel, block our way, and for sure kill Hayvin. Possibly me too?

  The door keeps laughing. If only it were made of cardboard...foam...something I could break through. Maybe I can; my new body is strong but how strong? Only one way to find out. My right hand anchors onto the rock wall for leverage and my left winds up for the punch.

  POW! No way. A fist-shaped dent is imprinted in the center of the door. I slam my knuckles again and again into the same spot until a hole is created that reveals another tunnel. This one’s man-made of the same white steel and has a smaller circumference than the Blue Hole, much shorter length. I can see something at the end. Light.

  Hayvin begins shaking me. No more air. Forty-five seconds.

  Quickly, I plant both feet into the rock wall, grip the fist hole, and pull with all the arm and back strength my new body possesses. The sheet of metal warps to my will, and I’m able to peel it back until there’s enough space for a person to squeeze through.

  Hayvin squirms recklessly.

  I dart us forward through the small opening, and as we pass to the other side, Hayvin’s head scrapes against the edge of the doorframe, knocking her nightglasses clean off. They sink to the gallows. No time to go back.

  The narrow tunnel opens up into a large pool. Our heads bob to the surface—Hayvin’s first. “Huhhhhhhh!” I catch the tail end of her sucking in a massive gulp of air.

  I check for danger. A singular light on a cement deck high above the water shows three uniformed guards babysitting a door. Their machine guns make an obvious declaration that something important is on the other side.

  With a another cursory glance over the room, I verify that I haven’t missed other hazards we’d need to watch out for: turrets, laser beams, anything from my boy-life videogames that’d be hosted in such a place. So far, though, my paranoid imaginations remain formless. Just a dull, empty room with scuba tanks, wet suits, masks, fins, and other unexciting items that occupy space at the farthermost wall to my left. Not much else to look at.

  “Wait here,” I softly lip to Hayvin. She’s breathing much better now. Slower. Calmer. She’ll be fine. I sink back underwater and very stealthily swim to the cement deck. Six feet or more separates the deck from the water’s surface. The only way up is a ladder. Too obvious.

  Remaining submarined, I continue feeling my way along the part of the cement wall that’s underwater, moving past the ladder, hoping our presence remains unnoticed.

  I look up. The silhouette of one of the guards glimmers back and forth with the water’s movement. Does he see me? I try to distinguish if he’s looking down at me or out into the distance, daydreaming. Through the mass of water between us, I hear him talking about something with the other two guards; enhanced sense of sound is another of my new abilities.

  What’s he saying? My ears try to interpret the conversation and all the more urgently as I see his gun pointing downward in the direction where Hayvin treads.

  “Yeah…poor goldfish. Haha. Now? Should we shoot now?” The guard
asks.

  They’re talking about Hayvin!

  Instantly, I burst out of the water like a geyser and easily clear the massive gap that separates the water from the deck. On my way up, I grab hold of the guard's gun with one hand, his head with the other, and smash the two together before he has time to let off a shot. I chuck his body into the pool then pivot to the two remaining hostiles that are frozen in fear, gawking at me with stunned expressions. I almost forget why. They’ve never seen a Lasher quite like me before which should give them something to dream about as they lie on the ground incapacitated. Taking advantage of their shock was way too easy.

  “Behind you!” Hayvin’s voice warns from below.

  BANG! I feel something pass through my chest with the timeless speed of a bullet. It was.

  I look down at my chest, but there’s no hole in the flesh. No exit wound. My shirt—that’s all the more tattered from a large caliber weapon—is the only evidence I was hit. This is crazy. I’m truly indestructible, like a Lasher, yet still in control of my emotions and actions, like a human. I’m…a Super Lasher.

  Leisurely, I turn around to confront the fourth unseen guard who quivers in his military boots as my red eyes glare him down. He just tried to kill me and if he’d succeeded, would’ve done the same to Hayvin. Angry words marinate in my mouth, ready to jump out and condemn our would-be killer, but my fists beat my tongue to the punch. He’s now unconscious on the ground with the other three bodies. Diplomacy? Not today.

  “It’s safe,” I sound off to Hayvin.

  She swims to the ladder and climbs. My hand reaches down to meet hers for a helpful pull up. I notice her whole body shaking. Water must be cold.

  “Keep close to me,” I say, as I peer my head around the open doorframe and X-ray the next chamber to make sure it's clear. It’s bigger than the scuba room—slightly narrower but deeper. White is the overall color throughout the tech-filled space. Several closed doors are on both sides of the chamber while a solitary door is in the middle of the far end wall. The general appearance is similar to a biology lab accented by a hint of industrial warehouse. Has a smell like burning plastic.

  “K,” I signal to Hayvin.

  We hurry through the doorway with eyes urgently searching for the prime place to plant the bomb. There. Next to some bulky equipment of highly-advanced machinery and monitors. A large, clear cylinder taller than me and full of a red liquid substance stands by itself. A small exit tube runs out the top of the cylinder and up through the ceiling above. That’s it, the Zadium reactor and control center for all other release points throughout the country.

  “The bomb.” I request.

  WEEEOOWEEEOOWEEEOOWEEEOO! The sudden, ear-bursting sound of an alarm hurries Hayvin to remove the backpack from her shoulders.

  I look behind us. One of the guards I knocked out earlier has his hand pressed against the wall—against an alarm. He stares at me half-conscious then falls to the ground.

  Need to hurry, before anyone else comes. I could probably bypass the whole bomb idea and simply wreck this place with my bare hands—everything in here looks combustible, especially the Zadium reactor. But I need to think of Hayvin...although I’m invincible and could survive the blast, she couldn’t.

  TapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTap. I think I’m losing my mind when off in the distance—under the alarm’s breath—I hear a second noise, something faint but growing in volume. I pause to listen. Tapping? No, shoes running! A large group of people is on the move.

  “They're coming!” I explain to Hayvin. She’s on her knees unzipping the bag as fast as she can, then sticks her hand inside to pull out the bomb.

  SLAM! At the far end of the room, the solitary door rages open, and uniformed soldiers flood in. It’s a reserve army of about fifty, give or take.

  “Hide,” I tell Hayvin. She grabs the bag and dives behind a large, support column, as the soldiers mold into firing formation.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Bullets are discharged into me, but instead of falling over dead, I hold my ground. It's a weird sensation feeling them pass in and out of my body from head to foot without any pain. No blood. No holes. Nothing. My body heals faster than a wound can form. The experience is surreal, like the feeling when a dentist pokes and prods in your mouth after first numbing the meat with the needle.

  Towards the rain of fire I sprint as an unstoppable force that’s unwilling to slow down or run the other way. I close in, and as I do, the fear-faced soldiers at the frontline rise up from off their knees in preparation for close combat. I duck under the butt of a swinging machine gun and take out the swinger with a strong blow to the stomach. That’s it. Just one punch is all it takes for me to move onto the next soldier whose head I collide with the head of a third soldier, and so on—they’re all too slow to counter any of my attacks.

  The first line of the military legion is quickly finished off.

  I tend to the rest—swinging, blocking, kicking, head-butting, and throwing each fighter into either a state of unconsciousness or death. Doesn’t matter which, because soon they’ll all die from the explosion, anyway. Still, I hate this. I hate watching human bodies fall to the ground around me, one after another, knowing that it’s caused by my own hand...a hand that doesn’t desire violence...doesn’t enjoy inflicting cruelty upon anyone. But their actions are not permissible; they all work for V’lore, for the Lashers. Each is guilty of the innocent suffering of our people, so, in reality, they brought this fate upon themselves the instant they chose the side of evil. Yup, they started the war. I’m simply responding to it.

  I stand—listening and waiting—in the middle of a mass of more than four dozen lifeless soldiers. The alarm’s continuous shrieks bellow throughout the underground building, but there are no more hostile responders, no additional shoes tapping in the distance that my inhuman ears can trace.

  Convinced the fight’s over, I finally pull out the large battle knife that’s been deeply lodged into my chest. PINGGGGGGgggggg. The bulky twelve-inch blade falls fast onto an empty spot of the polished floor between bodies and hits with a loud echo. I’m done disarming the soldiers. Now, need to arm the bomb.

  ∆∆∆

  I turn around but don’t see what I expected. Facing me is Hayvin held at gunpoint by a tall, lanky man who stands behind her, pistol pressed against her right temple. I immediately recognize the face from TV—V’lore.

  Realizing how serious the situation is, I do nothing. Say nothing. Don’t want to panic his trigger finger.

  During a few seconds of silent staring, I notice an uncharacteristic pajama-like outfit and matted down hair—now grayer than the Stranger’s outdated photograph—that indicate sleeping as being his most recent activity. But he’s awake now, undoubtedly has been since the second the Tyros conquered the cabin outposts.

  I speak first, trying for a quick conflict resolution: the easy way. “Let her go.”

  V’lore’s eyes talk for him, saying little more than that he’s panicked, confused, and afraid. His mouth finally unmutes, but he ignores my command. “Who...what are you?”

  “Let her go,” I repeat, staying on task.

  “You're...a kid,” V’lore deduces. His fearful tone churns into anger as he realizes he's being thwarted by someone much younger than himself; it’s an obvious stab to his pride.

  “Not exactly a kid. Now...let her go. You've lost,” I demand a third time, with a pinch of insult to his wound of subjugation.

  “Lost?!” V’lore’s anger climbs. “My intent was never to win! Everything I’ve done has been for the people...for their victory. I was going to stop it all—the Red-outs—after the country learned its due lesson that only painful punishment can teach, however barbaric it may seem to the feeble-minded. I was going to stop...once they were sorry for turning against me.”

  “That’s what this is about? An apology?” I question.

  “I was betrayed. I tried to help save our country, make life better for everyone. The poor,
the sick, the afflicted. And I was so close.”

  Smoke and mirrors.

  “You’re just running your mouth with recycled rhetoric like you always did. You meant to stay in power forever. Force us to live by your will and slowly steal away our freedom, one move at a time. I know what kind of President you were. You flattered your way into office, but the lies didn’t last. There’s a reason people wanted you impeached.”

  “You know nothing, kid! I’ve been a leader longer than you’ve been alive. Forceful guidance is needed when one doesn’t know what’s best, like a parent prohibiting a young child from playing on an ant mound. But I was never going to kill everyone. Why do you think I had Safe Houses built? Another year and I would’ve again established peace. They just needed time to reflect upon their arrogance, which I’ve given them, the same amount I received: eight years. Two presidential terms was insufficient to accomplish the miraculous promises of change I offered the world, but they got impatient, so that’s what they get...eight years to figure things out.”

  V’lore’s tone dramatically funnels down to reverence. “They still need me. I’m not the bad guy, kid. If you stop me now, you’re really stopping everyone...the wondrous future that could be enjoyed by our people.”

  V’lore’s attempt to sway me from my mission, using self-worship babble and hypocritical contradictions, only fuels my fire more.

  “Wondrous future? I see how you treat your own. The people who remained loyal to you are the ones you turned into Lashers.”

  “Only temporarily...to help awaken the opposition from their blind rebellion. But I was never going to leave them that way. Once the dust settled and we united once again as a country, then together we could’ve finished perfecting the Zadium project—what it seems you have discovered for yourself. So there’s still time. Son, you and I can work together. If you tell me how you achieved your transformation, we can make the world truly wonderful.”