Red Lashers Read online

  RED LASHERS

  Kyle Dane

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1: RED-OUT

  CHAPTER 2: THE HIVE

  CHAPTER 3: CAPITOL HILL

  CHAPTER 4: FLASHBACK

  CHAPTER 5: DYING FIRE

  CHAPTER 6: ALTER EGO

  CHAPTER 7: STALKER

  CHAPTER 8: FISHING FOR HOPE

  CHAPTER 9: SKELETONS IN THE BAKERY

  CHAPTER 10: PARANOIA

  CHAPTER 11: FAREWELL

  CHAPTER 12: HAYVIN'S HABITAT

  CHAPTER 13: SNOW QUEEN

  CHAPTER 14: ZADIUM PROJECT

  CHAPTER 15: HotCurls: GET OUT!!!

  CHAPTER 16: REBIRTH

  CHAPTER 17: RECRUITING KILLERS

  CHAPTER 18: SWAMPY ALLIANCE

  CHAPTER 19: NEW EYES

  CHAPTER 20: UNLEASHED

  CHAPTER 21: BLITZ

  CHAPTER 22: BREATHE

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1: RED-OUT

  I've breeched the enemy base. Now inside, I stealthily tiptoe through dark corridors that appear to be abandoned. All is quiet.

  Suddenly, a machete swings at my head from out of the shadows, to which I reflexively duck and barely evade decapitation. A man steps into the light revealing his identity as Dhaka, a greatly feared assassin made unmistakably known by an infamous tribal mask tattooed on his unfriendly face—must’ve been a painful ink job.

  Dhaka swings again. My arm instantly transforms into a metal sword just in time to block the assault, then counters with a swift death stroke that finishes the fight as quickly as it began. The evil assassin drops to the ground defeated, along with his blood-run reign of terror ended. He was no match for me. But I can't relax. Others are coming.

  I'm a Croactium Cyborg, created for the singular purpose of overthrowing the tyrannical rule of the Siege: the bad guys. If I fail my mission, I fail the world and the countless innocent lives that depend on me.

  “Welcome Saturday night shoppers. Visit isle ten for a two-for-one sale on Poppers Extra Buttery Popcorn! And as always…thank you, THANK YOU for shopping at Sterlings Market,” announces the overhead speakers in a sappy voice that's so overly happy it's creepy. But there’s no time to think about popcorn...

  Out pops another enemy from the left corner of the TV screen. My sore thumbs fiercely beat on the plastic buttons of the videogame controller, desperate to keep my cyborg character alive while my legs desperately fight to keep from going totally numb, having stood in this same spot for several minutes.

  Outlier Ops Legacy. I’ve wanted, no, needed this new videogame for the past two months, ever since Dshawn and Trent started bragging about how they play online with gamers from all over the world. Everyone, except me. And I’ve been treated so differently lately, as if I were a diseased dog they intentionally avoid. Just want to be included. But no. Being alone in a department store in front of a TV that’s connected to a securely locked-up console, pretending I’m a Croactium Cyborg for a few short minutes while Mom shops—she’s getting stuff for homemade pizza—is as close to inclusion as I’ve come.

  ∆∆∆

  “Hi,” sounds the quick, unexpected greeting from Shala, a hot girl from high school. She walks past me with two of her girlfriends. Popular girls. I’m stunned and, like an idiot, say nothing in reply. They stop a few feet away and begin browsing the wall of new movie releases, when Shala briefly looks back at me. I think she smiled. Now they’re all chuckling about something.

  About me? How’s my hair? How’s that zit on my nose? Still red like Rudolf? What pants am I wearing? Noooo!!! The stained yard sale pair! What was I thinking when I left the house?! Paranoia prunes back my confidence. I’d like to wish it was a flirtatious smile she flashed, but I’m most likely being mocked for my used, thrift store appearance. A freshman like me stands little chance with a sophomore like Shala. She only hangs out with fashionably-cool juniors and seniors: older guys who love to show off—and not just in their apparel but by doing mean things to younger dudes. Ever been trashcanned before in front of everyone during lunch period? Or pantsed? It's humiliating.

  What does it matter anyway? I’m not allowed to date until I’m sixteen. Dad loves to remind me, with one of his signature rhyming phrases, “If you’re too young to drive a chica to a dance, you’re too young for romance.” Still, I can’t resist the possibility—however slim—that the taunting lip lure was in fact a coquettish invitation. So, like a ninja, my eye covertly waits in the shadow of my periphery to see if Shala does it again.

  “Ruko?” Another familiar voice—this one unwelcomed—floats from outside the electronics department and into my ears. No. It’s her. “There you are. Why am I not surprised?” Mom says while pushing her squeaky shopping cart towards me; a wheel must be crooked or in need of serious lubrication. “Saving the world again, huh?”

  “Yup,” I stroke out a frustrated key as I finish conquering a second assassin. Laser beam turrets now sprout down from the ceiling and open fire. I dodge to the left. Right. Left again.

  “So bro...ready to go make some pizza…” Mom begins. Oh no. She’s going to say it. “…A LA D-E-L-I-C-I-O-S-A?!” She unfortunately finishes the thing I’ve long ago banned from public use. Her attempt to sound Italian always belches out as a hideous hybrid language somewhere between a Mexican and Transylvanian accent, like Dracula talking with a severe nose cold.

  A sweat of embarrassment rushes over me as Shala and her friends laugh in a repulsed way—clearly, they heard her. They flee the scene, still laughing. Nope...they won’t be talking to me again. Ever.

  “Uhhh! Why, Mom?!” I angrily lash out, then release my sweaty grip from the controller and leave my cyborg character doomed to certain death. Mission failed. Game over. I throw the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head to veil my identity and strut away from my mother, the cart, the game; the entire electronics department is dust in my rearview mirror.

  Mom tries hard to be part of my life but ends up tearing it apart. I swear, she doesn't understand the ever-so-delicate reputation a guy like me must carefully maintain in order to survive the challenging levels of teenagehood. Maybe that’s why I love videogames so much, because in the virtual world, failure is followed by limitless chances to retry until you eventually succeed, just gotta press the restart button. Conversely, in the real world of high school, a single mistake can forever cast you out of the popularity circle and into the nerd box. Game over.

  ∆∆∆

  Mom catches up and surprises me with a playful slug to the arm.

  “Ouch! What was that for?!” I demand, anger accelerated at the alarming pain of her small, boney knuckles digging perfectly into the nerves of my arm. Great. She's getting on my nerves literally now, as if figuratively wasn’t enough.

  “Come on, Junior.” Mom uses her nickname for me to try and win me over. Junior, because I look so much like her. Cocoa brown hair to match cocoa eyes that are neighbored by sharp facial features clearly endowed from none other than Mom. Pure-bred Californian of European descent. Definitely her son. The only part of me that resembles Dad's Mexican side is hairless, light-caramel skin.

  “You know you love me,” Mom manipulatively insists.

  “Yeah right,” I gust.

  Mom! Why do you torture me?! I swear. If you disappeared from my life, that'd be fine by me.

  We’re at the checkout. Normally I help load groceries onto the conveyor belt but not tonight. Instead, I turn to the chips and candy bars that teasingly taunt from the checkout wall and scan the shelves from top to bottom with an upset gaze, making Mom do all the work by herself. She does. Well, almost.

  “Ruko, mind grabbing that bag of cheese, please?” For some reason she leaves the last thing for me and flips o
ut her wallet.

  “Sure,” I snip, beyond bothered. My arm rages into the grocery cart, lifts the bag of shredded cheese, and...instant panic attack. Underneath the cheese is Outlier Ops Legacy. I look to mom, confused yet hopeful. “Did you…?”

  Her face breaks out in smiles. “Looks like you found the final item on the grocery list,” she proudly declares.

  Clueless is the best word to describe how I should respond. Mom was enemy number one a moment ago, now she's my savior. Mom and Dad aren't exactly well-off in the money department, and Outlier Ops isn't exactly cheap.

  “You serious?” I solemnly check.

  “As an earthquake." She winks at the conveyor belt. "Throw it up there."

  Still stunned, I finally reveal a glimmer of the light show of happiness flaring inside me. “Cool…this…this is great,” I subtly acknowledge as if the gift were no big deal, as if she was simply paying good on a debt she owed me. Yes, I’m ultra grateful. Everything inside me wants to say thank you with a strong hug and big-time apology for my rotten behavior, but no, can't let her off the hook that easy. Later. Yeah, I’ll apologize later.

  “I’m...happy you like it, sweetie.” Mom's disappointment is obvious. “Thank your father when we get home,” she advises.

  Towards the exit doors I float on clouds with eyes glued to the plastic case, reading the game’s storyline that’s written on the back cover. The doors sense my fast approach and, as if I was royalty, automatically slide open for me just before my nose collides with the glass. Mom trails behind, grocery cart still squealing. Feels good out here. Didn’t realize how stuffy Sterlings was.

  “Ahhhhhh.” I breathe deep. The cool, nighttime, autumn air fills my lungs with a refreshing burst of energy. November in Southern California isn’t normally freezing, but this year is definitely chilly enough for jeans.

  “Oh...my...gosh. Ruko, you seeing this?!” squeals Mom with no small sprinkle of urgency in her voice.

  “Whaaat?” I turtle out a response.

  “Look!” she commands.

  The crowbar of curiosity pries my eyes from the videogame, and, as I look up, what I see is unbelievable. “What the...freak?!” I hiccup.

  The moon...the sky...are bright red! A spooky yet cool looking color unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. My arms lower and the game hangs down at my side forgetfully rejected like leftover dinner as I gaze upon the bloody moon that’s also overly-large. It sits above the horizon, blown up two or three times bigger than its regular full-moon size, which makes each detail of its crater blemishes unusually vivid. Looks fake. What's happening?

  I think back to last summer’s orangish-colored moon caused by the smoke of a wildfire, according to my science teacher. This is different though. Very. A glowing mist made of tiny red dust particles devours the atmosphere from the sky down to the parking lot. Light poles, cars, buildings, people, the slow-revolving hand stretched out in front of my face—everything is highlighted red.

  People buzz in anxious hysteria, including Shala and her friends. They huddle together—moon behind them—taking cell phone selfies of the strange anomaly like it’s going to change back to normal any second. Others snap photos too. I feel like a tourist in my own, normally boring hometown.

  “This...is crazy.” I mumble under my breath, unsure how to react. It's beautiful, yes, but despite the night's breathtaking aura of red, something inside me says this isn't good. That I should be afraid. That I should…run.

  “So cool!” I direct to Mom, choosing to ignore the apocalyptic, end-of-the world vibration that’s rippling through the air and into my paranoid thoughts. No one else is acting scared, so why should I?

  “Yeah, absolutely gorgeous! Seriously son, I’ve never seen the sky like this before. Must be some kind of a once-every-thousand-years type thing.”

  What’s in my hand? My fingers rub together. Oh yeah, the game! The excitement of Outlier Ops quickly returns.

  “You ready?” I ask.

  “Yes, let’s go. Your father’s probably starving.”

  The mention of Dad's hunger reminds me of another reason I want to leave—Mom’s tasty homemade pizza. The thought of it cooks in my brain and causes my tongue to water like a sprinkler turned on in my mouth. Extra cheese, juicy sausage, charred pepperoni, spicy jalapeños, and warm crust lightly crisped on the outside but doughy inside, just how I like it...mmmm, can’t wait!

  Bag after bag, the groceries get tossed from the cart into the trunk of our awful, mustard-colored, second-hand sedan.

  “Return Shopping Carts Here,” a sign reads three lanes over. Too far. Without hesitation, I pull back the cart and wheelie it up onto a nearby curb. Hope Mom didn't notice, because if she did, she’d make me return it the right way to the corral. Thankfully, the red night has her daydreaming.

  ∆∆∆

  My butt’s now seated on the torn cushion of the passenger seat, ready to rock out of here. Mom tries to start the engine, yes tries but it just cranks and cranks making its typical I'm-a-piece of-crap-car sound for everyone to hear. Shala looks my way and begins scoffing again with her friends. I'd rather be dead than stuck seat-belted inside this jail cell of embarrassment, waiting for the stupid antique to stop screeching.

  “Come on baby, come on! You can do it...juuuuuust breathe,” Mom charismatically encourages the vehicle as if it had ears. At last—after an eternity of anguish—the engine starts along with the ten-minute journey home. Per the norm, we take back roads to avoid main street traffic. I stare out the passenger window and become pleasantly lost in fantasyland. My land. I unleash my imagination and let it crawl with wild vividness. Random objects magically come to life in the form of Outlier Ops characters, starting with a rusty dumpster that transforms into a huge Demolition, the most powerful fighter for the Outlier Rising: the good guys.

  The car veers right at the next barren intersection. Caught in my eye is a streetlight. It illuminates the mysterious red mist that again churns my heart strings into a knot, a strange sense of warning. But why? Why worry? Whatever this is, I’m sure it’ll be explained away by the weather channel.

  The light pole transforms into a Croactium Cyborg. This is fun. Makes me more excited to play the game, and not just level one but the whole thing. Entire story mode, every level, every character, every…

  “Did you see that?!” A sudden shout from Mom pulls me from my world of videogame imagination.

  “See what?” I puff, still peering into back alley shadows.

  “Just now…in front of the car…there was…” She pauses.

  Mom’s hesitation forces my head to finally turn her way. Her facial expression is one of confusion. Fear, even. Looking out through the windshield, her eyes dart back and forth in unrest as her brow furrows in a battle to piece together puzzled thoughts that don't quite seem to fit.

  “There was what?” I repeat, now actually interested to know.

  “You really didn’t see anything?”

  “No,” I remind. “What was it?”

  “I just…thought I saw something strange run across the street and...” She hesitates again. “What?!” I demand. My impatience simmers into a boil of frustration.

  “Nothing. Never mind, sweetie. I don’t know what it was but I’m sure...I'm sure it was nothing.” She finishes her unfinished story and leaves me hanging on a question mark.

  “Mom?” I probe the waters for more information. Nada. She says absolutely nothing, which unsettles my gut into an uneasy, sour milk feeling. Very seldom does she go quiet and serious. In fact, it's nearly impossible to get the chatterbox to stop talking. Something’s wrong.

  The drive carries on in undisturbed silence, but my brain is unable to slip into something more comfortable. Can't relax back to carefree thoughts of Outlier Ops Legacy no matter how hard I try. Out of the window and into the red darkness I ogle in wonder...what did Mom see?

  CHAPTER 2: THE HIVE

  Finally, we pull into the driveway. It’s cracked and lifted in several
spots from the large roots of an invasive tree. Half the car leans to the side as it comes to a stop on unlevel ground. Home. Never been so excited to be here. I decide to push away the paranoia of whatever it was Mrs. Drama Queen supposedly saw running across the back alley street and instead recapture the thrill of beginning the long-awaited Dark Ops Legacy adventure.

  Like a tightly wound Jack-in-the-Box, I spring out of my seat. But before I can vanish, I’m halted by the motherly voice I’m at ends with.

  “Hey. Forgetting something, Junior?”

  I close my eyes. A deep sigh follows as I battle to stay patient. Mom bought me the game and can easily take it away, therefore snapping at her isn’t something I can afford to do right now. I return to the vehicle and flash a phony smile. The outside air is still red, even here at our house far from Sterlings. Crazy.

  With the weight of several plastic grocery bags tightly wrapped around each hand—determined to do this in one trip—I briskly make my way through the garage door and into the kitchen.

  “Hey Dad!” I announce.

  “Hay! Hijo! No manches cuate! You about scared the living lung right out of me,” he snaps out some Spanish, then quickly calms his irritation into Spanish-accented English.

  “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize you were working,” I defend.

  Dad sits at the kitchen table, hunched over his laptop so intensely focused he didn’t hear me walk in until I was right behind him. His short black hair that highlights black eyes, spikes up in awkward directions—self-employment pillow hair. He’s a financial advisor but hardly successful enough to financially secure his own family.

  “Haha, it's okay. Didn’t hear you,” he says.

  My attention is drawn to the kitchen television.

  “…and so, the investigation continues on President Mant V’lore who was declared missing two days ago after not showing up to his own press conference. The meeting would have been the first regarding an alleged rise of a new terrorist threat. Vice President Doughblee still refuses to comment. Critics harshly argue that V’lore’s mysterious disappearance is in the country’s best interest. Some speculate that his record high disapproval rating, a historic and heated eighty-four percent, has driven the President into hiding.”