Inhuman: Detective Chase hunts an animal who protects his own

by Nathan Senthil

  Tyrel removed his schoolbag. He opened the zipper and took a sandwich out of the lunchbox.

  “Here, girl,” Tyrel said.

  Sandy, who’d been lying on the hospital floor without greeting him, got up on her two legs and gobbled the food. When done, she rested her head on the bed, near his father’s hand, still standing. Ben put his hand on her head. His mouth had been obscured with all those tubes, but Tyrel knew he was smiling.

  Then there was no movement in his body. Tyrel was old enough to understand that it was a good thing, a kind thing, but his eyes started to water, nonetheless. He closed them in disappointment when he heard a mild cough. Die already. Hot streams of tears fell down the sides of Tyrel’s face.

  “Smoking cigarettes for more than three decades,” Ben said, “I’d come to accept I’m gonna die in a place like this. In fact, I had more than prepared for the lung one, not a stomach one. Boy, it hurts like a bitch.”

  Tyrel had to strain hard to listen to him. Ben looked at Tyrel’s swollen wet face.

  “Don’t cry, junior. Straight trees are cut first. God needs me up there.”

  “I love you, Dad.” Tyrel wiped snot from his upper lip. “I miss you so much.”

  Ben nodded. “Can you do me a favor, boy?”

  Tyrel shook his head. He could never pull the plug.

  Ben smiled. “Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna ask you to do me in. It’s something else. Will you do it for your old man?”

  Tyrel nodded.

  “Take care of her, will you?” Ben rubbed the dog’s head with his skeletal hand. “Promise me you will take care of all my animals.”

  She whined.

  “I promise, Dad. I’ll take care of Sandy and all the other animals. I will never let anything happen to them.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.” Ben closed his eyes.

  Tyrel stood there and watched the suffering man for a long time, praying. The night came and the lights were switched on automatically. Maybe because of the tears, the light made the room brighter than usual. Shinier. Paradisal.

  Then Ben’s hand on Sandy’s head slowly slipped. A single teardrop struggled out of Ben’s eye and shone on its way down. An eerie quiet enveloped the room.

  And then Sandy howled.

  Chapter 4

  December 15, 1991. 03:17 P.M.

  Tyrel returned home at a quarter past three. He ran upstairs and dropped his bag on the floor. After taking his towels from the closet, he rushed down to the bathroom.

  Long baths after long days were one of the few things he looked forward to. The hot water massaged his tense shoulders and arms. The dust from Mr. Edison’s field dissolved and disappeared through the drain. Helping the old guy fertilize his crops wasn’t a demanding job since Tyrel did it only on Sundays. He liked it better than school. Plus, the pay, which he had been saving for fourteen weeks, was okay.

  Unlike him, Mel wasn’t working or playing her part to help the family, regardless of how little and dysfunctional it had become. The household chores piled up, and Tyrel had to do them on Saturdays. Mel had hired people to care for Ben’s potato plantation, which she did out of self-preservation, it being her only source of income.

  She’d even hired someone to take care of Ben’s animal ranch. Tyrel knew for certain that she hadn’t done it out of guilt for cheating on Ben. She just didn’t want the people from their small town to hate her because she’d let almost a hundred animals die from negligence. Why else would she do it? She sure didn’t love the animals, because she never treated Sandy with any compassion.

  It was all right. Tyrel took care of Sandy, like he’d promised Ben on his deathbed. He was going to give Sandy legs, too. It was just a matter of time.

  Next to Ben, Doctor Vikram was the kindest guy Tyrel had ever known. He’d treated Sandy and saved her life when Ben had found her at the railroad and taken her to the vet. Even though the mild-mannered Indian was new to Apex, the animal owners already loved the shit out of him. Tyrel had a unique bit of respect for Vikram because, like him, the doctor didn’t eat meat or use any animal products.

  Vikram said he could fix Sandy with prosthetic limbs, but it would cost a lot. Ben had wanted to give legs to Sandy, too. No surprise there. Vikram had asked Ben to wait a few months so Sandy’s torn ligaments and nerve endings would heal properly. Only then could she wear them without any pain or discomfort. But Ben died before that happened.

  Since Vikram had massive respect for Ben and what he’d been doing, he would never accept any fee for his services. But the legs would be bought from outside, and for that he would need $600. So came the box named Xmas Gift for Sandy, in Tyrel’s bedroom. Just a few more weeks and Sandy’s life would get a lot better, her smile a little wider.

  By the way, where was Sandy? Probably sleeping in her place, under Tyrel’s bed, fantasizing about her favorite food. Her dreams were going to come true in a few minutes.

  As he came out of the bathroom, he heard a door shut upstairs. A few seconds later, Tyrel’s neighbor, Gregory the scrapyard owner, came down the steps. He was wearing only boxers, which accentuated his chubby physique.

  He tried to ruffle Tyrel’s hair, but Tyrel swatted his hand away.

  “Might as well call me daddy, now.”

  Towel still in hand, Tyrel balled his fists and glared at him. He was the tallest boy in his grade, but he had the muscles of a stick figure. He could fight this guy, but he would never hurt him in the slightest, let alone win.

  “Go to your room, kid, before you hurt yourself.”

  “You better not be touching my boy, Greg,” Mel’s voice came from above.

  Gregory stared at Tyrel for a good five seconds before smiling and shaking his head. Then he kissed the air in front of Tyrel’s face before striding through the front door. Maybe coming out of a widow’s house, his hairy beer belly covered in a grotesque sheen of sweat, was something he was proud of.

  “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, Ty?” his mother’s nasal tone sang, lazily.

  She had the voice of a person who was forever disinterested in whatever you had to say.

  “Why does he come here!” Tyrel screamed, uncontrollable teardrops falling on the brown tiles.

  Mel came down. All two-hundred pounds of her made the steps protest in anguished squeaks. She took out a cigarette when she stood in front of him. He noticed that her brand had changed from Camels to Marlboro.

  “I’m trying to let him go.”

  “Then let him go.”

  “It’s not that simple.” She lit the cigarette with a match. “We have history.”

  “You had a history with Dad!”

  “I didn’t love him no more,” she replied, in that lazy way of hers.

  This got on Tyrel’s nerve. “Because his cock wasn’t working no more?”

  Mel did a doubletake. Her eyes widened and fluttered.

  Good. The bitch was finally registering something that resembled emotion. Rare.

  “Tyrel L. Boone! You don’t talk to your mommy like that.”

  Tyrel wiped away the tears and smiled. “Mommy? I don’t see a mommy. All I see is a whore that loves to suck dicks dipped in motor oil.”

  Tyrel was rubbing his left cheek as he walked upstairs. He’d surely have finger marks on his face the next day, which Mr. Anderson would look at suspiciously and question him about. But it was worth it.

  When he opened the bedroom door, he found it quiet. Quieter than usual. His heart almost stopped pumping when he spotted the change.

  Sandy wasn’t in the room, like he thought she would be!

  He knew something was wrong. There was something unnerving about that evening. He’d been feeling a dull pulsation at the pit of his stomach all day, the same feeling he’d felt the day his father died—a melancholic premonition.

  Tyrel quickly changed into jeans and a T-shirt. He opened his bag and took out a chicken sandwich wrapped in a shiny foil. Then he hurried down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. He
carried Sandy’s favorite food in his left hand, while his right warmed as it glided over the handrail. He turned around and found Mel standing where he saw her a minute ago. She was lighting her second cigarette. Why didn’t she get cancer, Tyrel thought for the umpteenth time.

  “Where’s Sandy?”

  “Who knows?” She blew the smoke upwards.

  “You’re supposed to—”

  “I ain’t supposed to nothing. It’s bad enough I gotta fork out for your loser father’s ranch of useless animals. I don’t got nothing to do with that pathetic mutt of yours.”

  “Where is she?” Tyrel bit down the anger. “Have you even seen her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Tyrel never locked Sandy in or kept her on a leash. She was free to wander the neighborhood because the locals knew her. Residents on their street, including Gregory, fed her and rubbed her head or scratched under her chin. It seemed like everyone loved Sandy except Mel. Tyrel shook his head and walked away.

  “Wait a minute, hon…”

  He stopped at the door, turned back slowly, and looked into Mel’s eyes.

  “I’m not your hon.”

  “Lordy be! Why you being all hostile like that again?”

  “I don’t have time for this shit.”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “Then tell me. Have you seen Sandy?”

  “Yeah, yeah. As a matter of fact, I did.” She inhaled the smoke. “When I gone up to your room to pick up the laundry, she looked at me from under your bed. Like a rat peeking out of a sewage pipe.”

  Laundry? That was new.

  “She isn’t up there,” he said.

  “She’s gone out. I thought she went to poop.”

  “Did you see her go out? When?”

  “Yeah, an hour ago. She walked right through the front door, in that creepy way she walks. Don’t that just scare you? I mean—”

  Tyrel was already out of the house. The door shut in Mel’s face.

  Chapter 5

  December 15, 1991. 04:17 P.M.

  With all the money they had, Tyrel’s family didn’t live in an upscale part of town since their house had a sentimental value to Ben. It was the house of three generations of Boones. Built on Markham Street at Damont Hills, a small neighborhood made up of just six roads, it was located at the edge of Apex, parallel to a highway that merged into US Route 1. It wasn’t a ghetto, nor a trailer park, just a borderline poor neighborhood with bad roads, broken fences, discarded trash, pickup trucks, and men like Gregory sipping beers on rocking chairs on their porches.

  Tyrel walked down the street, calling out Sandy’s name, but when she didn’t come jumping out of a bush, he felt sick. Since she walked upright, she was as tall as a six-year-old. It was hard to miss Sandy, so he started asking around. Most shook their heads, while a blessed few pointed toward a park and cemetery where Tyrel took her on their evening walks.

  That was it. She’d gone there on her own.

  He made it to the cemetery in under a minute, squeezed through the locked front gates, and ran straight to Ben’s headstone. She wasn’t there. Grabbing his hair in worry, he looked around. He spotted a broken picket fence on the other side of the cemetery, which led to a park. He rushed toward its entrance.

  The park was just a small piece of land covered with dead leaves, sticks, grass, and litter. There was a running track buried somewhere underneath all this. On the right corner loafed a rusty pair of seesaws. On the left stood a swing and climbers shaped like A, B, and C. There were four stone benches in total.

  Ricky, the bully from his school, and three of his friends were sitting on one of the benches. Ricky was around fifteen, but attended Tyrel’s class because he was too stupid to go to the next grade. He was holding a Budweiser. One of his older friends must have gotten him that.

  They’d noticed Tyrel before he espied them.

  Drunken Ricky or his friends didn’t scare Tyrel, but raw fear shot up his spine when he saw Sandy lying on her back and playing with them.

  He inched his way to the gang.

  “Hey, gay lord,” Ricky said.

  Tyrel didn’t try to hide the shock. How did Ricky know he was gay? Shit.

  “Come on, girl,” Tyrel said.

  Sandy, who hadn’t smelled Tyrel until now, looked at him, tongue still out from all the fun she’d been having with Ricky. Then she looked at the wrapped sandwich in his hand and rolled onto her stomach, her expression serious.

  But when she tried to get up, Ricky clutched her neck and nailed her down. She whined. She tried to get up again, but it was hard to push herself against Ricky’s hand without her front legs.

  “Tell me something, twink.” Ricky rubbed Sandy’s head once she’d stopped struggling. “Why are you torturing this bitch?”

  “Wh-what?”

  “Can’t you see it’s hard for her to live?”

  “No, Ricky, that’s not true. She’s happy. See, she was just playing with you?”

  “But she is a cripple. Cripples can’t be all that happy.”

  “Her vet said dogs don’t care if they are handicapped. As long as they have someone to love them, they’re happy. So please, Ricky, let her go,” Tyrel pleaded, a teardrop escaping his eye.

  “You crying, twink?” Ricky laughed, and his friends joined him.

  Tyrel was embarrassed, but he didn’t stop crying. They could make fun of him all they wanted, as long as they let him leave with Sandy.

  “Let me do you a favor, gaymo. Just run along now. I will put a stop to it all. Your life will be a lot better without this two-legged freak.”

  “I’m gonna buy her a pair of legs this Christmas. Then she will be like all the other dogs.”

  “Buy her legs? What are you talking about?”

  “Prosthetic legs. Dr. Vikram said he can fix her with a pair.” Tyrel was begging now, sniffling between sentences. “If prosthetics don’t work, he will fix her with a small device that has wheels. Either way, she’ll be better before the new year. I will bring her to you then, and you can play with her all you like.”

  “Prosthetic legs? Wheels? How much do they cost?”

  “Around six hundred dollars.”

  “Wow, you must be loaded.” Ricky stood and pointed at one of his friends. “Watch the dog.”

  He came close to Tyrel. He emptied the bottle he was holding in one quick gulp and smashed it on the ground. Tyrel jerked when the glass shattered, and it echoed in the forest beyond.

  “So, you have the money?” Ricky wiped his mouth.

  “I-I don’t. My… mom said she’s gonna lend me some.”

  “Your mom ain’t giving you shit. Everyone knows that. And I’ve seen you working on farms on weekends.” Ricky smirked. “I thought, why would a rich twink like you need to work his ass off? Now I know. You’ve been saving money, haven’t you? Don’t lie to me.”

  “Ricky—”

  “I’m feeling pretty charitable today. You want your disgusting dog, you’re gonna have to give me that money.”

  “But—”

  Ricky slapped Tyrel on the same cheek Mel had slapped him ten minutes ago.

  “I need the money for her.” Tyrel sniffled again.

  He now cried like a kid on his first day of school. Tears and snot flowed over his chin.

  “Jeez, you gross me out. Wipe your face.”

  Tyrel complied.

  “You said you need the money for her, didn’t you?”

  Praying, Tyrel bit his quivering lower lip and nodded weakly.

  “Good. Now you’re spending it to buy this bitch’s freedom.” Ricky pointed at Tyrel’s hand. “Give me that.”

  He handed over the sandwich. Ricky unwrapped it, but instead of tossing it to Sandy, the son of a whore took a mouthful. In three bites, he finished the sandwich. Fear, sadness, and indignation simmered in Tyrel’s mind.

  “Well?” Ricky said.

  When Tyrel didn’t respond, Ricky hit him on the head. From somewhere deep withi
n, an unknown force made Tyrel grab Ricky’s neck. He surprised himself as well as Ricky and his friends. But when the surprise wore off, Ricky kneed Tyrel in his stomach. He let go of Ricky and fell, curling into a ball on the ground. The smell of the wet decaying leaves nauseated him.

  “You get me the money now.” Ricky nudged Sandy with his shoe. “Or the bitch dies.”

  Sandy wiggled her tail and looked at Tyrel, her brown eyes full of regret, as if she felt guilty for not saving him as much as he felt guilty for not having the strength to free her.

  No. Tyrel could free Sandy. He just needed to throw his hard-earned money at this bastard’s face.

  Tyrel struggled and got up. Then he ran back home. In two minutes, he reached his house. Mel was standing out, smoking yet another cigarette.

  “What happened to your face? Your lip’s broken. Ty! What you crying—”

  He dashed into the house and covered the stairs in three seconds. He took Sandy’s box and pocketed all the tens and twenties. On his way back, he stopped at the doorway, near Mel.

  “You didn’t take care of my sick dad. You didn’t take care of my sick Sandy. Just… just how do you live with yourself? And what for?”

  Tyrel sprinted out before Mel could reply. His only job now was to rescue Sandy. He’d promised his dad he would take care of her, and he would never break that promise.

  Tyrel ran through the cemetery entrance, which was now open. The nightshift watchman waved at Tyrel, but he didn’t stop, not wanting to drag an old man into this.

  When he finally reached the stone bench, Ricky was nursing another beer. His eyes were bloodshot, his body unsteady. Tyrel handed over the cash. Ricky took it carelessly and counted twice.

  “Five-sixty. Not bad.” Ricky pushed himself up. “Get him.”

  Before Tyrel could react, Ricky’s friends grabbed his arms. Ricky went around the back of the bench. He bent and retrieved something with a grunt.