Inhuman: Detective Chase hunts an animal who protects his own

by Nathan Senthil

  “You wanna make small talk? Fine. Tell me, have you kept your promise?”

  “What promise?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Mel. I find one animal at Dad’s ranch either sick or missing, and I’m gonna end you.”

  “For god’s sake, they’re fine. Go bone them cattle like how Ben did. Y’all just—”

  Tyrel darted at Mel and clasped a handful of her hair. The car zigzagged before she remembered to brake, and it finally skidded to a halt. All this time, Tyrel neither looked away from her terrified eyes or let go of her hair.

  “You gotta stop with the bad language, for your own good. I will fucking—” He grabbed Mel’s chin with his other hand and forced her stiff head toward him. “Look at me while I’m talking to you. I said if you run your whore mouth again, I will fucking roast you and throw you out to the coyotes.” He leaned closer. She smelled of eggs, bacon, and cigarettes. “Go ahead, Mommy. Try me. I pray you give me a reason.”

  Mel tried to pull away and fight his forearms, but she was comically weak.

  When she understood there was no way to escape, she said, “Your animals, they are fine. A few cows and rams died because they were really old. I swear. Ask that brown doctor of yours. He can—”

  Tyrel tightened his grip. She bit her yellow teeth, grimaced and punched on the steering wheel.

  “Ahhhh!”

  “What the fuck, Mel? Didn’t I just tell you to be decent?”

  “I don’t remember the vet’s goddamn name.” She grunted and clawed the armrest. “Fuck, let go of my hair. You’re gonna rip it off my freaking scalp.”

  He let go. Mel switched on the interior lights, and with her fingertips, traced where he’d just grabbed, before examining them.

  “I think I’m bleeding.”

  “No, you ain’t bleeding. Stop with the bullshit.”

  The rain started to drum on the metal roof.

  “Say, Mel, you seen my friends?” Tyrel smiled.

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “A feller by the name of Ricky.”

  Mel stopped her head examination and stared at him, wide-eyed.

  “The one who killed your dog?”

  Tyrel’s fixed smile and eyes twitched. “That’d be him.”

  “Oh, no. No, no, no, no. You wanna kill him and go to jail, Ty? That’s just a bitch. Let it go, already.”

  Tyrel’s fake smile vanished.

  She was wrong. Sandy had been his life’s only purpose and responsibility.

  Sensing an impending assault, Mel softened her eyebrows.

  “I’m sorry. I meant no offense.” Her hands shook when she turned on the ignition. As the car sped up in the pouring rain, she said, “I’m trying to be a good mother is all, Ty.”

  “Mother?” His lips broadened again.

  Something pricked at the back of his brain, and he dissociated. It felt strange to take the backseat and hand control of your body to your unchaperoned mind. He laughed like a hyena while his heart wept in pain. His eyes leaked torrents of hot rapids on either side of his face.

  “Too late, Mel. Too. Fucking. Late.”

  He was crying, but he didn’t feel weak or helpless. He felt invincible. He was high on rage, which made him shiver in explosive power. He wanted to grab someone and head-butt them until their face resembled road-killed spaghetti. His hands covered his face. From the back of his mind, he heard his laughter getting louder by the second as tears dripped down his forearms.

  The car jerked to a halt.

  He stopped laughing and crying. Between the gaps of his fingers, and through the salty teardrops, he found the car door open. In the rearview mirror, he saw Mel running away in the downpour, barefoot.

  Chapter 10

  August 3, 1996. 09:28 P.M.

  “Tonight is the night of repentance. The night of sacrifice,” Tyrel said, amid the clattering of metal. “Tonight is the night of nextlahualli.”

  Tyrel hoped he had pronounced it right as he rolled an assortment of knives in a T-shirt and crammed them into his old school bag, along with a white tarpaulin folded tight.

  Mel, with a cancer stick dangling between her fingers, watched him nervously from the doorway. Below the hem of her threadbare nightgown, her bruised and swollen feet tapped the floor in agitation. She had managed to walk three miles in the rain before hitching a ride back home.

  Tyrel got up with the bag and headed to the backyard, but she obstructed his path. Did she really think she could stop him? With his free palm, he shoved her onto the door and left the house. He strolled out to the backyard, slinging the bag, the contents inside clattering.

  Sandy’s final resting place had been dug out beside a small shed, beneath which was a storm cellar. Tyrel put the bag in the basement and ran up the stairs. Instead of going through the house, he walked around it to the Buick parked up front. He didn’t want to see Mel. But she was already there, blocking the car door.

  “No, Ty. Please listen to me.”

  Tyrel lifted his leg and stomped on her foot. She jumped out of his way, yelling that he was a son of a bitch.

  He got in and drove toward Willy’s, a seedy bar located in Knollwood, a neighborhood on the other side of the town. Five minutes later he was at his destination, driving up and down the streets encircling the bar. They were clear. He parked on the dark patch of a road that Ricky had been taking home for the last six days. Same route. Same time. Same inebriated totter.

  Tyrel stepped down and checked the area one final time. It was still shadowy and empty. He crouched, moved toward the trunk, and hid between the car and a bush.

  Tyrel, who would never hurt a bed bug, didn’t feel it was such big a deal to kill Ricky. Not that he was unwise to the grave consequences of his little plan. He knew that when, not if, he was caught, he would probably be sentenced to decades of his life in prison. Knowing this didn’t stop him, though. The benefits far outweighed the risk—avenging Sandy would finally bring him peace. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t do something—this thing—for her death. There was no alternate universe, dimension, or reality where Ricky lived through this night.

  He heard gravel crunching under a pair of shoes. Was it time? It must be. Just to make sure, he snuck a peek. It was indeed Ricky, floundering toward the car.

  Tyrel was stronger, yet his former bully held some kind of psychological power over him. So he closed his eyes and tapped into the inferno raging inside to take control. When it did, it made his eyes water. He opened them with one thought—vengeance.

  As soon as Ricky crossed the back of his car, Tyrel came out of hiding. He tiptoed behind Ricky and shouted, “whoo,” in his ear and put him in a sleeper hold at the same time.

  Uncle Charlie had taught him the physiology of chokeholds. The brain needed oxygen more than the lungs did. When the blood flow to it was cut off, it suffocated and passed out. Cerebral hypoxia, he’d said, happened in thirty seconds tops. It was quicker and more effective if the target was startled, as the heart suddenly accelerated the circulation of blood—too much oxygen exited the brain through jugular veins, but none was allowed up through the carotid arteries.

  In fourteen seconds, Ricky’s clawing fingers let up as his flaccid arms slumped to his sides. Tyrel released his forearm and bicep from the bastard’s neck. Then he dragged him to the trunk, tossed him in, and raced away.

  He reached his backyard three minutes later, and the windows on the second floor of his house lit up. The drapes were parted and a silhouette watched him. Not minding it, he reversed the car, parked it in front of the shed, and got out.

  A muffled banging disturbed the quiet of the night. Tyrel opened the trunk and jabbed Ricky on his jaw, and then behind his ear. He was out cold again.

  Tyrel glanced at the window, and the spectator was gone. He smiled and resumed his work.

  “Look what your carelessness made me do, bitch.”

  * * *

  When Ricky came to, he was in a musty basement. He loo
ked up at the shirtless Tyrel in shock and scurried away, wrinkling the white tarp he had been laid on. But eventually his face showed recognition.

  “What the hell? It’s you!”

  Tyrel walked over to him and scrunched low. “You know why this is happening?”

  “Fuck you, twink.” Ricky tried to get up, but a lightening punch on his forehead disoriented him.

  Tyrel turned the dizzy man onto his stomach. He put his boot on Ricky’s elbow, bent down, and grabbed the wrist with steely fingers.

  “It’s high time you reckon who the boss around here is.”

  With his entire weight on the joint, Tyrel stood on the elbow and tugged the arm back. It broke with a long, wet crunch.

  Ricky shrieked.

  “Stay here, or I’m breaking the other one.”

  Tyrel left him squirming on the tarp. He jogged to his bag hanging from a nail on the wall and fetched a big kitchen knife from it. He rolled Ricky onto his back and stood over him. With little to no struggle, he secured Ricky’s splaying arms between his legs. Then he sat on his stomach and pinned him under his crotch. He lifted the knife overhead with both hands.

  “Again, you know why this is happening?”

  “That dog.” Ricky panted as spittle shot out of his mouth.

  “Close your eyes and picture Sandy.”

  Tyrel was now crying rivers, just like his captive—separated by the opposite roles that fate intended them to play, but united in agony.

  “Picture how her tiny head crushed when you dropped that big rock on it.”

  “Pl-please. I am really… sorry. I was drunk and—”

  “I said close your eyes.”

  Tyrel pressed Ricky’s broken bones with his thigh and sensed them grind beneath the skin. Ricky shrieked again.

  “Do it!” Tyrel screamed, his voice carrying the same level of anguish as Ricky’s.

  Ricky finally closed his eyes, understanding that there was no point in begging for something he would never receive. But still, it didn’t prevent him from trying.

  “Mercy… mer—”

  The first stab to his collarbone stopped him mid-sentence, and the next thirty or forty everywhere else killed him. With each sprinkle of blood splattering on Tyrel’s face, the tears it mixed with became hotter, and his laughter became more pronounced and more maniacal. He kept at it until his arms and shoulders burned, until they couldn’t pull out the slippery knife anymore.

  Tyrel spent the last ounce of his energy spitting on Ricky’s face. He abandoned the knife in the dead man’s torso and heaved himself up. While sweating and panting, he watched the blood trickle across the tarp. He staggered to the bag and recovered a roll of toilet paper from it. He cleaned the blood on his palms, and then from the knife handle, which had been too slick to pull.

  When he was done catching his breath, he got back to work. He sat on Ricky’s stomach again and wedged the blade deeper into his sternum. With a thrust that was hard even for him, he pushed the handle to the left. The bones cracked, but not before the steel bent.

  Oh! So, this was why the Aztecs used flint knives instead of metal ones. Anyhow, he’d come prepared. He parted the ribcage with his fourth knife. By this time, the air in the cellar tasted metallic.

  He cut out a mass of flesh from the central cavity, which he believed was the heart—the organ he’d avoided puncturing in his frenzied onslaught. After he had extracted it, he stood with the soft sacrament in his hand. Walked over to a bucket of water he’d kept ready near the staircase, and plopped it in. Then he squatted on a step and proceeded to rinse the heart. When he finished, the sanitized version of the heart was whitish red and slippery.

  Now he must eat it.

  An ocean of hatred and indignation deluged Tyrel’s mind, leaving no room for repugnance or second thoughts. He arched his neck back, opened his mouth wide, and heaved the raw meat to it. The thin tissue broke under his sharp teeth, and thick blood oozed out. He let it dribble over his chin and cascade all the way down to the tattoos.

  Tyrel chewed, but the taste was revolting. He spat it into the water and came to terms with his weakness. He could never be strong like those old priests. So he decided to cook it.

  One way or another, it must go to his stomach. To the pyramids. It didn’t matter how.

  * * *

  Tyrel felt awful. Ricky was gone, and the sheriff might knock on his door any day now. Did it really matter what happened now? No, he had nothing to live for. It didn’t feel like he’d won. He was still angry and without peace.

  Hate and revenge didn’t work like he thought they would. They were not reciprocal, but linear, moving only in one direction. Now Ricky’s single dad had to live with the loss of his boy. It would turn the father, who was already a bitter alcoholic, into a violent person. Just like how the loss of Sandy had changed him.

  Tyrel was passing hate throughout the world, making it worse. He could have forgiven Ricky, broken this chain, and made a small difference. But he was too weak and had given into the deadliest of the seven sins.

  But was it really a sin? He hadn’t punished someone who didn’t deserve it. To be frank, he didn’t feel guilty at all for killing Ricky. On the contrary, he wished he had prolonged the torture.

  And it was enthralling to break bones, stab, cut, and hurt people with his newfound strength. Really hurt people, which his uncle had never allowed in the ring.

  The taste of the savory dish he’d made from simmering Ricky’s minced heart in hot sauce, hours ago, still lingered in his mouth. But how was he ever going to get that delicious rush again?

  Tyrel loved the concept of human sacrifices in Aztec culture. If a person was killed atop the pyramid and his blood ran down the steps while the priest consumed his heart, it meant he had paid back their debts to the spirits. Now Ricky could consider paid the debt he owed Sandy.

  But Ricky wasn’t the only one who hurt animals, was he? There were many mean people like him. Some who did it professionally—he’d never forgotten his visit to the pig farm. They made their lives, their millions, from the murder of innocent animals. These people owed so much to these wronged creatures.

  They owed their lives.

  People like Ricky didn’t deserve to live and getting rid of them made Tyrel a good man. Tyrel never did drugs, but he knew none of them could beat the euphoria he experienced when he butchered Ricky. It was the purest form of natural high. Primal power.

  An epiphany brightened his hopeless mind. He knew what he should make out of his meaningless life. He wanted to be a debt collector.

  Chapter 11

  August 12, 1996. 11:05 A.M.

  Tyrel was back in school, fulfilling his dad’s wish of him becoming a computer programmer. Mel’s hefty bribe helped him skip grades and join the same class he attended before he went to LA. She’d paid top dollar for doing this because she wanted him out of the house as much as possible. Who’d want a murderer near them? Especially when that murderer knew you were a potential witness?

  The town’s deputies didn’t question Tyrel regarding Ricky’s disappearance. Or anyone, for that matter. Apparently Ricky hadn’t been staying with his dad, not after he’d dropped out of school years ago. He was between jobs when Tyrel abducted him. By the time his dad noticed Ricky’s absence and contacted the authorities, it had already been a week since Tyrel had slaughtered and consumed him. And any trace of Ricky in the basement had been wiped away. Talk about beginner’s luck.

  The lead deputy didn’t treat the case as a missing person’s investigation. They surmised, along with everyone else in town, that Ricky had run away. Nobody went missing there. Missing meant crime, and crime didn’t happen in their perfect little town. There were just runaways. Many teenagers had disappeared in the past, only to resurface years later.

  Ricky fit the checklist—a drop-out, malcontent, living alone, and experimenting with booze and drugs. So the sheriff’s office wasn’t wrong about the idea, only wrong to apply it to Ricky. No one would ever
know what happened to him except Tyrel.

  He buried Ricky in Ben’s ranch and kept his skull as a keepsake. Not the entire skull—just the upper part, without the jawbone. He’d scraped off the gristle with the help of a slow cooker, a knife, and a bent coat hanger, and had sterilized it with Dawn dishwashing liquid and bleach. He’d painted it black and drawn tribal designs on it. Only this smooth, shiny memento remained of his old bully.

  And there weren’t any new bullies around. The school was in no way the institution he used to dread. It was the opposite. Due to his ripped muscles, boys gave him a wide berth, while girls gave him their hearts, which he didn’t care for. Not to say he didn’t care for one.

  The one heart he truly wanted—not literally—was beating inside a person sitting behind him in class. Shane, a new boy in town, was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid his eyes on. The two times he sneaked a look back, Shane had been looking straight at him, giving him the eye. Tyrel turned to the board, forgetting how to breathe.

  During lunch, Shane found the solitary Tyrel and sat across from him. Tyrel’s insides turned gooey. He felt butterflies in his stomach and his cheeks getting warm.

  “I’m Shane.” He offered a hand.

  Tyrel hesitantly touched it. Soft, graceful fingers wrapped around his rugged mitt. The elegance with which they clasped Tyrel’s hand refined his soul, and God’s unconditional love passed through him. He wanted to hold that hand and go for long walks on sandy beaches, sway in squeaky swings, watch old movies in theaters. Hold it and never let go.

  “This is the part where you introduce yourself? And… um… may I have my hand back?”

  Don’t be weird.

  Tyrel let go and scratched the back of his head, smiling nervously.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Okay, Sorry. Nice to meet you.”

  Tyrel frowned and Shane chuckled.

  “I’m not—” Tyrel cleared his throat. “I’m Tyrel.”

  “You are funny.” Shane passed him a bottle of water.

  “Oh...” Tyrel took the bottle.

  Shane smiled warmly. Perfect gum-to-teeth ratio. Tyrel was transfixed by his alluring eyes. They were blue, like the ocean. Also like the ocean, they were deep and full of mysteries.