11

In my dreams I’m a hyena, prowling through the proud savanna grass. The golden and purple sky painted by the setting sun, casts dappled shadows over my striped pelt. My gate is slow and purposeful. My short, limping strides carry me steadily to my prize. A soft, sweet, almost sickly smell prances between my nostrils luring my on like a moth to a flame. My growling stomach is my compass, and my body is but a sail.

I no longer wince as my bloodied paw, so caked in dirt that the thorn can’t be seen, embedded between my toes. The mange along my legs begs me to gnaw it, to tear it open and feel the satisfying pain as my own blood stains my yellow teeth and the diseases that have killed so many of my ancestors invite themselves inside me. I resist, not because I’m strong, but rather because my hunger has overrode all systems in my corroded, stringy body.

My tongue is torn and lies like a beached whale over my bone crushers. My jaw hangs open and drool drips from between my cracked, jagged flesh tearers. It leaves a subtle, spotted tarnish on the parched soil, telling my packmates of my route. I rather the taste of my own blood in my mouth than the scorched dryness and aftertaste of marrow.

The wound that stretches across my flank is pulled and yanked by my lope, unallowed to heal. A wound, dealt by my own sister over the remains of a buffalo shoulder joint, already stripped bare of any flesh, blood or cartilage. The absence of rain in the savanna means the absence of soul in the body.

But the flame of my primal urges flicker within my chest, so I draw onwards. The crepuscular light hides my color. My approach is quieter that the summer wind. It won’t see me coming. Despite my injuries, it’s death will be quick.

The lion is the greatest. It is powerful, it is strong, and it is prideful.

The cheetah is the fastest. It is sleek, it is quick and it is elegant.

The leopard is the craftiest. It is stealthy, it is agile and it is deadly.

The wild dog is the kindest. It is compassionate, it is effective and it is precise.

The hyena however, is none of those.

The tall hair down my back fights against the grass for supremacy. A tiny glimpse of a hint that I approach. But my prey does not fidget. It doesn’t skitter. It isn’t alert. My prey has no beating heart to flee from the scourge that limps towards it, hidden in a cowl, stitched from penumbral shadows. I see it, hiding beneath the fraud safety of an acacia tree.

A lion would sniff it, turn away, fearful of the disease it might contract.

A leopard would drag its kill up a different tree.

A cheetah would guide its pups to a different place to play.

A wild dog would lead bring a safer meal for its elders.

I am none of them.

Rotten flesh mixes with my own blood in my mouth but stays there for little more than an instant before it glides down my parched throat. My teeth puncture its tattered skin, crush it’s bones like twigs and barely bother to mash it before I swallow.

I turn away from the grey green stain on the dry soil. It’s time to head back for my grueling, unforgiving clan.

We hyenas require massive groups to take down a single buffalo. We prefer to scavenge whenever we can. We’re slower than a cheetah. We’re weaker than a lion. We haven’t half the skills of a leopard. Our packs are crude and malfunctioning, unlike the wild dog. Yet all of them, the lion, the cheetah, the leopard and the wild dog are all endangered. Only the hyena population thrives with abundance.

Soon, we will be the only ones left, and that’s not just by evolutionary chance.

~

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you off at your home?”

“Yeah, here is fine.”

“Really? It’s pretty late and it looks like it might rain,” the journalist rolls down his window and looks up at the smoggy night sky.

“It’s no problem, honestly,” I tell her. My voice hasn’t recovered yet and remains sounding like overused sandpaper against a pebble.

“Hey, you never told me why you were out in the Dunes all alone anyway. You probably would’ve died if I hadn’t come along. I could drive you to the hospital if you want,” he offers, genuinely.

I crack the door open before the van has halted completely and slide out onto the grimy, wet street. My skin feels like burning cellophane wrapped too tightly around me. “Thanks.”

“Alright kid. You’ve got the card, right? When you feel like opening up about your story, just call the number. The address is on the back too, in case.”

I nod, looking at him from between strands of my ever growing hair. I read THE WESTERN printed in big red letters across the van as it drives away. Shitty name.

I inhale, long and slow. The familiar factory produced fumes dance elegantly down my esophagus.

Why the hell didn’t I take the ride to the hospital?

I sigh, shove my hands into my pockets and start to walk. My steps distort the perfectly still, murky puddles that twinkle under the beams of the streetlights. Should I visit her? Would she even want me there? Probably not. Thank whatever the hell for that damned journalist. I’m glad I didn’t have to make that decision. I’m pissed off that I did.

A car vrooms past me, spraying me with muddy curb water. I barely flinch.

As I walk, I watch the arms of Rieka’s hoodie dangling against my thighs, occasionally glancing up to see where I’m headed. I’ve got no energy to climb or to run. I’m too damn tired. Damn. Since when is Kallix Rane exhausted?

Eventually, the ever-gloomy atmosphere forces me to slide my shades off my eyes and hang them on my shirt. Let the world see my red rimmed, bloodshot eyes. I catch the figure of somebody ahead of me, slumped in the shadows. I hang my head low, burry my hands deeper into my pockets and walk by him.

Where am I going?

Not really sure.

The hospital, right?

Glorified prison cell. Yeah no. Not there.

Then? A club? Haven’t got half the energy to party.

Then a nice curb. I can curl up and sleep. Maybe I’ll wake up with some energy and motivation.

Ravven is still out there. Why don’t you try and infiltrate the Raven’s Nest on your own?

Suicide? Not yet. Not any time soon. Maybe when I’m in my mid twenties, but not as a teenager. I like being sixteen. I want to be able to feel remorse for not living my sixteenth year to it’s fullest.

Blaring headlights of a car blind me as it turns onto this road. I hold up a hand to shield my eyes, mentally relaxing so the spray of curb water doesn’t startle me.

Instead, the car slows to a halt in front of me. The lights disappear and I hear a door click open.

“Kallix?” somebody asks. His voice is softer than his tall, broad shouldered appearance would tell you. His goatee’s been trimmed to perfection once again. His badge glints off the streetlight.

“Yeah,” I sigh, gnawing on the side of my thumb nail.

“What… what are you doing? What happened? You look burnt,” he rattles, as if seeing me is too much for him to handle. It probably is. Seeing him should be too much for me, but I haven’t the energy to feel that way.

“Seems so,” I tell him.

His brow furrows. “Where did you go?”

“The Dunes.”

“The Dunes?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We need to get you to a hospital.” He reaches for me, but I swat him away.

His look is the same as my dad’s when I broke my bedside lamp. The first time.

“I think you know me well enough not to try,” I tell him.

He sighs. “Yeah.” He walks back to his police car, then halts at the open door. He looks back at me. “You look half starved. At least let my buy you a decent meal. Plus, there’s a lot of messed up shit I’ve got to tell you.”

As if on que, my stomach growls like a hyena. I’m too hungry to resist.

~

I poke at the food on my plate. “The hell is this?” I ask, staring suspiciously at the unpleasant looking cylinders of green white and pink. I prod at it clumsily with one of two metal pencil like thing in my hands.

“It’s sushi,” Kaloaan explains, holding one elegantly with the weird sticks. He dips it in a dark sauce and wolfs it down.

We sit at a glass high table against the wall of his apartment. It’s been whipped back into shape since I last saw it and is crisply clean as usual. An artificial fire flickers in the chimney, warming the atmosphere around us. It’s still pitch black outside, but the city is still wide awake.

I raise an eyebrow. I don’t need to touch it to know that it’s cold. Majority of the meals I’ve eaten have been cold, but none of those have been in Kaloaan’s house.

“Just eat it. It’s good,” my brother tells me between mouthfuls.

I pick on up tentatively and place it in my mouth. To my surprise, the concoctions of flavors tickle my tongue and I soon find myself scoffing down more. “What’s in it?” I ask with a mouth full of sushi.

“The pink stuff? Salmon. The synthetic remakes are getting better, aren’t they?”

I nod, glugging down some water.

“So Kallix,” Kaloaan begins, wiping his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt.

“Never mind that,” he dismisses with the wave of his hand. “This Qiara figure…”

“More deaths?” I ask.

He nods gravely. “A lot.”

I take a moment to chew, holding his eye contact.

“My best officer, Heller Tash went undercover. He managed to get Qiara’s kill list, or at least her top five priorities.

I wipe rise from my lip. “Who are they?”

“Well, the first on the list, Yarvin Jac was just found dead this morning, and the fifth on the list, Utan Valor disappeared this afternoon.”

“Who are the other three?”

Kaloaan stares at his sushi. “Tauren Rekashi, Zorikan and me.”

My jaw goes slack. “Tauren, you and Zorikan?” I ask, incredulous.

“Yeah. I trust Tash with my life, he wasn’t wrong.”

My damn god. I don’t even know what to make of this. “Sh…shouldn’t you be at the… police station?”

Kaloaan cracks a smile. “So you do care.”

I grimace. “I’m serious. Qiara’s eliminating people on this list faster than I eat. If all these big figures are dropping like flies, don’t you think you’re in danger?”

“I know how to take care of myself, Kallix,” Kaloaan reassures. “My worry is that if Qiara can’t get me, she might come for you. She likes to use bargaining chips, just like that bastard Zorikan.”

I instantly think of Rieka. Damnit. “And Tauren? I’ve got to warn her.”

“I’m sending out a team to make sure she’s ok at first light, alright?”

I down my water. “Wait, this might be a good thing.”

“Huh?”

“Zorikan’s on the list right?”

“Yeah.”

“He needs to know!”

“Why?”

“If Zorikan knows, then he’ll be on high alert for Qiara. He won’t give a damn about you. If Qiara attacks Zorikan, he’ll surely retaliate.”

“Get them to fight against each other,” Kaloaan says, catching on. “Weaken them both, then take them out.”

“Worst case scenario is a three-way war, which is much better than you vs both of them.”

Kaloaan claps me heavily on the shoulder. “I wish I could hire you, little bro,” he says with a smile.

I lap up the last of the sushi and push away from the table.

“Where’re you going?” he asks.

“I’ve… got somewhere to be,” I tell him.

He sets the stacked plates on the counter. “No you don’t. I told you I’m sending out a team to check on Tauren in the morning.”

“That’s not where I’m headed.”

“Then?”

“I’ve got a… friend. They’re in the hospital. I want to go see them.”

“No you don’t,” Kaloaan tells me. “Firstly, you don’t have many friends, secondly, you’d never willingly go to a hospital and thirdly, they’re probably asleep anyway.”

I glance at the door and then at the slightly ajar window. My muscles relax with the warmth of the artificial fireplace.

“C’mon, just stay the night,” Kaloaan says. “When was the last time you even slept on a bed?”

“I’m not sleeping in your bed.”

“You know I’ve got a spare room right?”

“Spare room? For what?”

“Well unlike you, I get guests. Plus where would you stay if you ever decided to stop over?”

I swallow.

“Don’t be such a fuss. Take a shower, I’ve got a dozen creams for you burn, I’ll do the dishes and you can have a night off. The beds already made and I’ve got some of your old video games plus the TV. I know you probably don’t want to use them, but I kept them just in case. You could turn on the music, I’ve got over a thousand songs. There’s bound to be something you like.”

“Ok, ok,” I say. “I’ll stay.”

“Awesome,” he says, cheerily. He turns on the tap and commences to scrub the dishes.

Tentatively, I make my way to the spare room. The floor is carpeted and the walls are painted in a soft blue. The bedframe is wooden and the blanket is whiter than a cloud. There’s a TV mounted on the wall, with some videogames stacked neatly beneath it next to a controller. There’s even a bookshelf, with all sorts of titles I’ve never heard of. Only my brother would have a bookshelf in todays day and age. And you’d think the cop would read murder mysteries and thrillers, but there’s nothing but fantasy and sci-fi titles before me, alongside the occasional cookbook.

A creeping nostalgia crawls up my spine.

This is weird.