[ English] The Hunt

Author : Andrew Fukuda

Don't Sweat. Don't Laugh. Don't draw attention to yourself. And most of all, whatever you do, do not fall in love with one of them.
Gene is different from everyone else around him. He can't run with lightning speed, sunlight doesn't hurt him and he doesn't have an unquenchable lust for blood. Gene is a human, and he knows the rules. Keep the truth a secret. It's the only way to stay alive in a world of night--a world where humans are considered a delicacy and hunted for their blood.
When he's chosen for a once in a lifetime opportunity to hunt the last remaining humans, Gene's carefully constructed life begins to crumble around him. He's thrust into the path of a girl who makes him feel things he never thought possible--and into a ruthless pack of hunters whose suspicions about his true nature are growing. Now that Gene has finally found something worth fighting for, his need to survive is stronger than ever--but is it worth the cost of his humanity?

 

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 1



THERE USED TO be more of us. I'm certain of this. Not enough to fi l a sports stadium or even a movie theater, but certainly more than what's left today. Truth is, I don't think there's any of us left. Except me. It's what happens when you're a delicacy. When you're craved. You go extinct.

Eleven years ago, one was discovered in my school. A kindergarten student, on her fi rst day. She was devoured almost immediately.

What was she thinking? Maybe the sudden (and it's always sudden) loneliness at home drove her to school under some misbegotten idea that she'd fi nd companionship.

The teacher announced nap time, and the little tyke was left standing alone on the fl oor clutching her teddy bear as her classmates leaped feetfi rst toward the ceiling. At that point, it was over for her. Over. She might as wel have taken out her fake fangs and prostrated herself for the inevitable feasting. Her classmates stared down wide- eyed from above: Hello, what have we here? She started to cry, they tel me, bawl her eyes out. The teacher was the fi rst to get to her.

After kindergarten, when you're free and clear of naps, that's when you show up at school. Although you can still get caught by surprise. One time, my swimming coach was so enraged by the team's lethargic per for mance at a school meet, he forced all of us take a nap in the changing room. He was only making a point, of course, but that point near did me in.

By the way, swimming is fi ne, but don't do any other sport if you can help it. Because sweat is a dead giveaway. Sweat is what happens when we get hot; water droplets leak out like a baby drooling. I know, gross. Everyone else remains cool, clean, dry. Me? I'm a leaky faucet. So forget about cross- country, forget about tennis, forget about even competitive chess. But swimming is fi ne, because it hides the sweat.

That's just one of the rules. There're many others, all of them indoctrinated into me by my father from the time I was born. Never smile or laugh or giggle, never cry or get teary- eyed. At all times, carry a bland, stoic expression; the only emotions that ever crack the surface of people's faces are heper- cravings and romantic- lust, and I am obviously to have nothing to do with either. Never forget to apply butter liberal y all over your body when venturing out in the daytime. Because in a world like this, it's a tough task explaining a sunburn, or even a suntan. So many other rules, enough to fi l a notebook, not that I ever felt inclined to write them down. Being caught with a “rulebook” would be just as damning as a sunburn.

Besides, my father reminded me of the rules every day. As the sun was going down, over breakfast, he'd go over a few of the many rules. Like: Don't make friends; don't inadvertently fal asleep in class (boring classes and long bus rides were especial y dangerous); don't clear your throat; don't ace your exams, even though they insult your intel igence; don't let your good looks get the better of you; no matter how the girls might throw their hearts and bodies at you, never give in to that temptation. Because you must always remember that your looks are a curse, not a blessing. Never forget that. He'd say all this while giving my nails a quick once- over, making sure that they weren't chipped or scratched.

The rules are now so ingrained in me, they're as unbendable as the rules of na-ture. I've never been tempted to break any of them.

Except one. When I fi rst started taking the horse- drawn school bus, my father forbade me from looking back at him to wave good-bye. Because people never do that. That was a hard rule for me, initial y. For the fi rst few days of school, as I stepped onto the bus, it took everything in me to freeze myself, to not look back and wave good- bye. It was like a refl ex, an insuppressible cough. I was just a kid back then, too, which made it doubly hard.

I broke that rule only one time, seven years ago. It was the day after my father staggered into the house, his clothes disheveled as if he'd been in a tussle, his neck punctured.

He'd gotten careless, just a momentary lapse, and now he had two clear incisions in his neck. Sweat poured down his face, staining his shirt. You could see he already knew. A frenzied look in his eyes, panic running up his arms as he gripped me tight. “You're alone now, my son,” he said through clenched teeth, spasms starting to ripple across his chest.

Minutes later, when he started to shiver, his face shockingly cold to the touch, he stood up. He rushed out the door into the dawn light.

I locked the door as he'd instructed me to do and ran to my room.

I stuffed my face into the pil ow and screamed and screamed. I knew what he was doing at that very moment: running, as far away from the house before he transformed and the rays of sunlight became like waterfal s of acid burning through his hair, his muscles, his bones, his kidney, lungs, heart.

The next day, as the school bus pul ed up in front of my house, steam gushing from the horses' wide and wet nostrils, I broke the rule. I couldn't help myself: I turned around as I stepped onto the bus. But by then, it didn't matter. The driveway was empty in the dark birth of night. My father was not there. Not then or ever again.

My father was right. I became alone that day. We were once a family of four, but that was a long time ago. Then it was just my father and me, and it was enough. I missed my mother and sister, but I was too young to form any real attachments with them. They are vague shapes in my memory. Sometimes, though, even now, I hear the voice of a woman singing and it always catches me off guard. I hear it and I think: Mother had a really pretty voice. My father, though. He missed them terribly. I never saw him cry, not even after we had to burn all the photos and notebooks. But I'd wake up in the middle of the day and fi nd him staring out the un-shuttered window, a beam of sunshine plunging down on his heavy face, his broad shoulders shaking.

My father had prepared me to be alone. He knew that day would eventual y come, although I think deep down he believed it was he who would be the last one left, not me.

He spent years dril -ing the rules into me so I knew them better than my own self. Even now, as I get ready for school at dusk, that laborious pro cess of washing, fi ling my nails, shaving my arms and legs (and recently, even a few chest hairs), rubbing ointment (to mask the odor), polishing my fake fangs, I hear his voice in my head, going over the rules.

Like today. Just as I'm slipping on my socks, I hear his voice. The usual warnings: Don't go to sleepovers; don't hum or whistle. But then I hear this rule he'd say maybe just once or twice a year. He said it so infrequently, maybe it wasn't a rule but something else, like a life motto. Never forget who you are. I never knew why my father would say that. Because it's like saying don't forget water is wet, the sun is bright, snow is cold. It's redundant. There's no way I could ever forget who I am. I'm reminded every moment of every day. Every time I shave my legs or hold in a sneeze or stifl e a laugh or pretend to fl inch at a slip of stray light, I am reminded of who I am.

A fake person.

The Heper Lottery BECAUSE I TURNED seventeen this year, I'm no longer mandated to ride the school bus. I walk now, gladly.

The horses— dark, gargantuan brutes that came into favor long ago for their game- fi nding ability but are now consigned to pul ing carriages and buses— can detect my unique odor. More than once they've swung their noses in my direction, singling me out, their nostrils gaping wide, like a wet, silent scream. I much prefer the solitude of walking under the darkening dusk sky.

I leave home early, as I do every night. By the time I walk through the front gates, students and teachers are already streaming in on horse back and carriages, gray shapes in a murky blackness.

It is cloudy to night and especial y dark. “Dark” is this term my father used to describe the nighttime, when things get covered over in blackness. Darkness makes me squint, which is one reason it's so dangerous. Everyone else squints only when eating something sour or smel ing something putrid. Nobody ever squints just because it's dark; it's a dead giveaway, so I never let so much as a crease cross my brow. In every class, I sit near the mercurial lamps that emit the barest suggestion of light (most people prefer gray- dark over pitch-black). That cuts down on the risk of an inadvertent squint.

People hate those seats near the lamps— too much glare — so I can always fi nd a seat by one.

I also hate getting called on in class. I've survived by blending in, defl ecting attention. Getting called on in class puts the spotlight solely on me. Like this morning, when I get called on by the teacher in trig class. He cal s on students more than anyone else, which is why I detest the man. He also has the puniest handwriting ever, and his faint scribbles on the board are near impossible to see in the gray- dark.

“Wel , H6? What do you think?”

H6 is my designation. I'm in row H, seat 6: thus my designation.

My designation changes depending on where I am. In my social studies class, for example, I'm known as D4. “Mind if I pass on this one?” I say.

He stares blankly at me. “Actual y, I do. This is the second time in a week you've done this.”

I look at the blackboard. “It's got me stumped.” I resist trying...

 

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 2



“Give it a shot, come on now.”

“I really don't know.”

“What's gotten into you? This is basic stuff for you.” He peers at me. I'm one of the smarter students in school, and he knows that.

Truth is, I could easily be the top student if I wanted to— grades come that easily to me, I don't even have to study— but I deliberately dumb down. There'd be too much attention at the top. “Look here.

Let's work together on this. Just read the question fi rst.”

Suddenly the situation has intensifi ed. But nothing to panic over. Yet.

“Guess my brain's not quite awake yet.”

“But just read the question. That's all .” His voice now holds an edge of sternness.

Suddenly I don't like this at all . He's beginning to take it personal y.

More eyes start to peer back at me.

Out of ner vous ness, I begin to clear my throat. Then catch myself. Just in time. People never clear their throats. I breathe in, forc-ing myself to slow down time. I resist the urge to wipe my upper lip where I suspect smal beads of sweat are starting to form.

“Do I need to ask you again?”

In front of me, Ashley June is staring more intently at me.

For a moment, I wonder if she's staring at my upper lip.

Does she see a slight glisten of sweat there? Did I miss shaving a hair? Then she puts up an arm, a long slender pale arm like a swan's neck arising out of the water.

“I think I know,” she says, and gets up from her seat. She takes the chalk from the teacher, who is taken aback by her forthrightness.

Students don't usual y approach the board uninvited. But then again, this is Ashley June, who pretty much gets by with what ever she wants. She gazes up at the equation, then writes with a quick fl ourish in large letters and numbers. Moments later, she's done and adds her own check mark and an “A+” at the end. Dusting off her hands, she sits back down. Some of the students start scratching their wrists, as does the teacher. “That was pretty funny,” he says. “I like that.” He scratches his wrist faster, demonstrably, and more students join him. I hear the rasp rasp rasp of nails scratching against wrists.

I join them, scratching my wrists with my long nails, hating it.

Because my wrists are defective. They don't itch when I fi nd something humorous. My natural instinct is to smile— smiling is this thing I do by widening my mouth and exposing my teeth— and not to scratch my wrist. I have sensitive nerve endings there, not a funny bone.

A message on the PA system suddenly sounds over the loud-speakers. Instantly, everyone stops scratching and sits up. The voice is robotic, man- female, authoritative.

“An important announcement,” it blares. “To night, in just three hours at two A.M., there will be a nationwide Declaration made by the Ruler. all citizens are required to participate. Accordingly, all classes held at that time will be canceled. Teachers, students, and all administrative staff wil gather in the assembly hal to watch the live broadcast from our beloved Ruler.”

And that's it. After the sign- off chimes, nobody speaks.

We're stunned by this news. The Ruler— who hasn't been seen in stunned by this news. The Ruler— who hasn't been seen in public in decades— almost never makes a TV appearance. He usual y leaves Palatial and other administrative announcements to the four Ministers under him (Science, Education, Food, Law) or the fi fteen Directors (Horse Engineering, City Infrastructure, Heper Studies, and so on) under them.

And the fact that he is making a Declaration is missed by no one. Everyone starts speculating about the Declaration.

A nationwide Declaration is reserved for only the rarest of occasions. Over the past fi fteen years, it's happened only twice. Once to announce the Ruler's marriage. And second, most famously, to announce the Heper Hunt.

Although the last Heper Hunt occurred ten years ago, people still talk about it. The Palace surprised the public when it announced it had been secretly harboring eight hepers. Eight living, blood- fi l ed hepers. To lift morale during a time of economic depression, the Ruler decided to release the hepers into the wild. These hepers, kept under confi nement for years, were fattened and slow, bewildered and frightened. Cast out into the wild like lambs to the slaughter, they never had a chance. They were given a twelve- hour head start. Then, a lucky group chosen by lottery were permitted to give chase after them. The Hunt was over in two hours. The event generated a surge in popularity for the Ruler.

As I walk to the cafeteria for lunch, I hear the buzz of excitement. Many are hoping for an announcement of another Heper Hunt. There is talk of a lottery for citizens again. Others are skeptical— haven't hepers become extinct? But even the doubters are drooling at the possibility, lines of saliva dripping down their chins and under their shirts. Nobody has tasted a heper, drunken its blood, feasted on its fl esh, for years now. To think that the government might be harboring some hepers, to think that every citizen might have a shot at winning the lottery for the Hunt . . . it sends the school into a tizzy.

I remember the Hunt from ten years ago. How for months afterward I didn't dare fal asleep because of the nightmares that would invade my mind: hideous images of an imagined Hunt, wet and violent and ful of blood. Horrifi c cries of fear and panic, the sound of fl esh ripped and bones crushed puncturing the night still ness. I'd wake up screaming, inconsolable even as my father wrapped his arms protectively around me in a strong hug. He'd tel me everything was all right, that it was just a dream, that it wasn't real; but what he didn't know was that even as he spoke, I'd hear the lingering sounds of my sister's and mother's wretched screams echoing in my ears, spil ing out of my nightmares and into the darkness of my all - too-real world.

The cafeteria is packed and boisterous. Even the kitchen staff are discussing the Declaration as they scoop food— synthetic meats— onto plates. Lunchtime has always been a chal enge for me because I don't have any friends. I'm a loner, partly because it's safer— less interaction, less chance of being found out. Mostly, though, it's the prospect of being eaten alive by your so- called friend that kil s any possibility of shared intimacy. Cal me picky, but imminent death at the hands (or teeth) of a friend who would suckle blood out of you at the drop of a hat . . . that throws a monkey wrench into friend-ship building.

So I eat lunch alone most of the time. But today, by the time I pay for my food at the cash register, there's barely a seat left. Then I spot F5 and F19 from math class sitting together, and I join them.

They're both idiots, F19 slightly more so. In my mind, I cal them Idiot and Doofus.

“Guys,” I say.

“Hey,” Idiot replies, barely looking up.

“Everyone's talking about the Declaration,” I say.

“Yes,” Doofus says, stuffi ng his mouth. We eat silently for a while. That's the way it is with Idiot and Doofus. They are computer geeks, staying up into the wee hours of the day.

When I eat with them— maybe once a week— sometimes we don't say anything at all . That's when I feel closest to them.

“I've been noticing something,” Doofus says after a while.

I glance up at him. “What's that?”

“Somebody's been paying quite a bit of attention to you.”

He takes another bite into the meat, raw and bloody. It dribbles down his chin, plopping into his bowl.

“You mean the math teacher? I know what you mean, the guy won't leave me alone in trig—”

“No, I meant somebody else. A girl.”

This time, both Idiot and I look up.

“For real?” Idiot asks.

Doofus nods. “She's been looking at you for the past few minutes.”

“Not me.” I take another sip. “She's probably staring at one of you.”

Idiot and Doofus look at each other. Idiot scratches his wrist a few times.

“Funny, that,” Doofus says. “I swear she's been eyeing you for a while now. Not just today. But every lunchtime for the past few weeks, I see her watching you.”

“What ever,” I say, feigning disinterest.

“No, look, she's staring at you right now. Behind you at the table by the window.”

Idiot spins around to look. When he turns back around, he's scratching his wrist hard and fast.

“What's so funny?” I ask, taking another sip, resisting the urge to turn around.

Idiot only scratches his wrist harder and faster. “You should take a look. He's not kidding.”

Slowly, I turn around and steal a quick glance. There's only one table by the window. A circle of girls eating there. The Desirables.

That's what they are known as. And that round table is theirs, and everyone knows by some unwritten rule that you leave that table alone. It is the domain of the Desirables, the pop u lar girls, the ones with the cute boyfriends and designer clothes. You approach that table only if they let you. I've seen even their boyfriends waiting dutiful y off to the side until granted permission to approach.

Not one of...

 

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 3



Swimming practice after lunch— yes, my coach is a maniac— is almost called off. None of the squad members can concentrate. The locker room is abuzz with the latest rumors about the Declaration.

I wait for the room to clear before getting changed. I'm just slipping out of my clothes when someone walks in. “Yo,”

Poser, the team captain, says, ripping off his clothes and slipping into his extra- tight Speedos. He drops down for push- ups, infl ating his tri-ceps and chest muscles. A dumbbel sits in his locker awaiting his biceps curls. His Buffness the Poser does this before every practice, jacking up to the max. He has a fan club out there, mostly fresh-men and sophomores on the girls' squad. I've seen him let them touch his pecs. The girls used to gawk at me, the braver ones sidling up and trying to talk to me during practice until they realized I pre-ferred to be alone. Poser has thankful y drawn away most of that attention.

He does ten more push- ups in quick succession. “It's got to be about a Heper Hunt,” he says, pausing halfway down.

“And they should forget about doing it by lottery this time.

They should just pick the strongest among us. That would,”

he says, fi nishing his push- up, “be me.”

“No doubt about,” I say. “It's always been brawn over brains in the Hunt. Survival of the fi ttest—”

“And winner takes all ,” he fi nishes as he pushes out ten more push- ups, the last three on one hand. “Life distil ed down to its raw-est essence. Gotta love it. Because brute strength always wins. Always has, always will .” He runs his hand over his bicep, looking approvingly, and heads out the door. Only then do I ful y remove my clothes and put on my trunks.

Coach is already barking at us as we jump in and continues to berate us for our lack of focus as we swim our laps. The water, always too cold for me even on a normal day, is freezing today. Even a few of my classmates complain about it, and they almost never complain about the water temperature. Water at cold temperatures affects me in a way it doesn't anyone else. I shiver, get something my father called “goose bumps.” It's one of the many ways I'm different from everyone else. Because despite my near identical physiological similarity with them, there are seismic fundamental differences that lie beneath the frail and deceptive surface of similarity.

Everyone is slower today. Distracted, no doubt. I need more speed, more effort. It takes everything in me to stop shivering. Even when the water is at its usual temperature, with everyone splashing away, it usual y takes a ful twenty minutes before I'm warm enough.

Today, instead of getting warmer, I feel my body getting colder. I need to swim faster.

After a warm- up lap, as we are resting up on the shal ow end, I am almost overcome by a sudden urge to kick off and swim the forbidden stroke.

Only my father has seen me use it. Years ago. During one of our daytime excursions to a local pool. For what ever reason, I dipped my head underwater. It is the fi rst sign of drowning, when-ever even the nose and ears dip below the surface. Lifeguards are trained to watch for this: see half a head submerge underwater, and they're instantly reaching for their whistles and life preservers.

That's why the water level, even at the deep end, goes up only to our waists. It's the depth that gets to people, renders them inca-pacitated. If their feet can't touch bottom without their jaw line sinking below water, a panic attack seizes them like a refl ex. They freeze up, sink, drown. So even though swimming is considered the domain of adrenaline junkies, those will ing to fl irt with death, real y, it's not. Here in the pool, you can simply stand up at the fi rst 16 ANDREW FUKUDA sign of trouble. The water is so shal ow, even your bel y button won't drown.

But me that day, dipping my head underwater. I don't know what possessed me. I ducked my head below and did this thing with my breath. I don't know how to describe it except to say I gripped it. Held it in place in my lungs behind a closed mouth. And for a few seconds, I was fi ne. More than a few seconds. More like ten.

Ten seconds, my head underwater, and I didn't drown.

It wasn't even scary. I opened my eyes, my arms pale blurs before me. I heard my father yel ing, the sound of water splashing toward me. I told him I was fi ne. I showed him what to do. He didn't believe at fi rst, kept asking if I was okay. But eventual y, he came around to doing it himself. He didn't like it, not one bit.

The next time we went swimming, I did the same thing. And then some. This time, with my head underwater, I stretched out my arms, stroked them over my head, one after the other. I pul ed on the water, kicked my legs. It was awesome. Then I stood up, choking on water. Coughed it out. My father, worried, waded toward me. But I took off again, arms reaching up and over, pul ing the water under me, legs and feet kicking the water, my father left in my wake. I was fl ying.

But when I swam back, my father was shaking his head, with anger, with fear. He didn't need to say anything (even though he did, endlessly); I already knew. He called it “the forbidden stroke.”

He didn't want me to swim that way anymore. And so I never did.

But today I'm freezing in the water. Everyone is just going through the motions, even chatting to one another, heads smiling above water as hands and feet paddle underneath like pond ducks.

I want to stroke hard, kick out, warm up.

And then I feel it. A shudder rippling through my body.

I lift up my right arm. It's dotted with goose bumps, grotesque little bumps like cold chicken skin. I paddle harder, propel ing my body forward. Too fast. My head knocks up against the feet of the person in front. When it happens again, he shoots a glare back at me.

I slow down.

Cold seeps into my bones. I know what I have to do. Get out of the water before the shivering gets out of control, escape into the locker room. But when I lift my arms, goose bumps — disgustingly like bubble wrap— prickle out, obvious to all. Then something weird happens to my jaw. It starts to chatter up, vibrate, knock my teeth together. I clench my mouth shut.

When the team completes the lap, we rest up before heading out for the next lap. We've all paced ourselves too fast and have twelve seconds before the next lap. It's going to be the longest twelve seconds of my life.

“They forgot to turn on the heat,” somebody complains.

“Water's too cold.”

“The maintenance crew. Probably too busy talking about the Declaration.”

The water levels off at our waists. But I stay crouched, keeping my body underwater. I trail my fi ngers over my skin. Little bumps all over. I glance up at the clock. Ten more seconds. Ten more seconds to just fl y under the radar and hope— “What's the matter with you?” Poser says, gazing at me.

“You look sick.” The rest of the team turns around.

“N-no- nothing,” I say, my voice chattering. I grip my voice and bark it out again. “Nothing.”

“Sure?” he asks again.

I nod my head, not trusting my voice. My eyes fl ick at the clock.

Nine seconds to go. It's as if the clock is stuck in Super Glue.

“Coach!” Poser yel s, his right arm motioning. “Something's wrong with him.”

Coach's head snaps around, his body half a beat behind.

The assistant coach is already moving toward us.

I raise my hands, up to the wrists. “I'm okay,” I assure them, but my voice trembles. “Just fi ne, let's swim.”

A girl in front of me studies me closely. “Why is his voice doing that? Shaking like that?”

Fear ices my spine. A soupy sensation steals into my stomach, churning it upside down. Do what ever it takes to survive, my father would tel me, his hand smoothing down my hair. What ever it takes.

And in that moment with the coaches coming toward me and everyone staring at me, I fi nd a way to survive. I vomit into the pool, a heaving green yel ow mess fi l ed with sticky spittle and gooey saliva. It's not a lot, and most of it just fl oats on the surface like an oil spil . A few colorless chunks drift downward.

“That's so disgusting!” the girl shril s, splashing vomit away as she jumps backward. The other swimmers also move away, arms and hands slapping at the water. The green slick of vomit fl oats haphazardly back toward me.

“You get out of the water now!” Coach yel s at me.

I do. Most people are too distracted by the vomit in the pool to notice my body. It's ridden with goose bumps. And shaking. Coach and his assistant are making their way to me. I hold up my arm, pretend I'm about to upchuck again.

They stop in their tracks.

I run into the locker room, bent over. Inside, I make retching sounds as I towel off and throw my clothes on. I don't have much time before they come in. Even with the clothes on, I'm still shivering. I hear them getting closer now. I jump down onto the fl oor and start doing push- ups. Anything to get my body warmer.

But it's useless. I can't stop shivering. And when I hear the fi rst voices cautiously enter the locker room, I grab my bag and head out. “I don't feel wel ,” I say as I walk past them.

Disgust pul s their faces down as they step...

 

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 4



Just in time. The Ruler, sitting at his desk in the Circular Offi ce, is beginning his speech. His hands are clasped, his long fi ngers interlaced, the nails gleaming under the spotlights.

“My dear citizens,” he begins. “When it was announced earlier this eve ning that I would be speaking, many of you”— he pauses dramatical y—“if not all of you, were intrigued, to say the least.

My advisers have informed me that concern spread across this great land, and that many of you were overwrought with speculation and even undue worry. I apologize if that happened; it was not my intent. For I come to you with news not of war or distress, but of great tidings.”

Everyone in the auditorium leans forward at this. all across the land, over fi ve mil ion citizens huddle around TVs and large screens with bated breath.

“My announcement to you, gentle people, is that this year we will once again hold that most esteemed of events.” His tongue slips out, wets his lips. “For the fi rst time in a de cade, we will once again have a Heper Hunt!”

At that, everyone's heads snap back and forth, side to side, loud snorts issuing out of their noses. The auditorium, fi l ed with the staccato movement of snapping heads and the sound of suctioned air, reverberates with excitement.

“Now, before I sign off and the Director of the Heper Institute furnishes you with the details, let me say that such an event is em-blematic of who we are. It encapsulates al that makes this nation transcendent: character, integrity, perseverance. May the best succeed!”

A raucous stomping of feet fi l s the auditorium. As one, we stand with him, placing our hands over our throats as his image on the screen fades out. Then the Director of the Heper Institute speaks.

He is a wiry, sharp man, offi cious in demeanor, dressed to the nines.

There will be a hunting party of between fi ve and ten this year, he tel s us. “This is a democracy we live in, where every person counts, where every person matters. Thus, every citizen over the age of fi fteen and under the age of sixty- fi ve will receive a randomly assigned sequence of four numbers. In exactly twenty- four hours, the numbers of the sequence will be randomly picked and publicly announced live on TV. Anywhere between fi ve to ten of you will have this winning sequence.”

Heads snap back, spines crack. Five to ten citizens!

“The lottery winners will be immediately taken to the Heper Institute of Refi ned Research and Discovery for a four- night training period. Then the Hunt will begin.” The auditorium breaks out in hisses and snarls. The Director continues. “The rules of the Hunt are simple: The hepers wil be given a twelve- hour head start into the desert plains.

Then the hunters will be released. The goal? Chase the hepers down, eat more of them than any other hunter.” He stares into the camera lens. “But we're getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we? First, you have to be one of the few lucky lottery winners. Good luck to you all .”

Then more foot stomping, silenced with an uplifted hand.

“One more thing,” he says. “Did I mention anything about the hepers?”

He pauses; everyone leans forward. “Most of the hepers were too young for the previous Hunt. They were mere babies back then, real y. It would have been cruel, barbaric, and, wel , simply unfair to have babies as prey.” A cruel glint perches in his eyes. “But since that time, we have raised them in the most control ed of environments.

To ensure not only that will they provide us with succulent fl esh and rich blood, but that they will also be more . . .

dexterous than last time. Final y, as we speak to night, they are ripe and ready for sport and consumption.”

More wrist scratching and drooling.

“Good citizens,” the Director continues, “there is no time like the present. Most of you will receive your lottery numbers at your workstation within a minute. Mothers at home, your numbers will be sent via e-mail to your offi cial account. And for those in high school and col ege, your numbers are awaiting you back at your desk. Good luck to you all .” His image fades out.

Usual y we are led out in orderly fashion, row by row. But today there is pandemonium as the student body— a slippery, sloppy soup— gushes out. The teachers, usual y lined up along the side directing traffi c, are the fi rst ones out, hurrying to the staff room.

Back in my homeroom, everyone is maniacal y logging in, long nails tapping against the glass deskscreen. I am al fakery as I put on my act of shaking my head and drooling.

At the top of my in-box, in large caps and in crimson red, is the lottery e-mail: Re: YOUR HEPER HUNT LOTTERY

NUMBERS

And these are my numbers: 3 16 72 87.

I could care less.

Everyone shoots off their numbers to one another. Within a minute, we realize that the fi rst number in the sequence ranges from only 1 to 9; the remaining three numbers in the sequence range from 0 to 99. A meaningless tal y over the fi rst number is drawn up on the blackboard:

First sequence number

# of students with that number 1 3 2 4 3 1 4 5 5 3 6 2 7 4 8 3 9 2 Irrational theories are quickly developed. For what ever reason, 4— being the most common number in our classroom— is surmised as having the best chance of being the fi rst number selected. And 3, with only one hit— me—is quickly dismissed as having no chance.

all fi ne with me.

It's dark when I arrive home, a hint of gray smearing the sky.

In another hour, the morning sun will peek over the distant mountains to the east. A siren will sound; anyone outside wil have only fi ve minutes to fi nd shelter before the sun's rays turn lethal. But it's rare for anyone to be outside by that point. Fear of the sun ensures that by the time the sirens sound, the streets are empty and windows shuttered.

As I slip my key into the keyhole, I suddenly sense something is off. A fragrance? I can't put my fi nger on it. I scan the driveway and streets. Other than a few horse- drawn carriages hurrying home, no one's around. I sniff the air, wondering if I imagined it.

Somebody was just here. A few moments before I arrived.

I live alone. I have never invited anyone here. Other than me, nobody has even stood at the front door before. Until today.

Cautiously, I make my way around the perimeter of the house, looking for signs of disturbance. Everything looks fi ne. The stockpile of cash left by my father and secreted in the fl oor boards, though slowly diminishing, is untouched.

Closing the front door, I stand listening in the darkness of my home. No one else in here. Whoever was standing outside never came in. Only then do I light the candles.

Colors break out.

This is my favorite time of day. When I feel like a prisoner taking his fi rst steps of freedom or a diver rising from the depths of the mythical sea, drawing in his fi rst gasps of air. This is the moment, after the endless gray black hours of night, I see color again. Under the fl ickering light of the candle, colors burst into being, fl ooding the room with pools of melted rainbows.

I put dinner in the micro wave. I have to cook it twenty times, because the timer only goes up to fi fteen seconds. Hot, slightly charred, is my preference, not the tepid, soppy mess I'm forced to eat outside. I remove my fangs, place them in my pocket. Then I bite into the burger, relishing the heat as it attacks my teeth, savor-ing the solid feel of charred crispiness. I close my eyes in enjoyment.

And feel dirty, ashamed.

After my shower— showering is this thing you do where you rub gobs of hand sanitizer and pour water over your body to get rid of odor— I lie on the sofa, my head propped up on folded sweatshirts.

Only one candle is alight; it casts fl ickering shadows on the ceiling.

Sleep- holds dangle above me, placed there years ago merely for show on the off chance a visitor might drop by.

The radio is on, the volume set low. “Many experts are speculating that the number of hepers will be in the range of three to fi ve,” the radio analyst says.

“But because the Director was silent on this issue, there really is no way of knowing.”

The radio program continues, with a few cal ers chiming in, including a crotchety woman who speculates that the whole thing is rigged: the “winner” will end up being someone with deep pockets and close friends in high places. Her cal is suddenly cut off. Other cal ers weigh in about the number of hepers in the Hunt this time.

Only one thing is for certain: it has to be at least two, because the Director— in a voice loop that has been played over and over— used the plural tense: heper s.

I listen to a few more cal ers, then get up and switch off the radio. In the quiet that fol ows, I hear the gentle pit- pat of rain on the shutters.

My father sometimes took me out in the daytime. Except for the times he took me swimming, I hated going outside.

Even with sunglasses, the brightness was overwhelming.

The burning sun was like an unblinking eye, spil ing light like acid out of a beaker, turning the city into an endless fl ash.

Nothing moved out there.

He would take me to empty sports stadiums and vacant shop-ping mal s. Nothing was locked, because sunlight provided the best security. We'd have the whole Core Park to fl y kites or the empty public pool to swim in. He told me this ability to withstand...

 

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 5



It's an endless stretch of desert plains. Nobody knows how far it goes or what lies beyond it.

Because I live in the outer suburbs, far from the tal offi ce build-ings of the Financial District and farther yet from the center of the metropolis where towering governmental skyscrapers clutter the landscape, it doesn't take long before the city is wel behind me.

The city boundary is vague: there's no wal to demarcate the beginning of the Vast. It arrives indiscernibly. Scattered homes give way to dilapidated poultry farms, which in turn cede to crumbling shacks long ago abandoned. Eventual y, it's just the spread of empty land. The Vast. There's nothing out there. No place to fl ee. Only the cruelest of elements, the three Ds: desert, desolation, and death.

There's no escape for us out here, my father would say, no sanctuary, no hope, no life for us at all. Don't ever come out here thinking there's escape to be had.

I don't dil ydal y out here but head north. About an hour out, an isolated mound of soft green fuzz sits there in the middle of the Vast, an aberrational oddity discovered years ago by my parents. And what I need is in the green fuzz. By the time my feet hit the soft grass, I'm sprinting toward a glade of trees. I reach for a red fruit hanging off a branch. I tear it off, shut my eyes, and sink my teeth through the skin. The fruit crunches in my mouth, watery and sweet, my jaws working up and down, up and down. When my father and I ate the fruit, we'd eat with our backs to each other. We were ashamed, even as we chewed, bite after bite, juice running down our chins, unable to stop.

After my fourth fruit, I force myself to slow down. I pluck away at the different offerings of fruit, tossing them into a bag. I pause for a minute, gazing up at the sky. High above me, a large bird glides across the sky, its wings oddly rectangular. It circles around me, its form strangely unchanging, then heads east, disappearing into the THE HUNT 27 distance. I pick a few more fruit, then head over to our favorite spot, a large tree whose leaves spread lush and high. My father and I always sat under this tree, munching fruit, back against the trunk, the city in the far distance, darkened and fl at. Like a dirty puddle.

Years ago, we would explore the green fuzz for signs of others like us. Signs like rutted cores of discarded fruit, trampled grass, snapped branches. But we almost never found anything. Our kind was careful not to leave any giveaway signs. Even so, I'd occasional y fi nd that unavoidable and clearest of signs: less fruit on trees.

That meant others had been there as wel , plucking and eating. But I never saw any of them.

Once, between bites, I asked my father, “Why don't we ever see other hepers here?”

He stopped chewing, half turned his head toward me.

“Don't use that word.”

“What word? Heper? What's wrong with—”

“Don't use that word,” he said sternly. “I don't want to hear that word coming out of you ever again.”

I was young; tears rushed to my eyes. He turned ful y toward me, his large eyes swal owing me whole. I tilted my head back to keep the tears from rimming out. Only after my tears dried did he turn his eyes away. He gazed afar at the horizon until the rocks stopped churning inside him.

“Human,” he fi nal y said, his voice softer. “When we're alone, use that word, okay?”

“Okay,” I said. And after a moment, I asked him, “Why don't we see other humans?”

He didn't answer. But I can still remember the sound as he bit off large chunks of apple, loud crunches exploding in his mouth as we sat under a tree drooping with ripe fruit.

And now, years later, there's even more fruit hanging off the trees, an overabundance of color in the verdant green fuzz.

So sad, to have colors signify death and extinction. And that's how I eat now, alone in the green fuzz, a solitary gray dot among splashes of red and orange and yel ow and purple.

Dusk arrives, the night of the lottery. Inside every home, young and old are awake, jittery with excitement. When the night horn sounds, shutters and grates rise, doors and windows fl ing open. Everyone is early to work and school to night, to chitchat and tap impatiently on computer screens before them.

At school, there's not even an attempt at normalcy. In second period, the teacher doesn't cal the class to order but simply disregards us as she taps away on her deskscreen.

Halfway through class, a citywide announcement on the intercom is made: Because work productivity in the city has fal en so drastical y, the announcement of the lottery numbers has been moved up a few hours. In fact, it will now be broadcast live in a few minutes. “Have your numbers in front of you,” the announcer ends cheerily, as if everyone hasn't already memorized them.

Instantly, delirium breaks out in the classroom. Students rush back to their seats, eyes fastened on deskscreens.

“Are you ready for the lottery yet?” the news anchor says a few minutes later, all aplomb abandoned in his excitement.

“I have mine right here,” he says, holding up a sheet of paper with his numbers. “To night might just be my night, I woke up with a feeling in me.”

“As did every citizen of this great city, no doubt,” chimes in his co- host, a slim woman with jet black hair. “We're all so excited.

Let's go now to the Heper Institute, where the numbers are about to be picked.” She pauses, her fi nger reaching up to her earpiece. A feral glint invades her eyes. “We're getting word now of a surprise.

This is a whopper, folks, so sit down.”

In the classroom, heads snap back and then lurch forward.

No one says a word.

“Instead of having the Director pick the numbers, the Palace has decided a captive heper will pick the numbers.”

Somebody snorts loudly; several students suddenly leap onto their desks.

“You heard that right, folks,” she continues, and her voice is wetter now, with a slight lisp. “We're getting a live feed. . . .”

She pauses again. “I'm hearing that it's coming from a secret location from within the Heper Institute. Take us there now.”

Instantly, the view of the newsroom switches to that of a bare, cavernous indoor arena. No windows or doors.

Placed in the center of the arena is an empty chair. Next to it, a large hemp sack and a glass bowl. But nobody is looking at the sack or the chair or the glass bowl. all our eyes are fastened on the blurry image of a male heper crouched in the corner.

It is el der ly and wiry, but its stomach is fat- marbled and protrudes disproportionately to its thin frame. Hair plasters its arms and legs, and the sight of the hair sends a river of lip smacking through the classroom.

The videocamera zooms in and then out on the heper. But clearly the camera must be running unmanned, on autopi lot. If anyone were in the arena with the heper, the heper would have been devoured within seconds. The newest wave of videocameras— weighing a relatively spry two tons— is capable of autozooming, a technological advancement unimaginable just a de cade ago.

The camera zooms in now, capturing the heper's uncertainty as it gazes upward at something offscreen. Then, as if instructed, it gets up and walks to the chair. There is indecision in its every step, caution. Emotions pour nakedly off its face.

A student shakes his head violently, drool trapezing outward, some of it landing on me. Saliva pours out of our mouths, col ecting in smal pools on desks and the fl oor.

Heads are half cocked sideways and back, bodies tensed.

Everyone in a trance and a heightened sense of alertness.

The news anchors have been silent.

The heper reaches the chair, sits down. Again, eyes bulging wide, it looks offscreen for direction. Then it reaches into the hemp sack and takes out a bal . A number is printed on it: 3. It holds the bal up to the camera for a second, then puts it in the glass bowl.

It takes a moment before we realize what's just happened.

The news anchors break their silence, their voices wet and blubbery with saliva. “We have the fi rst number, folks, we have the fi rst number. It's three!” Loud groans all around, fi sts crumpling sheets of paper. The teacher in the back of the classroom whispers a cuss.

I stare down at my own paper: 3, 16, 72, 87. Cool y, I cross out the number 3. Only a few classmates are still in the running. It's easy to spot them. Their eyes are sparkling with anticipation, drool running down their exposed fangs.

Everyone else is unclenching now, muscles relaxing, mouths and chins being wiped. They slump in their chairs.

The heper ner vous ly reaches for another number.

16.

More groans. I take my pen and cross out 16, a slight tremor in my fi ngers. Must hold the pen tighter, get my fi ngers under control.

As far as I can tel , that last number took out the remaining contenders in the class. Except me. Nobody has noticed yet that I'm still in the running. I kick out more saliva, let it run down my chin. I hiss a little, cock my head back. Heads fl ick toward me.

Before long, a crowd has gathered around my desk.

The heper pul s out the next number.

72.

There is a momentary, stunned silence. Then heads start bop-ping, knuckles cracking. My next number— 87—is chanted like a mantra. Somebody runs...

 

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 6



For a second, it lifts its head and stares offscreen. Then its eyes widen with fear, and its head shakes violently. It pins its head between its knees.

“It doesn't want to pick the last number,” a student whispers.

“I told you,” my teacher says, “these hepers are smarter than they look. It somehow knows these numbers are for the Hunt.”

The screen blacks out. The next shot is of the newsroom.

The anchors are caught off guard. “Looks like we're having technical diffi culties,” the male anchor says, quickly wiping his chin.

“We should be back on air shortly.”

But it takes more than a few moments. Video of the heper picking the fi rst three numbers is looped over and over.

Word spreads around school about me; more students crowd the classroom. Then more news: Another student in the school is still in the running. As I pump out more saliva down my chin and jerk my head in staccato fashion, I make some rough math calculations in my head. The odds that I have the last winning number are 1 in 97. That's just a little over 1 percent. A comfortingly low chance, I tel myself.

“Look!” someone says, pointing at the deskscreen.

The TV channel has shifted away from the newsroom to an outdoor location. The male heper is gone. In its stead is a female heper, young. This heper is sitting outdoors in a chair, a hemp sack and glass bowl on the ground next to it.

The image is glassy and shiny, as if a glass wal stands between the heper and camera. Behind the heper, distant mountains sit under the few stars that dot the night sky.

Unlike the other heper, this female heper is looking not nervous ly offscreen, but directly at the camera. With a col ectedness in its gaze, a self- possession that seems odd in a captive heper.

Some of the boys lurch up on desks. A female heper is known to be the choicer morsel of the two genders. The fl esh meatier, fattier in parts. And a teenage one— as this one appears to be— is the most succulent of all , its taste beyond compare.

beyond compare.

Before the hissing and drooling kicks up again, the heper is already reaching into the sack. It calmly removes a bal , holds it with outstretched arm toward the camera. But it's the eyes I'm looking at: how focused they seem to be on mine, as if they see me in the camera lens.

I don't need to see the bal to know the heper has picked number 87. An explosive hiss curdles out from classmates, fol owed by a phat- phat- phat of smacking lips. The congratulations begin: ears brought down to mine, rubbing up and down, side to side. A minute later, between ear hugs, I glance down at the deskscreen.

Amazingly, the heper is still holding the numbered bal up to the camera, a look of quiet defi ance imprinted on its face.

The picture starts to fade out. But in the moment before it does, I see the heper's eyes moistening, its head slanting forward ever so, hair bangs fal ing over its eyes. Its defi ance seems to melt into a sudden, overcoming sadness.

Before too long, they come. Even as my classmates are stil congratulating me, I hear their offi cious boots thumping along the hal way.

By the time they open the door to my classroom, every student has taken his or her seat, standing up at attention as the team of four walks in. They are all immaculately dressed, silk suits with tight, clean lines.

“F3?” the squad leader asks from behind the teacher's desk.

Like his suit, his voice is silky, pretentious, but with undeniable authority.

I put my hand up.

all four pairs of eyes swivel and fasten on me. They are not hostile eyes, just effi cient.

“Congratulations, you have the winning lottery combination,”

the leader murmurs. “Come with us now, F3. You will be taken directly to the Heper Institute. Your ride is awaiting you in front of the school. Come now.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I feel like the luckiest guy in the world.

But I need to pick up a few items from home, clothes.” And my shaver and scrubber and nail clipper and fang cleaner — “No. Clothing will be supplied at the Institute. Come now.”

I've never been in a stretch carriage, much less one drawn by a team of stal ions. The stal ions are sleek black, merging seamlessly with the night. They turn toward me as I approach the carriage, their noses sniffi ng me out. I climb inside quickly. Students and teachers spil out of the school from the east and west wings, rushing over to gawk. But they all stand a respectful distance away, silent and still .

Because of the darkly tinted windows, it's unnerving how pitch-black it is inside. I restrain the urge to stretch out my arms or to widen my eyes. Head bent down, I slide my body forward slowly until my knees hit the soft front of the leather seat. I hear more bodies fol owing me in, feel the seat sag under the weight of their bodies.

“Is this your fi rst time inside a stretch?” a voice next to me asks.

“Yes.”

Nobody says anything.

Then another voice: “We will wait for the other winner to get here.”

“Another student?” I ask.

A pause. “Yes. Shouldn't be long now.”

I stare out the tinted window, trying not to give away the fact that I can't see a thing in here.

“Some papers to sign,” says yet another voice. A faint rustle of papers, the unmistakable snap of a clipboard.

“Here you go.”

My eyes still trained outside, I swing my right arm in a wide arc until I hit the board. “Ooops, I'm such a klutz sometimes.”

“Please sign here and here and here. Where the Xs are.”

I stare down. I can't see a thing.

“Right where the Xs are,” yet another voice chimes in.

“Can we just wait a bit? I'm kind of caught up in the moment —”

“Now, please.” There is a fi rmness in that voice. I sense eyes turning to look at me.

But just then, the limo door opens. “The other lottery winner,”

someone whispers. A faint gray light from the outside spil s inside.

Not a moment to lose. I whip my eyes down, barely catch sight of the Xs, scribble my name down. The carriage tilts with the added weight. Then, before I can see who entered, the door swings shut and the interior is plunged into blackness again.

An ankle jams into my shin.

“Would you watch where you put your legs!” a voice snaps at me. It's a girl's voice, somewhat familiar.

I stare out the window, not even trying to meet her eyes.

“Do you two know each other?” a voice asks.

I decide the safest action is to shrug and scratch my wrist.

Something ambiguous that could be interpreted a number of ways.

The sound of wrists scratching in response. I'm safe for now.

“Please sign these papers. Here, here, and here.”

There is a momentary pause. Then she speaks with command.

“My friends are outside. The whole school is outside. This is the best moment of my life. Can you please rol down these windows so they can see me? It'd be good for the school, for the community, to join us in this wonderful time.”

For a long time, there is no response. Then the window rol s down and the gray outside light ambles in.

Sitting across from me is Ashley June.

We ride in silence and darkness, the offi cials dispensing with smal talk. The stal ions stop at a stoplight; the click- clock of their hooves comes to a momentary cease. The muffl ed, rumbling sounds of the crowd outside fi lters through: bone snaps, teeth grinding, the crackle of joints and ankles. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people line the streets, watching our passage.

Ashley June is silent but excited. I can tel . Snaps of her neck crack out in the darkness in front of me. I throw in a few snaps of my own, cracking my knuckles once or twice.

This is not the fi rst time Ashley June and I have been in the dark in close quarters. It was a year or two ago, before I became the re-cluse I am today and just as Ashley June was beginning her mete-oric rise in the ranks to the Desirable club. It was raining that night and the class was cloistered inside the school gym. Our gym teacher never showed, and nobody bothered to let the offi ce know.

Somehow— these things just have a way of happening— everyone started playing spin the bottle. The whole class, all twenty or so of us. The class divided into two circles by gender. The words— This is so lame, I'm outta here— were on my lips when the guys suddenly spun the bottle and got things going.

It whirled around in a blur, then slowed, coming to a stop at the boy sitting across from me.

Then it continued to inch forward slowly, as if through glue, until the bottle mouth, like the gaping mouth of a dying goldfi sh, came to a stop. Pointing right at me, dead center, no question about it.

“Suck fest,” the boy next to me said bitterly. “So close to me.”

And it was as though an electric jolt shot through the girls' circle. They started whispering, heads huddling together, casting me luring, excited looks. In a fl ash, a girl reached forward and spun the bottle. The bottle twirled fast, then broke into a slower blur. When it was crawling through its fi nal rotation, girls leaning back in dis-appointment as the bottle passed them, and just as it was slowly passing by Ashley June, she reached forward and stopped it with her foot,...

 

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 7



We bumbled awkwardly in the confi ned space as we took off our arm sleeves. I grabbed the zipper, pul ed at it, felt it give.

With our sleeves off, we paused. Now was the moment.

Was she waiting for me to move fi rst? Then the sound of her neck cracking, a loud bony snap. A low rumbling in her throat, then a snarl, so close, the hiss wetting the wal s and ceiling and fl oor of the black-ened closet enclosing me.

I let my mind go blank, an erasure, then a replacement with a primal urge manufactured in the imaginings of my mind. I opened my mouth and a snarl hurled out, its raw savagery and urgency catching me by surprise. My arms fl ew forward toward her and our forearms col ided, nails gashing against skin. For a second, alarm shot through my mind: if blood was spilt, her ardor would quickly— in a microsecond— shift, and she would be at my neck, her fangs sinking razor quick through my skin, and the others outside would pour in just seconds later, diving inside in an orgy of blood. But caught up in the moment, I did not stop, we did not stop, but brusquely brushed aside arms, so many impeding us, shoved elbows and shoulders away, jostled for position. We knocked up against the wal s confi ning us on every side, hol ow thumps thud-ding as our elbows and knees hit against the invisible wal s.

I got there fi rst. Before she could regain her footing, I shoved my elbow into the socket of her armpit. The way I had read about in books, seen in movies. I had her. Her body tensed in anticipation as my elbow locked into her armpit. And just like that, her body lost all tension and softened. I swiveled my elbow in long, luxurious circles, and her body moved in rhythm. Salivary wetness slivered between and around her snarling teeth. I concentrated hard after that, keeping up with appearances, making sure that the snarls came out in the right fevered pitch, that my body oscil ated with enough passion and frenzy.

Afterward, Ashley June and I bent down to fi nd our arm sleeves.

In the dark, our arms bumped into each other; and in one unfor-gettable second, our hands briefl y touched. The skin of her fi ngers brushed against the open palm of my hand.

We both fl inched back— I in surprise, Ashley in revulsion.

She was quiet, perhaps col ecting herself. I was about to push the closet door open when she spoke.

“Wait?”

I paused. “What is it?”

“Can we just . . . stand here for a bit?”

“Okay.”

A minute passed. I could not see her in the dark, what she was doing.

“Are you . . .,” she began.

I waited for her to continue. But for a long time she did not say anything.

“Do you think it's still raining hard?” she said fi nal y.

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“It's supposed to rain all night, the forecast said.”

“Did it?”

And again, she was quiet before speaking again. “You always walk to school, don't you?”

I paused. “Yes.”

“You brought your umbrel a to night?”

“I did.”

“I walked to school to night,” she said, and we both knew she was lying. “But I left my umbrel a at home.”

I did not say anything.

“Do you mind walking me home?” she whispered. “I hate getting wet.”

I told her I did not mind.

“Meet me by the front gates after school, okay?” she said.

“Okay.”

She then pushed open the closet door. We did not look at each other as we joined the group. The guys kept looking at me expectantly, and I gave them what they wanted: I mouthed, “Wow!” and bared my fangs. They scratched their wrists.

Later that night, after the last bel rang and the students poured out of school, I sat at my desk. I stayed there even as the din of the hal ways subsided, even as the last students and teachers vacated the school, the clip- clop of horse hooves fading into the distance.

Rain gushed down in thick columns outside, splattering against the window. Only after the dawn siren rang hours later did I get up and leave. The front gates were empty of people as I walked past, as I knew they would be. It was frigid by then, the rain stil pouring down heavily, as if trying to fi l the void of the emptied streets. I did not use my umbrel a. I let the rain soak my clothes, seep all the way through to my body, the wet cold licking my chest, stinging my skin, freezing my heart.

The Heper Institute THE RIDE IS long. Even the stretch carriage becomes uncomfortable and jarring after the fi rst couple of hours— it's not built for long- distance travel. Long travel is very rare: the appearance of the deadly sun every twelve hours restricts travel.

But for the sun, travel distances would be much longer, and loco-motive technology would probably have supplanted horses long ago. In a world where, as the saying goes, “death casts its eye on us daily,” horses more than suffi ciently meet the short- distance travel needs.

Nobody speaks as we travel through the outskirts, along roads that get bumpier by the minute until they yield to the give of desert sand. Final y, some fi ve hours out, we pul up in front of a drab government building. I step out, legs stiff and unsteady. A desert wind blows across the darkened plains, hot but somehow refresh-ing, sifting through the bangs of my hair.

“Time to go.” We are escorted toward the gray building, the offi cials' boots kicking up slight puffs of dust. Several other carriages are parked off to the side, the horses tied but stil jaunty from their journey, their noses wet and wide with exertion, heat steaming off their bodies. I quickly count the carriages: including the one I shared with Ashley June, there are fi ve others. That makes seven lottery winners.

Nothing about the spare gray of the building's exterior prepares me for the opulence of the interior. Marble fl oors glow with the ebony hue of old world craquelatto. Interior Ionic columns, scrol s curling off top and bottom, stretch high to impossibly tal ceilings that are outlined by a plaster cornice etched with curled fronds. A labyrinth of hal ways and staircases crisscrosses in a dizzying disorientation.

We walk single fi le, a few offi cials in front, a string of them tailing behind us, our boots click- clock ing on the marbled fl oor, fl anked by lines of mercurial lamps. Ashley June walks directly in front of me, an arm's length away. Her hair is like a torched fi re, leading the way.

The hal way leads to a large set of silver- crested double doors set between two Corinthian columns. But before we reach them, the lead offi cial suddenly turns to a door on the left. The pro cession comes to an awkward halt as he knocks on the door. A moment later, the door swings open.

The cavernous hal is dark. In the middle is a circle of curved- back velvet chairs dotted about like the numerical digits of a clock; all but two of the chairs are occupied.

Ashley June, in front of me, is escorted to an empty chair.

I'm taken to the chair next to hers and sat down. The officials take their place a few yards behind us, standing at attention.

Seven of us sit in the murky grayness, hands laid on kneecaps, staring directly ahead, the tips of our fangs jutting out slightly. The hunters. We are perfectly still , as if the molecules in the air have been glued together, fastening everything in place.

The offi cial, when she appears, catches us all by surprise.

Instead of being dressed in military garb, she wears a fl owery dress, the long sleeves adorned with pictures of dandelions and roses. She fl oats graceful y from the dark periphery to the center of the circle, where a high- backed chair slowly ascends from the fl oor. Her bearing is one of homespun goodness, more matronly than military.

She seats herself graceful y on the chair that continues to revolve slowly upward. As it makes a ful circle, she makes eye contact with each person in turn, taking us in, studious yet affable. When her eyes meet mine, friendliness spil s out toward me like the rays of a summertime dusk.

She speaks, and it surprises no one that her voice is soft yet clear. “Congratulations to you all . Each of you gets to partake in a rare and splendid experience that the rest of the world only dreams of.” She pauses, her ears perching up. “Everyone will be dying to hear about the Hunt afterwards; you'l all be plenty busy afterwards dealing with the media, especial y the one of you who hunts down the most hepers.” She spins slightly on her feet; her dress sashays around her legs.

“To that end, we've prepared a potpourri of activity for you all.

You'l have so much to share with the media afterwards.

Over the next few nights, your schedule will be jam- packed with events, from dusk to dawn. You might get restless, your mind on the Hunt in fi ve nights. I understand.” A few heads flick back, almost indiscernibly. She pauses, and when she recommences, there is a serious-ness lining her words.

“But between now and then, I need to stress the importance of maintaining your focus over the next few nights.

With the training. Learn your necessary skil s, absorb the tidbits of advice we give you. These are not ordinary hepers, the classic hepers you've read about or been told about. These hepers are different, special: they've been trained in the art of evasion, they know how to be on the run and, when necessary, to strike back. Over the past few months, we've supplied them with weapons— primitive...

 

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Her face then breaks into rainbows. “You'l be taken to your rooms momentarily. Rest wel , because tomorrow will be a real treat.

A sumptuous breakfast, then a tour of this facility. You'l see the training grounds, the artil ery room, the Control Center, the medita-tion lounge, the dining area. And fi nal y, at the end of the night, we'l take you to . . . the heper vil age.”

Offi cials step forward from outside the circle and stand next to each hunter. The offi cial on my right is a sul en gray statue.

In his hand is a package.

“That's right,” she says, still seated in the center, slowly revolv-ing, “take the package. Read it when you get to your room. It has some invaluable information. Your escort wil take you to your rooms now. You've all had an exciting and long night. Try to get some rest today. Turn in early.”

She gets up and disappears into the dark. At that, we stand and fol ow our beckoning escorts. Our circle disintegrates as we disperse, quietly, swiftly. We are taken down different hal ways, through different doors, until all that remains are the emptied chairs still positioned like the numbers of a handless, dysfunctional clock.

My escort leads me brusquely down a hal way, up a fl ight of stairs, along another hal way, and then down another fl ight of stairs without speaking. We walk the length of yet another hal way, dimly il uminated by candle, until we stand directly outside a large door.

The escort pauses, turns to me. “I've been told to extend to you apologies. On behalf of the Heper Institute. Due to the number of lottery winners and the lack of rooms here, one of you has to be housed in . . . unique accommodations. It came down to the two youngest— you and your fel ow schoolmate— and chivalry demands the girl be given the last guest room in the main building. Your room is actual y in a smal building a short distance removed. Unfortu-nately, the only way to get to it is by walking outside. Under the open sky.”

Then, before I can respond, he pushes open the door and steps out. The expanse of the night sky— the desert plains spread underneath— catches me a little. Stars, pinpricks of silver, are 46 ANDREW FUKUDA scattered about like spilt salt. My escort mutters a curse and slips on a pair of shades. The moon hangs just above the mountains to the east; it is crescented, its lopsided smile refl ective of my own plea sure at being outside. Truth is, I'm glad to be separated from the main building, from everyone else.

We're on a brick path that leads to a distant smal slab building, single story. “What did you say this place is?”

“It's a conversion,” he answers without looking at me. “Used to be a smal library. But we've spruced it up into a comfortable living quarter for you. It's up to snuff with everyone else's.”

I take a quick glance back at the main building. Isolated patches of mercurial light are dotted about its face.

Otherwise, the building is completely dark. “Look,” my escort says, observing me, “I know you're wondering why we couldn't put you in the main building. It's got more unused rooms than hairs on a heper. I wondered the same thing myself. But I just do what I'm told. And so should you.

Besides, there's a perk that comes with being housed here.”

I wait for him to continue. But he shakes his head. “When we get there. Not right now. You'l like it, I promise. And you wil want me to demonstrate how to use it, of course, won't you?”

Each brick of the path thrums with a vibrant red, like translu- cent containers of fresh blood. “This path was put down two days ago,” he says, “to make this walk a little more pleasant for you.” He pauses for effect and then says, “You'l never guess who did the job.”

“I have no idea.”

He turns to look at me for the fi rst time. “Hepers.”

I resist the impulse to widen my eyes. “No way,” I say, snapping my head to the side a little. Click.

“Absolutely,” he says. “We set them to work. In the daytime, of course. Our guys worked the night shift; but once it became clear we couldn't get it ready in time, we got the hepers to help out. They worked in the daytime for two days straight. We rewarded them with some extra food. Those things will do anything for food.”

“Who supervised them? Who could have . . . you let them just roam freely?”

My escort just shakes his head with a “you've got a lot to learn, kid” look.

He pushes open the front doors and walks in. The interior is surprisingly spacious and airy. But the conversion from library to guest room is incomplete. It's really still a library, the only modifi cation being a set of sleep- holds newly attached to the ceiling. Otherwise, the whole library looks virtual y untouched: shelves still ful of books, old, yel owed newspapers hung in cherrywood holders, and reading desks positioned evenly about the fl oor. A musty smel hangs over everything.

“The sleep- holds,” he says, gazing upward. “Just instal ed yesterday.”

“Hepers?”

He shakes his head. “That one we did. Hepers would never come inside. Too afraid of a trap. They're dumb, but not stupid, know what I mean?”

He shows me around at breakneck speed, pointing out the reference section, the mercuric light switches, and the closet fi l ed with clothes for me and explaining how the shutters work automatical y by light sensors. “They're super quiet, the shutters,” he tel s me.

“They won't wake you.” He speaks hurriedly. It's obvious he has something else on his mind. “You want to try out the sleep- holds? We should try them, make sure they fi t.”

“I'm sure they're fi ne, I'm not fussy that way.”

“Good,” he says. “Now, fol ow me, you're going to like this.”

He leads me down a narrow aisle, his footsteps quick and eager, then turns sharply to the back of the library. Lying on a bureau next to a smal , square window is a pair of binoculars. He picks it up and peers out the window, his mouth open, drool sloshing audibly in his mouth. “I'm demonstrating how to use these binoculars because you asked me to. I'm only responding to your request,” he says robotical y, his index fi nger turning the zoom dial. “It's only because you asked me to.”

“Hey,” I say, “give me a look.”

He doesn't respond, only continues to peer intently through the binoculars. His eyebrows are arched like the wings of an ea gle.

“You can adjust the zoom by turning this dial,” he mumbles.

“Up and down, up and down, up and . . .” His voice drifts.

“Hey!” I say, louder.

“And on this side is the focus dial,” he mumbles, his slim fi ngers sliding over the control. “Let me explain to you how this works.

Since you asked. It's complicated, let me explain careful y.

This might take a while.”

Final y, I snatch the binoculars out of his hands.

His hand snaps around my forearm. I don't see it happen, he moved too fast. His nails pierce my skin, and for one horrible, sickening moment, I think those nails are about to slice through and draw blood. He lets go immediately, of course, even takes a step or two back. A glazed, distant look is still clouding his eyes, but it is dissipating fast.

Three nail indentations are planted in my wrist, dangerously deep. But no blood.

“Apologies,” he says.

“Don't worry about it.” I hold my arm behind my back, feeling the indentation with the fi ngers of my other hand.

Stil no moisture: still no blood. If a drop of a drop of blood had seeped through, he'd already be at me.

“Did I demonstrate it wel enough for you?” His voice is pleading. “Do you understand how to use the binoculars now?”

“I think I can give it a try.”

“Perhaps one more demonstration will —”

“No. I can handle it.” Keeping the binoculars behind my back, I turn to look outside. A crescent moon shines behind a scrim of clouds, its thin, sickly light fal ing down. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

He doesn't say anything, so I turn to look at him. For a moment, the clarity in his eyes turns slightly opaque again.

A line of drool that hasn't yet been wiped away thickens down his chin. “Hepers,”

he whispers.

I don't want him hovering behind me, pestering me for another “demonstration,” so I wait until he leaves. I'm fi l ed with a strange dread but also an excitement as I pick up the binoculars. Other than my family, I've never laid eyes on a heper.

At fi rst, I'm not sure what I should be looking for. Then moonlight spil s through a break in the clouds, il uminating the swath of land. I swivel the binoculars slowly, searching: a brief burst of cactus, a boulder, nothing— A smal col ection of mud huts sitting inconspicuously off in the distance. The heper vil age. My guess is it's about a mile away. A pond of some sort— no doubt man- made; no body of water could possibly survive in this terrain— lies in the center. Nothing moves.

The mud huts are as nondescript as the desert.

Then I see something.

Moonlight glimmers...

 

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The Hunt Page 9



I watch as it stands up, takes a sip of water from cupped hands.

Its back is to me, its head staring east at the mountains.

For a long time, it does not move. Then it bends down, cups its hands, takes another sip. Its movement, even for so simple an act, is graceful and sure. Its head suddenly swings in my direction; I fl inch back.

Perhaps it has caught a refl ection off the binoculars' lens.

But it is looking past me, at the Institute. I zoom in on the face. Those eyes: I remember them from earlier this eve ning, on my deskscreen, their brown tone like the trunk of a wrongly fel ed tree.

After a few moments, it turns around and disappears into a mud hut.

Hunt Minus Four Nights I AM CURIOUS about the library they've lodged me in and intend to stay up through the day hours to explore. But the night's activities have worn me out; no sooner have I sat down to read the welcome package than I fi nd myself waking up, hours later.

Somebody is pounding at the door. Startled, I jump up, my heart hammering. “Give me a minute!” I shout. I hear a mumbled response.

Fear douses me awake. I'm realizing now. My face. I'm not ready. My fi ngers reach for my chin: a faint stubble just breaking the skin. Enough to be noticed. And what of my eyes? Are they bloodshot with fatigue? And do my fake teeth need to be whitened, my body washed?

Never forget to shave. Get enough sleep to avoid bloodshot eyes. Never forget to whiten your teeth every morning before you leave. And wash every day; body odor is the most dangerous— My father's instructions. I've abided by them every single day of my life. But my razor blades and eyedrops and fang whiteners and underarm ointments are stashed miles away at home. Given the right mix of other products, I could cobble together what I need. For example, three sheets of aluminum foil dissolved in horse shampoo with a liberal application of baking soda will , after a fortnight, congeal into a ser viceable bar of underarm deodorant. Trouble is, I don't have these ingredients at hand. Nor do I have a fortnight to spare.

The door pounding gets louder, more insistent. I do the only thing I can. Grab my penknife and quickly raze my chin, making sure not to chafe my skin. That would be a fatal mistake. Then I grab my shades and head to the front door.

Just in time, I catch myself. My clothes. They're creased from being slept in, a tel tale sign that I didn't sleep in the sleep- holds. I run to the closet, throw on a new outfi t.

The escort is not happy. “I've been knocking for fi ve minutes.

What's the matter with you?”

“Sorry, overslept. Sleep- holds were comfy.”

He turns, starts walking. “Come now. The fi rst lecture is about to begin. We have to hurry.” He takes another glance back at me.

“And lose the shades. It's cloudy to night.”

I ignore him.

The Director of the Heper Institute is as sterile and dry as his surroundings, which is saying a lot. His face has a plastic sheen, and he likes to stand wherever it is dark. He exudes an austere authority that is both quiet and deadly.

He can whisper a rat to death with the razor- sharp incisions of his careful y nuanced words.

“Hepers are slow, hepers like to hold hands, hepers like to warble their voices, hepers need to drink copious amounts of water.

They have an expansive range of facial tics, they sleep at night, they are preternatural y resistant to sunlight. These are the rudimentary facts about hepers.” The Director speaks with a practiced élan. He pauses dramatical y in the dark corner, the white glow of his eyes disappearing, then reappearing, as he opens his eyes. “After de cades of intense study, we now know signifi cantly more about them.

Much of this information is known to only a few of us here at the Heper Institute of Refi ned Research and Discovery.

Because you will be hunting hepers in four nights, it has been determined that you, too, will become privy to the latest research. Everything we know about hepers, you wil know. But fi rst, the waivers.”

We all sign them, of course. The papers are handed out by of-fi cials in gray suits who emerge from the darkness behind us. All information learned over the next few weeks will not be disclosed or disseminated to any person after the Hunt is completed unless the Heper Institute expressly grants permission. I initial next to it.

You may not sell your story for publication or option said story for a theatrical production unless the Heper Institute expressly grants permission. I initial next to it. Compliance is total and irrevocable.

I initial next to it. Upon punishment of death. I sign and date it.

The Director has been watching us careful y as we sign, each hunter in turn. His eyes are black holes, sucking in observations with a slippery, keen acuity. He never misses a thing, never guesses wrong. As I hand over my waiver papers, I feel his eyes clamp down on me like a suddenly jammed stapler. Just before the papers are taken from me, they dangle off my hand, shaking ever so slightly.

His eyes fl ip to the papers, to the way they are quivering. I know this without looking, from the piercing cold burn on my wrist where his eyes settle. I grip the papers tighter to stil them.

Then I feel his stare shift away, the cold burn on my wrist evap-orating. He has moved on to the next hunter.

After all the papers have been col ected, he continues without missing a beat. “Much of what is known about hepers is more fi ctional than factual. It's time to debunk these myths.

“Myth one: They are wild beasts at heart and will be continual fl ight risks. Fact: They are easily domesticated and are actual y quite afraid of the unknown. Truth is, during the day while we sleep and the Dome is retracted, they are unsupervised and free to roam.

The whole stretch of the plains, as far as you can see, free for them to escape, far and away. If they choose. But they never have. Of course, it's easy to understand why. Any heper who leaves the safety of the Dome is— come nighttime— free game. Within two hours, it would have been sniffed out, chased down, and devoured. In fact, this has happened. Once or twice.” He does not elaborate.

“Myth two: They are passive and submissive, ready to lie down rather than fi ght back. Ironical y, this myth has been perpetuated by previous Hunts when the hepers showed anything but re sistance. Historical accounts of that Hunt refl ect how useless they were: fi rst, the initial fl ight, where they proved to be slow and disorga nized; and second, their submissive surrender when surrounded by us. Even when we were two miles away, they just gave up. Stopped running. And when we came on them, not a single one fought back, not so much as even a single raised arm.

Practical y lay down and let us have at them.

“What our research has demonstrated, however, is that hepers can be trained to be aggressive. They've demonstrated surprising acumen with the weapons provided. Primitive weapons, mind you, mere spears, knives, daggers, axes. And, quite endearingly, they've even fashioned leather guards that they place around their necks for protection. Those naive darlings.” He starts scratching his wrist, then stops. He jots something down in his notebook. “Not sure how they got the leather. Surprisingly resourceful, they can be.”

We sit still as he fi nishes writing. He snaps the notebook shut, starts speaking again.

“Myth three: They are a male- dominated society. This is another myth perpetuated by previous Heper Hunts. You've all heard about it, how it's always the men who take charge — futilely; the men who make all the decisions— the wrong ones, as we also know.

The women typical y do nothing but fol ow. Fol owers.

Submissive.

We thought this was simply how they were ge ne tical y wired: men dominate, women submit. But our research has produced some startling results. Currently, we have fi ve hepers in captivity, all but one of which is male. Four males, only one female. Want to wager a guess who's the leader?”

His eyes sparkle with excitement.

“This is one of the more surprising discoveries. In fact, it was I who was the fi rst to spot the trend. Even early on, when the hepers were mere toddlers, it was I who noted that the sole female heper seemed to be in the forefront of everything. A natural- born leader.

Today, she is without question the leader of the pack. They look to her for . . . wel , everything. Where she goes, they fol ow. What she commands, they obey. During the Hunt, if you want to cut off the head from the body, you take her out fi rst. With her out of the picture, the group will quickly disintegrate. Easy pickings, thereafter.”

He licks his lips.

“This girl. all of you have seen her, in fact. On TV— she was the one who picked the last number. That wasn't supposed to happen, of course. We would never have put a female on the airwaves, especial y one so young. We know the effect a young female heper has on people. It was supposed to be a little boy heper. But she . . .

well , before we knew it, she took control of the situation and put herself in front of the camera. That girl . . .” His words grow slithery with saliva. Spittle col ects at the corners of his mouth.

His eyes grow distant; he is lost in some dreamland. When he speaks, his voice is soft with desire. “She would be delicious, so . . .”

He snaps out of it with a quick fl ick of his head. “I...

 

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The Hunt Page 10



Unwanted attention, as if there were any other kind.

But the prick sharpens until I can take it no longer. I let a pen in my hand fal to the ground; as I slowly swivel around to pick it up, I shoot a quick glance back.

It's Ashley June, her eyes death green in the mercurial light.

She's sitting right behind me. I almost startle in my seat —“startle”

is this refl ex where we jump a little in fright— but tamp it down just in time. I close my eyelids halfway— a trick my father taught me to make sure my eyes don't widen too much— and turn around.

Did she see me startle? Did she see me startle?

Somebody is at the lectern. Fril y Dress from yesterday.

“How are we all to night? Having fun?” She takes out a note pad, scans it, then looks up, smiling. “We have a busy schedule to night.

First, we'l tour the facilities— should take most of the night.

Then, time and darkness permitting, we'l cap it off with a visit to the heper vil age just shy of two miles from the main building. If we're running late and it gets too close to sunrise, then we'l have to push it off til tomorrow.” She looks at each of us, reading our expressions.

“Somehow I don't think you're going to all ow that to happen.

Shal we move on, then?”

What fol ows for the next few hours is a mind- numbingly tedious tour of the facilities. It's nothing more than an amble along dark, endless hal ways. And emptiness. That's what strikes me the most: how still and empty everything is— the rooms, the hal ways, the very dank air we inhale, mere remnants and echoes of a busier, ful er, livelier era. Our escorts fol ow us, silently. The second fl oor is where the staff and hunters are housed, and we bypass it. The third fl oor is the science fl oor, for obvious reasons: from one end to the other, it's lined with laboratories. A smel of musky formaldehyde permeates the whole fl oor. Although the guide speaks glowingly about each laboratory— this one used to study heper hair, this one to study heper laughter, this one heper singing— it is obvious the laboratories have fal en into disuse.

“This whole thing's a crock, you know that, right?”

“Excuse me?” I turn to the el der ly man next to me. One of the hunters. We are in a lab previously used to study heper hair and fi ngernails. The man is leaning toward me, his gaunt frame tilting like a snapped pencil, his head slanted close to a sample of heper fi ngernails encased in a glass plate. His bald head is as shiny and hairless as the plate, but mottled over with age marks near his forehead. A few wisps of hair are combed across his gleaming head, 58 ANDREW FUKUDA like thin strands of night clouds across the moon. We are alone at the back of a laboratory; everyone else is clustered near the front of the lab, where the (apparently) more exciting samples of heper hair are on display.

“A crock,” he whispers.

“These fi ngernails?”

He shakes his head. “This whole tour. This whole training period.”

I take a sideways glance at him. This is the fi rst time I'm seeing him up close, and he is older than I thought. Hair wispier, wrinkles deeper, the curve of his back more pronounced.

“Why do we need training?” His voice is gravel y. “Just let us have at the hepers, already. We'l devour them in a minute. We don't need training. We have our instinct, we have our hunger. What else do we need?”

“We need to draw this out. Savor the moment. Anticipation is half the enjoyment.”

It's his turn to look at me. A brief look, but one that absorbs.

I feel the suction of his brain taking me in. And then his approval.

I've been watching him a bit since yesternight. He stuck out, and I now know why. He doesn't want to be here. Every other hunter (except me, of course) is ecstatic, has just literal y won the lottery of a lifetime. But his feet drag just so, his eyes fail to shine with the glee the others have, and everything about him seems to spel r-e-l-u- c-t- a-n- c-e. In short, he's everything I'm feeling inside. A thought comes to my mind, but I dismiss it outright: There's no chance he's a heper. A real heper (like me) would be covering up those feelings (as I'm doing), not letting them hang out like dirty underwear for all to observe.

As I study him— his stiff, arthritic gait whittled down by age — it hits me why he's so sul en. He knows he doesn't stand a chance.

Not against the younger hunters, who'l outrun and outgun him.

By the time he gets to the hepers, there won't even be bones left to gnaw on. This Heper Hunt is torture for him, to bones left to gnaw on. This Heper Hunt is torture for him, to be so close yet so far. No wonder he's bitter. He's a starving man at a banquet who knows there won't even be crumbs left on the fl oor for him.

“There's more going on here than meets the eye,” he says, stil bent over the glass plate.

I'm not sure what to say, so I wait for him to continue. But he doesn't; he shuffl es to the front of the lab and joins the others, leaving me standing all alone.

After touring the laboratories on the third fl oor, we are taken to the fourth fl oor. We go through it quickly; it's real y nothing more than a series of unused classrooms, the chairs inside propped upside down on desktops. At the far end is the auditorium. We stick our heads through the door to take a look. I smel a dusty dank-ness. Nobody wants to venture in, and we move on.

Eventual y we wind up on the top fl oor, the fi fth. The Control Center spans the ful length and width of this fl oor.

The hubbub here is markedly different from the deadness of the lower fl oors.

Clearly, this is the nerve center to the whole operation.

Numerous computers and TV monitors glow from one end to the other. Staffers are up and about, clipboards in hand, walking briskly between desks and cubicles and computer terminals. They're all men, dressed in navy blue single- breasted jackets with peaked lapels and double vents, but slim to the fi t and streamlined. Three buttons run down the front of their jackets, emitting a dim mercurial light. They're curious about us, and I catch them stealing furtive glances.

We're the heper hunters, after all . We're the ones who get to eat and drink heper fl esh and blood.

Instead of concrete wal s, large panel windows stretch from ceiling to fl oor, giving us an almost uninterrupted 360- degree view of the outside. From up here, it feels as if we're hovering above the moonlit plains spread below us.

The group moves over to the windows facing east. The Dome.

They all want to see the Dome.

It sits smal in the distance, a marble sliced in half, glimmering slightly under the stars.

“There's nothing to see,” an escort says. “Al they do is sleep at night.”

“They never come out?”

“Hardly ever at night.”

“They don't like the stars?”

“People. They don't like people watching them.”

We stare in silence.

“It's almost like they know we're watching,” one of the hunters whispers.

“Bet there's a bunch of them staring back at us. From inside one of those huts. Right now, as we speak.”

“They're just sleeping now,” says an escort.

We're all straining forward, hoping to catch some movement.

But all is still .

“I heard the Dome opens at sunrise.”

The escorts glance at one another, not sure if they're all owed to respond.

“Yes,” says an escort. “There are sunlight sensors that trigger the Dome. The Dome rises out of the ground two hours before dusk and retracts into the ground one hour after dawn.”

“So there's no way to manual y open the Dome?” asks Ashley June. “From in here? A button to press or lever to pul that would open it?” There's a protracted, intense silence.

“No. Everything is automated,” says an escort. “It's all been taken out of our hands.” He has more to say, but he's biting his tongue.

“Do you have any binoculars?”

“Yes. But there's nothing to see. The hepers are all asleep.”

Everyone is so caught up with the Dome, nobody observes Ashley June slide away.

Except me.

I fol ow her from the corners of my eyes, turning my head when she slips altogether from my vision.

She drifts toward the back of the room where three rows of security monitors line the wal . Under the monitors sits a staffer, his head swiveling slowly from side to side and up and down as he scans the monitors above him. She stands very close behind him, edging closer, slowly, until a few strands of hair graze the side of his forehead.

He moves quickly, a slide to his right. She scratches her wrist, apologizing, scratching harder, making sure the moment becomes light and accidental. On his chair, he swivels around to face her, then stands. He's baby- faced and inexperienced, and his bleary eyes take a while to take in what's before him. A young lady, and a beautiful one at that. This man, his world fi l ed with an endless onslaught of digital screens, is taken aback by this sudden intrusion of fl esh.

Ashley June scratches her wrist more, trying to set him at ease. A moment passes, and he begins to scratch his...

 

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They were neither too thin nor too thick, just the perfect dimensions with perfect ridges that exuded both assurance and grace. Even the light freckles that sprinkle her arm, exploding in a splattering of dots as they disappear into her shirt, are more seductive than imperfect.

Slowly, I edge closer to Ashley June, positioning myself behind a smal pil ar. I peer around the pil ar; she's moved even closer to him. Above them, images from security cameras shine with a dul blur. At least a good half of them center on the Dome.

“Can't believe they're running all the time.”

“Twenty- four/seven,” he answers proudly.

“And is there always someone watching these monitors?”

“Wel , we used to station a staffer here. But, wel , it became . . .

there was a policy change.”

“A policy change?”

There is a long pause.

“Oh, c'mon, you can tel me,” Ashley June says.

“Don't tel anyone,” the staffer warns, his voice hushed.

“Okay. Our secret.”

“Some staffers became so lost in these images of the hepers that they'd . . .”

“Yes?”

“They lost their senses, they were driven mad with desire.

They'd rush out at the heper vil age.”

“But it's enclosed by the Dome.”

“No, you don't understand. They'd rush out in the daytime.”

“What?”

“Right from this very seat. One moment they're staring at the monitors, and the next they're rushing down the stairs and out the exit doors.”

“Even with the sun burning?”

“It's like they forgot. Or it just didn't matter to them anymore.”

Another pause. “So that's why there was a policy change.

First, no more recordings— il egal bootleg copies were somehow winding up on the streets. And second, now everyone leaves this fl oor before dawn.”

“It's completely unstationed during the day?”

“Not only is it unstationed, but look, the windows have no shutters. They were taken down. So now, the sun pours in during the daytime. The best security system. Nobody's coming in here after dawn. Nobody.”

There is a pause, and I think that's the end of the conversation when Ashley June speaks again. “And what's that big blue oval button over there?”

“I'm not really supposed to say.”

“Oh, c'mon, it's safe with me.”

Another pause.

“Like everything else you've told me, all the stuff you could get fi red for disclosing, it's all safe with me,” says Ashley June, this time with a hint of a threat in her voice.

“It's the lockdown control,” he says tersely after a moment.

“What's that?”

“It shuts the building down, locks all entrances, shutters al windows. There's no leaving the building once lockdown has been deployed. Push it to set the system, push again to cancel—”

His voice gets drowned out by the approaching tour group, which has moved away from the windows and is now mumbling its way toward the back of the fl oor, toward the monitors. I slink back into the mix. Nobody's noticed my absence. I don't think.

By the time the group reaches the monitors, the staffer is back in his seat, his head swiveling back and forth, up and down. One of the escorts is speaking in a monotone voice, talking about the function of the monitors, how every square inch of the Institute is covered by a camera. But nobody is listening, they're all staring at images of the Dome in the monitors. They're still looking for hepers.

Except me. I'm watching Ashley June.

She's slinked away again and is wandering around. Or at least pretending to. Something about her bearing— maybe the way she turns her head just so to read documents on desks or bends over as she passes by a control panel fi l ed with switches and buttons— seems purposeful and deliberate. And she's trying to go about un-noticed, but it's near impossible. She's a heper hunter, she's female, she's beautiful. She's sizzling hot oil on your brains. Before long every male staffer around her has taken notice. She realizes this, too, and before long, gives up. She rejoins us at the monitors, tilting her head up.

She stands very still , immovable, unreadable.

I stare from behind, the line of hair streaming down over the nape of her neck, dark with a dul gleam. She's up to something here in the Control Center; I can't shake that feeling. Digging for information. Looking for something.

Seeking confi rmation. I'm not sure. But what I am sure of: She's playing a game the rest of us don't even realize has begun.

Lunch is late that night; it's wel past midnight before we are taken down to a large hal on the ground fl oor and seated at a circular table. None of the escorts sit with us; instead, they retreat to their own table in the peripheral darkness.

Without their hovering presence, the hunters are set at ease: our backs relax, we become more talkative. Lunch offers the fi rst time I'm really able to meet the other hunters.

It's the food we talk about initial y. These are meats we've never tasted before, only read about. Jackrabbit, hyena, meerkat, kanga-roo rat. Fresh kil s from the Vast. Or so they say. The fl agship dish is a special treat: cheetah, typical y eaten only by high- ranking offi cials at weddings.

Cheetahs are diffi cult to catch, not because of their speed — even the slowest person can outsprint a fl eeing cheetah — but because of their rarity.

Each dish, of course, comes wet and bloody. We comment on the texture of the different meats on our tongue, the superior taste to the synthetic meats we usual y eat. Blood oozes down our chins, col ecting in the drip cups placed below. We will drink it all up at the end of the meal, a soupy col ection of cold animal blood.

What I most need is absent from the dinner table: water. It's been over a night since my last drink at home, and I can feel my body desiccating. My tongue, dry and thick, feels like a wad of cotton wool stuffed in my mouth. The past hour or so, spel s of dizzi-ness have whirled in my mind. My drip cup gradual y fi l s with mixed blood. I will drink it because it is liquidy and watery enough.

Kind of.

“I heard they stuck you in the library.” It's a man in his forties, sitting next to me, beefy with broad shoulders; he's the president of SPHTH (Society for the Protection and Humane Treatment of Horses). His generous potbel y protrudes just above table level.

My designation for him: Beefy.

“Yup,” I say. “Sucks the big one, having to walk outside. You guys are probably partying up in here all day while I'm cooped up all by my lonesome, bored as anything.”

“It's the sunrise curfew that would get me,” Beefy says, his mouth ful of fl esh. “Having to leave everyone and everything, drop of the hat, forced to leave. And all alone out there, surrounded by desert and sunlight in the day hours.”

“You got all those books,” Ashley June says next to me.

“What's there to complain about? You can study up on hunting techniques, get a leg up on us.”

I see the el der ly, gaunt man I'd met in the lab earlier scratch his wrist ever so slightly. He jams a piece of hyena liver into his mouth.

His designation: Gaunt Man.

“I heard,” says another hunter, “that the library belonged to a fringe scientist with some pretty loony theories on hepers.”

The woman, who looks fi t for her age— I place her in her mid- thirties, a dangerous age, equal parts fi t and savvy— sits across from me; she barely looks up from her plate as she speaks. Jet black hair, greased up, accentuating her angular pale chin. Her lips are luscious and ful , crimson with the dripping of fl esh blood, as if her own lips were bleeding profusely down her chin. When she speaks, her lips part across her teeth at an angle, as if only one side of her lips can be bothered to move. Like a lazy snarl. I think: Crimson Lips.

“Where did you hear that?” I ask.

Crimson Lips looks up from her bloody plate and holds my gaze, mea sur ing me. “What, the library? Because I've been asking about you,” she says, her voice cool and diffi cult to read, “and why you were put there. My escort knows everything. Quite chatty, once you get him started, actual y. Told me, too, lest we start feeling too sorry for you, of the great view you have.”

“Same view you guys get. Except I'm out in the boondocks.”

“But you're closer, though!” Beefy says, blood spraying out of his mouth and speckling down his chin. A wad of half- chewed rabbit liver fl ies out, landing near Crimson Lips' plate. Before Beefy can move, she snaps up the chunk and puts it into her mouth. He glares at her briefl y before turning his attention back to us. “You're closer to the Dome. To the hepers.”

At that, it's as if every head turns to look at me.

I quickly bite off a large chunk of meat; I chew it slowly, deliberately, buying time. I scratch my wrist rapidly. “With about a mile of daylight between me and them. And at night, an impenetrable glass dome insulating them from me. They might as wel be on a different planet.”

...

 

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 12



Notebooks and journals fi l ed with absolute dreck.”

Dessert arrives, ice cream. This is one of the few foods for which I don't have to fake an appetite. I scarf it down, slowing down only when a sharp pain pinches my forehead.

The other hunters continue to stuff their faces, especial y the two sitting on my left.

They're in their twenties, both students at the Col ege. He's a phys ed major, she's undeclared. Physical specimens, both of them, to say the least. He's rippling in muscles, although he doesn't fl aunt it. She's more of an exhibitionist, wearing daring cutoffs that show off her abdominal muscles. Lookers, too, with crystal ine skin, high- bridged noses, and doorknobs for cheekbones. Both Phys Ed and Abs have a natural bounce to their step that speaks of effortless strength and agility. But dumb as doorknobs. One thing's instantly clear: They're the top contenders. One of them is going to win the Hunt. The other is going to fi nish what ever hepers are left over. No wonder Gaunt Man is unhappy.

Fril y Dress springs in from nowhere, her shril voice ringing across the hal like a shattered plate. “And did we all have a stupendous lunch?” she asks. It's apparent she has: her chin is still dripping with fresh blood. “Time to move on to the next part of the tour. In fact, we've been moving so fast, we have almost nothing left on today's agenda. My, my, my, you all really should pace yourselves slower. You won't learn anything at this breakneck speed!”

I catch Gaunt Man shoot me a knowing look, as if to say: Didn't I tell you? This whole thing is a meaningless exercise in redundancy.

“So,” continues Fril y Dress, “the only thing left remaining on to night's itinerary is the visit to the Dome. This is going to be a real treat. Mind you, we'l likely not see any hepers since they sleep at night, but their odors are really pungent there. To die for, real y.”

A few necks twitch around the table.

“So, shal we? Make our way now?”

And like that, we're all standing, waiting for our escorts.

And then, away we go.

By the quick pace of our feet rushing down the stairs; by the force with which the exit doors are fl ung open; by the look of excitement on even Gaunt Man's face; by the spasmodic and minuscule vibra-tions of our heads— I know we are excited. I know we are desirous.

As if by tacit agreement, no one speaks. We are silent, our shoes fi rst padding the hard marble fl oors and then, once outside, lilting on the softer give of the brick path. Even as we walk past the library, nobody says anything. Only Gaunt Man peers inside, curiously, then at me, perhaps wondering why I, of all of them, have been housed in there.

When the brick path comes to an end and our shoes hit the hard, dusty gravel of the Vast, it is as if nobody dares even breathe, we are so wordless.

“It never gets old,” an escort fi nal y says. And at that, the pace quickens even more.

I worry that the col ective excitement will spring everyone into running. It wouldn't take much to set them off. If that happens, I'l be exposed. Because I can't run, at least not as fast as everyone else.

Not by half, in speed or stamina. I still remember in fi rst grade how all my classmates used to zoom past me, and all I could do was plod along as if I were in a vat of mercury.

Always fall, my father would say, always pretend to trip and sprain your ankle. Then you can sit out.

“Hey,” I say to no one in par tic u lar, to everyone in par tic u lar, “there's no way we can get inside the Dome, right?”

“Nope,” answers my escort.

“Probably won't even see any hepers, right?”

“Nope. They're all sleeping this time of night.”

“So we'l see exactly what we're seeing now, but closer up?”

“What?”

“Wel , just mud huts, a pond, laundry lines. That's all , right?”

“Yup.”

“Boring,” I say daringly.

But the group buys it, at least enough to dampen their excitement. The pace slows.

Fifteen minutes later, we're nearing the Dome. Its scale as we approach takes me by surprise: it towers above us and cups over much more acreage than I previously thought.

Crimson Lips starts twitching as she walks in front of me.

Abs' shoulders hike up, stiffening with excitement. Phys Ed, walking next to her, is elevating his nose into the air, sniffi ng.

“I smel them. I smel heper,” Gaunt Man shouts, his gnarled voice exploding into the night's quiet. Other heads snap up with a crack, noses pointed upward and around, sniffi ng.

About fi fty yards out, they crash through the tipping point and break into a stampede. I plod behind them, running as fast as I can.

They are blurs, a haphazard menagerie of black oscil ations and gray smudges, legs springing and pumping, arms swinging upward and out. There is no grace or order about their movements, just a random assortment of cuts, springs, leaps.

By the time I catch up with them, they're pressed up against the glass, too fi xated by the Dome to notice my late arrival.

Inside the Dome are about ten mud huts. They're dotted evenly around the compound, about half of them clustered near a pond. And the pond is remarkable: fi rst, for its very existence smack bang in the middle of the desert; but also for the perfectly symmetrical circle it makes. Man- made, without a doubt.

Next to the technological wizardry of the pond and Dome, the mud huts look like prehistoric relics. The wal s are cratered and rough, punctured by smal , unframed windows. Each hut sits on two encircling rows of rectangular stones, coarsely fi tted together.

“Can't see a thing inside,” Beefy says.

“Probably all just sleeping, anyway,” an escort says.

“But take a whiff, I can smel them. Stronger than usual,”

says my escort, standing next to me.

“Just a bit,” another escort says, at the other end of the group.

“More than just a bit,” my escort says. “It's pretty strong to night.

They must have been running around a lot, sweating earlier.” But a frown crosses his face. He turns in my direction, takes another sniff.

“Very strong to night. Odd, that.”

I force myself to remain calm. It's me who's giving off the smel , I know that, but I can't move or do anything too drastic. So I try to distract. With a question: “How deep is that pond?”

“Not sure,” he says. “Deep enough to drown in, I suppose.

But no heper has ever drowned. They're like fi sh, those things.”

“No way that pond's natural,” I say.

“Genius in the midst of us,” Gaunt Man says, then spits in the dusty, hard ground.

“Is this glass Dome porous?” Abs suddenly asks. She's been so quiet, it takes me a second to realize the pretty voice belongs to her.

“Because I can smel heper. So much better than the artifi cial smel s they sel .”

“It does seem to have gotten stronger over the past few minutes,”

Phys Ed says.

“Must be porous. I can really smel them!” Abs says excitedly.

“Didn't think so, but the air really is thick with their odor . . .,”

my escort says distractedly. “Daylight was hours ago.

Almost eight hours ago. Shouldn't be this much odor lingering.” His nostrils are working faster now, fl aring with alarming wetness. Those nostrils start turning toward me, like eyes widening with realization.

I shift away from the group. “I'm going to walk around the Dome, see if I can see anything on the other side.”

Thankful y, no one fol ows me. On the other side, hidden by the mud huts, I spit into my hands, then vigorously rub my armpits. Pretty disgusting, but so is the alternative, which is armpits. Pretty disgusting, but so is the alternative, which is being ripped apart into a hundred pieces.

When I return to the group, they're ready to head back.

“Smel 's gone,” Gaunt Man says with a hangdog expression, “and nothing to see. Hepers are all asleep.”

We start to head back, despondency dragging our feet. No one says a word. I take the back of the line, downwind.

“Starry night,” someone says to me.

It's Ashley June, peering back at me.

“A bit too bright for my liking,” I say.

She scratches her wrist ambiguously with a glance upward.

“Those hepers are just like zoo animals,” she says, “sleeping all the time.”

“The escorts say they're natural y shy.”

“Stupid animals,” she spits. “It's their loss.”

“How so?”

She surprises me by slowing down until we're side by side.

“Think about it,” she says, her voice congenial. “The more the prey knows about the hunter, the more of a strategic advantage it gains.

If those things were awake, they'd know how many of us there are, how many men, how many women, our ages—”

“You're assuming they know about the Hunt.”

“They must. They've been given weapons.”

“Doesn't mean anything. Besides, a ‘strategic advantage' isn't going to help them one bit. No matter...

 

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 13



The sound of the desert wind fi l s the silence between us.

“I think we should team up,” she says. “I think we can real y help each other.”

“I work best alone.”

She pauses. “Did you read a lot about the Hunt ten years ago?”

“Yeah, just like everyone else,” I lie. I avoided every book, every article, every sentence, every word.

“Wel , I've been studying up on this Hunt thing. A lot more than anyone else. Like, religiously. It's been an obsession of mine for years. I've read books, subscribed to journals, scoured the library for tidbits of information on the topic.

Even listened to radio interviews with former winners, though they tended to be plenty brawny but pretty dumb.

Anyway, just to say, what ever you might learn over the next fi ve days, I already know. Knew it years ago.”

“That's nice to know,” I say, not sure where this is going. But she's not lying. She a member of all kinds of heper societies and clubs at school.

“Listen. This is the open secret. Most people here already know it, but you seem clueless, so let me fi l you in. It's al about all iances. The winner always comes out of the strongest all iance. Always. It's true for the last Hunt, and it's true for every Hunt before that. If you team up wel , you'l do well . Simple as that.”

“Why don't you partner up with one of the other hunters?

Everyone knows that raw strength and physical prowess always wins the Hunt. And the other hunters are better contenders than me in that department. Take the two col ege students, for example: they're athletical y and physical y imposing. Even the cagey old guy is a stronger hunter than me; where he might be lacking in the strength department, he more than makes up for it with his guile and street smarts. And what about the woman— she looks like she knows how to handle herself. She's got it both: she's mental y wily and physical y dexterous. You'd do wel with her.”

“It's a trust issue. You're the only one here I can trust.”

“Wel , trust me on this one. With me, you'l lose.”

“Why, you're not going to even try?”

“Of course I am! I want those hepers just as much as anyone else. But I'm a realist.”

“Look,” she says, putting a hand on my chest and stopping me.

“You can go at it alone and have no chance, or you can team up with me, and together we might have a chance.

But you go into this without any kind of plan, and you're going to end up empty- handed.”

She's right, but not in the way she thinks. Because I, more than anyone else, know that if I go into this without a plan, I lose. And not just the Hunt. But my life. Without a strategy, the Hunt will expose me for what I am.

I do have a plan, and it's quite simple: Survive. That's it.

Over the next few nights, lie low, don't attract attention.

Then, the night before the Hunt, feign an injury. A broken leg. Actual y, I'l have to do more than feign— I'l have to actually break my leg. I'l make a big fuss about the bad luck of getting taken out of the Hunt.

Punch and kick and claw at the administration as the hunters head off into the distance while I lie in bed, cast wrapped around my leg. And then go on with life. So yes, she's right: I do need a plan.

And I already have one. But it doesn't involve teaming up with her.

“Look, I understand. But I . . . work better alone.”

I think I see something fl ash in her eyes, some kind of breakage.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?”

“What?”

“Pushing me away. all these years.”

“What are you talking about? We don't even really know each other.”

“And why is that?” she says, and paces forward to catch up with the group, her hair bil owing behind her in the breeze.

Against my better judgment, I quicken my steps until I catch up with her. “Wait, listen.”

She turns to look at me but keeps walking.

“We should talk. You're right.”

“Okay,” she replies after a moment. “But not here. Too many prying eyes, curious ears. Let's stop by the library.”

Our escorts are none too happy with this. “Any deviance Our escorts are none too happy with this. “Any deviance from protocol is not permitted,” they recite, almost in unison. We ignore them; as the group passes the library, we break from it, walking through the front doors. Our escorts, miffed, fol ow us in. They know there is little they can do to stop us.

We walk through the foyer, stopping in front of the circulation desk. The escorts stand with us. We stare at one another.

“Wel ,” I say to Ashley June after a prolonged period, “this is a little awkward.”

She tilts her head toward me with eyes that seem to sparkle a little more. “Give me a tour,” she says, then glares back at the escorts. “Alone.” She walks away, past the tables and chairs, farther into the main section, observing the décor and furniture. “So this is the Shangri- la resort we've al been hearing about,” she says, standing on a worn- down fl oral rug in the center of the large room.

“How did that happen?” I ask. “A few hours ago, everyone was cal ing this place a hell ish solitary confi nement, and now it's a resort? No, real y, I'd so much rather be in the main building,” I lie, walking over to her. The escorts, thankful y, don't fol ow.

“Trust me, you'd rather not. The constant bickering, the complaining, the pettiness, the watchfulness, the stalking— and that's only among the staffers. It's pretty oppressive.

Wouldn't mind it myself, getting away from it all . And from all the questions.”

“Questions?”

“About you. People are wondering why you've been set apart here, why you're getting the special A-list treatment.

And since they know we go to the same school, they assume I know you wel ; they've all been peppering— more like bombarding— me with questions about you. What you're like, your past, whether you're smart, ad nauseam.”

“What do you tel them?”

Her eyes meet mine, at fi rst seriously, then with a softness that surprises. She walks to the fl oor- to- ceiling windows, the point farthest from the escorts, and gives me a beckoning look. I fol ow, coming to stand with her at the windows. And now, far removed from the escorts, it's just the two of us, bathed in the silver glaze of moonlight pouring in. Our chests less constricted, the air lighter.

“I tel them what I know,” she says, looking out the window and then back at me. Her eyes, awash in the moonlight, radiate out, her irises delineated and clear. “Which isn't a lot. I tel them that you're a bit of an enigma, a loner, that you keep to yourself. That you're crazy smart even though you try to hide it. That even though all the girls whisper about you, you've never so much as dated a single one.

They ask if we've ever been together, and I tel them no.”

My eyes fl ick to hers. She holds my stare with a kind of quiet desperation, as if afraid I might break away too quickly. The air between us changes drastical y. I can't explain it, other than it feels like both a hot quickening and a calming softness.

“I wish I had more to tel them,” she whispers. “I wish I knew you better.” She sags her body against the window as if suddenly fatigued by an invisible weight.

It is this leaning— it looks like a surrender — that cracks something in me, like ice splintering on the fi rst day of spring. Pale in the moonlight, her skin is a glowing alabaster; I have a sudden strong urge to run my hands down her arms, to feel its cool clay smooth-ness.

For a few minutes, we gaze outside. Nothing moves. A rind of moonlight fal s on the distant Dome, bejeweling it in a glint of sparkles.

“Why is it that this is the fi rst time we've really talked?” She reaches up, tucks some loose hair strands behind her ear.

“I've always wanted something like this with you, you must have known that. I think a hundred of these moments have passed us by.”

I stare outside, unable to meet her eyes. But my heart is beating faster and hotter than it has in a long time.

“I waited for you that rainy night,” she says, her voice barely audible. “For almost an hour at the front gate. I got completely drenched. What, did you sneak out the back entrance after school?

It was a few years ago, I know, but . . . have you forgotten?”

I fi x my eyes on the eastern mountains, not daring to meet her eyes. What I want to tel her is that I have never forgotten; that not a week goes by that I don't imagine I made a different decision.

That I'd walked out of the classroom as the bel rang and met her at the front gates and walked her home, rain slicking down the sides of my pants, our shoes sloshing through puddles, hands together holding the umbrel a above our heads, useless against the down-pour, but the wetness not minded in the least.

But instead of speaking to her, I hear my father's voice.

Never forget who you are. And for the fi rst time, I realize what he meant by that. It was just another way of...

 

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 14



“We need to get back to the group. It's dinnertime.”

At dinner, most of us are pretty spent. We're too tired to engage in anything more than middling conversation, a far cry from the gab-fest we had at lunch. I worry about my body odor and discreetly sniff my underarms from time to time. I eat quickly, mindful of my proximity to others. Gaunt Man seated next to me is given to occasional twitches. He doesn't say anything, but a couple of times, his nostrils enlarge in my direction.

Ashley June sits on my other side. I am conscious of her every move: the closeness of her elbow to mine, every time she picks up and puts down her utensils, the sway of her hair as she ties it into a ponytail to keep it from fal ing into the drip cups. Mostly, I notice her silence. A strong urge pul s in me to look at her. And to move away from her, keeping my odor from her.

By midmeal, I'm more than worried about my body odor.

And the more ner vous I get, the more odor I emit. A quick and quiet exit is what's needed. I stand up; all eyes at the table immediately turn to me. Stepping away from the table, I look for my escort sitting at his own table somewhere in the surrounding darkness. He emerges from behind me a few moments later.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes, fi ne. I should be heading back to my lodging. I'm worried about the sunrise.”

He looks at his watch. “It's not due for another hour.”

“Even so, I'm a worrier. I don't want to chance getting caught outside by a premature sunrise.” Everyone at the table is staring at us now.

“I assure you, our dawn– dusk calculations are never wrong,” he says.

I cast my eyes downward, realizing I actual y don't have to feign tiredness. I'm truly worn to the bone. “If there's nothing else for to night, I think I'm going to retire early. Pretty pooped.”

I sense him staring at me, trying to understand. “But the food— there're so many more succulent dishes to come.”

I realize what's going on. “You know you don't have to escort me back. Stay and eat. To your fi l . Real y. I know my way back from here. Two fl ights down, left down the hal way, right, another left, then out the double doors with the Institute emblem.”

“You don't want to stay for dessert?”

“No, I'm fi ne, real y.”

“But the choicest, bloodiest meats are yet to come!”

“Just knackered, is all . Real y, don't you worry about me.”

“You sure you're fi ne getting back without assistance?”

“I got this.” And before he can object, I leave. And as I walk away, I shoot a quick look at the table.

They're all supposed to be eating, ignoring my conversation with the escort, stuffi ng their faces. But instead they're looking at me with befuddlement. No; more than befuddlement. This is bewilder-ment, the kind that nests in people's minds, keeps them wondering.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I mutter to myself as I walk down two fl ights. Idiot, idiot, idiot, I inwardly reprove myself as I head down the hal ways. “Moron, moron, moron,” I say out loud as I push open the double doors to the outside. And then it is my father's voice in my head: Don't do anything out of the ordinary, don't do anything that sticks you out from the crowd. Avoid anything that'll draw attention.

Even when I reach the doors to the library a few minutes later, I am still chastising myself. Imbecile, stupid, moron, doofus.

Back in the library, I roam the aisles, the back rooms, hidden corners, scour every inch. But it's useless. There's no drinkable liquid of any kind in the library, not so much as a drop. And in the restroom, like in all bathrooms, there's nothing but hard sanitizing dispensers. Knowing better, I dab a few drops of the sanitizer on my tongue. The sanitizer drops scour my tongue with an acidic burn that leaves a foul after taste. I'm really worried now. Away from my supplies stashed at home, from all my instruments of subter-fuge— my shavers, bottles of water, odor suppressors, teeth whiteners, nail fi lers— things are deteriorating quickly. The lack of water is causing my head to spin. I can't concentrate. On things. all my thoughts are jagged. Short thrusts. A pounding headache.

I lift up my arm, take a sniff of my armpit. There. Even I can smel it now. And if I can smel it, they can. No wonder Gaunt Man and Beefy were so distracted at dinner.

I don't know if anyone suspects me yet. Gaunt Man and Beefy might have smel ed something at dinner, but I don't think they've connected the dots to me yet. But by tomorrow, I'l be reeking.

I head over to the leather couch and plop down. My head: stil pounding, spinning. Outside, a hint of dawn presses against the windows. The shutters will close soon.

I throw my elbow over my eyes, not wanting to think but knowing I need to face reality. Plan A seemed perfect not so long ago: Fly under the radar during training period, break a leg right before the Hunt. But now, things have changed. With my body sending out eatme smel s and my tongue as dry and coarse as sandpaper, I won't make it to the Hunt four nights away. I'l either die of thirst or be savagely devoured. Probably the latter.

Lying on the couch, a numbed alarm pressing down on me, I begin to drift. Actual y, it's more like a plummet into a deep canyon of sleep.

Thirst awakens me. I cough: a thousand splinters pierce my parched throat.

Slowly, I peel my draped arm away from my face. The library is dark: the shutters have closed. But something is odd. I can still see, with a dim clarity, the interior of the library. As if a candle is burning.

Impossible. I spin around, drowsiness quickly shaken off. I see the light source.

It's right there. A single, thin beam of sunlight shooting from a hole in the shutter behind me. The beam shoots past my ear, reaching to the far wal of the library. It is a piercing line of light, laser-like, seeming to carry a physical heft. I hadn't noticed it yesterday.

But then again, I was on the other side of the library, fast asleep during the day hours.

I walk over to the shutter. Tentatively, I reach toward the hole. I half expect the light to sear my skin. But there's just a pinprick warmth where the beam hits my skin. The hole in the shutter is a perfect circle, smooth along the edges. Very strange. This is no accident, no result of the building's aging pro cess. This hole was intentional y made— drilled—through a two-inch steel- reinforced shutter. But for what purpose? And by whom?

The kooky Scientist. That part is not diffi cult to fi gure out; no one else has ever lived here. But why would he do it? A beam of sunlight like this would not only keep a person from sleeping, but cause permanent ret i nal and intestinal damage. None of this makes sense.

Or perhaps the Scientist had nothing to do with this.

Perhaps the hole was dril ed by the staffers later, after he'd disappeared.

But why? And if they knew they were going to house me in the library, surely they would have patched it up before I moved in. Again, none of this makes any sense.

And then a thought blizzards into my mind, chil ing me.

I shake my head, as if to banish the thought. But it's latched on to my brain, irrevocably now. And the more I think about it, the more likely it seems.

Somebody dril ed this hole. To night.

To test me. To fl ush me out.

To fi nd out if I'm a heper.

It makes sense. To night, with my unwashed body giving off an odor, suspicion is aroused. But more proof is needed before I can be accused. Sending a surreptitious sunbeam into the library during the day is perfect. Subtle yet dispositive. A sunbeam so smal that it wouldn't awaken a heper, but enough to jolt any normal person awake, making him fl ee to the far side of the library and demand a new room at fi rst dark. The perfect litmus test.

I pace down the aisles, trying to keep fear at bay. My fi ngertips brush against the dusty spines of leather covers.

There's a fl aw in my thinking, I realize. The only people who could possibly be on to me are those who've been in proximity. That would be the hunters and the escorts. But they've been with me all night long; we've never left one another's sight. Nobody has had the opportunity to slip away and dril a hole through two inches of reinforced steel.

I head back to the hole and study it even closer. The edges are weathered and dul ed, not shiny or sharp as they would be after a fresh cut. I bend down to the fl oor, looking for any fresh shavings.

Nothing. This hole has been here a while.

That leaves me in a bit of a pickle. If I feign anger tomorrow and complain about the hole, staffers will come over to take a look before sealing it up. But that hole will invite questions about my fi rst day of sleep— why hadn't I complained after that fi rst day? On the other hand, if I say nothing and this is indeed a ploy to trap me, then I'd be fl ushed out.

Then something clicks inside my head. Perhaps the beam is just a side effect of something more important. Maybe it's the hole— and not the beam— that is really the key to this whole mystery.

I peer intently at the hole now, taking in every tiny scratch near it, its height from the fl oor, its smal diameter.

But of course. It's the perfect size.

To peer through.

But when I look...

 

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 15



Their fi shlike ability to maneuver in water testifi es to the relative lack of evolutionary progress from that elementary stage. Think, too, of their beastlike ability to endure the sun's rays. This ability to withstand sunlight is a ge ne tic relic from the pre- cave era, when land- roaming animals lacked the intel igence to seek shelter in caves. They built up a resis tance to the sun, although said re sis tance inhibited the evolutionary development of the brain. A shame, that.”

His words fl oat to me like seaweed in murky water. I am sitting near the back of the lecture hal , as distanced from people as possible. I had a quick change of clothes (while my escort banged away at my door), but I'm worried about my odor. Nobody seems to have smel ed anything— everyone is stationary, no one twitching. I got through breakfast, early eve ning lectures, and a tour of the grounds, lunch, without anyone noticing. A large window to the left of the podium is thankful y open, a breeze blowing steadily in, dissipating any odor inside. So I hope.

“Their facial expressions— so slippery with unrestrained and unfettered emotions— harken back to the pre- linguist, pre- language era, when expressions served as a kind of sign language. Next slide.”

A photo of the legs of a male heper, covered in hair.

Everyone leans forward. Drool starts to line slowly downward from their fangs, like spiders descending to desktops.

“A vestigial ge ne tic artifact from an era predating the discovery of fi re. Without the capability to build fi re, hair was their only mechanism to ward off the winter cold. Elite scholars have postulated that this evidence of body hair predates even the stone era, when primitives would have been able to fashion rudimentary weapons to hunt and then use fur for clothes. I have written a book on this topic, the fi rst in my fi eld to postulate this now wel - supported theory.

Next slide.”

A photo of a heper eating a fruit, red skinned with yel ow substance inside. I see heads fl inch back in revulsion.

“Ah, yes. Quite inexplicable, this trait, to say nothing of it ghast-liness. It bespeaks their lack of predatory skil s, their inability to really kil anything larger than vermin. So they must hunt those things that do not fl ee: the things of the earth, vegetables and fruits.

This trait in time became in extremis to the extent that their bodies eventual y required fruit and vegetables. Deprive them of vegetables and fruit, and their bodies begin to break down. Reddish spots appear on their bodies, sores attack their lips, then gums, leading eventual y to the loss of teeth. They become immobilized, fal into a depressed, vegetative state. Next slide.”

A photo of the group of hepers under the Dome. They are sitting around a campfi re, their mouths open, heads cocked to the side, eyes closed.

“Nothing has mystifi ed and beguiled scholars as much as the hepers' ability to warble their voices with words, and with such remarkable consistency. Studies undertaken at the Institute have found that hepers are able to duplicate these ululations— what they cal ‘singing'— with astonishing accuracy. In fact, a song can be replicated minutes, days, months, even years after it is fi rst sung with near identical sonic frequencies. There are a plethora of theories out there; none are satisfactory save one, which I presented at the Annual Conference on Heper Studies last year. In short, hepers developed this ‘singing' ability under the mistaken belief that it helped the growth of vegetables and fruits. That is why we see them ‘sing' most commonly when tending to the farmland or plucking fruit off trees. Some scholars posit that hepers may also believe ‘singing' helps to sustain the burning of a fi re and to cleanse the body better. This is evinced in their tendency to warble their voices when assembled around a fi re or when bathing at the pond.”

I sit in my seat, hiding my inner amusement. Everything the Director says about hepers has the ring of truth and a learned authority about it, but I suspect it's nothing more than speculative nonsense. I suppose it's easy to so widely miss the mark when it comes to hepers, to quickly slide from honest scientifi c inquiry to unsubstantiated theories.

After all , if the roles were reversed and it was people who became extinct, people theories would likely be rife with exaggerations and distortions: instead of sleeping in sleep- holds, they'd sleep in coffi ns; creatures of the night, they'd be so invisible to the eye that even in front of mirrors, they'd lack a refl ection; pale and emaciated, they were weak and benign beings who could coexist peaceful y alongside hepers, somehow restraining themselves from ripping hepers to ribbons and sucking down their blood; they'd al invariably be incredibly good- looking with perfect hair.

There'd probably be some outright confabulations as wel : their ability to swim with dizzying speed under water; and ludicrous and laughable notions about people- heper romances.

Two rows in front of me, Phys Ed's head suddenly twitches violently backward. A short line of saliva fl ies off his fangs and swings upward, splatting across his face diagonal y.

He shakes his head.

“Pardon me,” he murmurs.

The Director stares at him, then proceeds. “Another aberration is their rather grotesque tendency to leak minuscule beads of salty water when they get hot or are under stress. Under these extreme conditions, they also emit large amounts of odor, especial y from the underarm region, which itself, especial y in male adults, contains a nest of body hair. It is common for them—”

Phys Ed's head snaps back again. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, “didn't mean to interrupt. But can no one else smel it?

Heper odor?” He turns around, and for one awful moment, his eyes settle on mine.

“Don't you?”

“A little. Just a little,” I offer.

The Director's eyes turn to me. A chil spreads down my body.

Controlled breathing; keep eyelids halfway down; don't dart my eyes back and forth.

“It's really thick, it's getting into my nose, into my head, it's hard to concentrate.” Phys Ed points to an open window.

“Mind if we close the window? I can barely concentrate—”

Abs, sitting two seats away from him, suddenly jerks her head back, snaps it forward again. “Just now. I smel ed it, too. Heper.

Pretty strong odor. It must be wafting in from outside through the open windows. What is it, heper mating season?”

The Director heads over to the open window. His face is placid, unreadable, but he's clearly thinking deeply. “I smel something as wel . The breeze is bringing it in?” His voice rises indecisively at the end. “Here, let me close the window, see if that helps. The hepers must be real y sweating it during the day. Wonder what they're up to.”

The lecture continues, but barely anyone is listening anymore.

Everyone is curious, sniffi ng the air. Far from cutting off the heper odor, closing the window has only intensifi ed the odor. It's me; the smel is emanating from me. How long before the others realize this? Their fi dgeting and agitated head shakes grow more frequent and violent by the minute.

I'm not helping matters— or myself— much: I've got to keep up the act, and my own head shakes and neck snaps are an exertion that in turn releases more odor.

Ashley June suddenly speaks up. “Maybe they've been sneaking in here during the day. Into this building. That's why their odor is everywhere.”

We look to the podium to see what the Director will say.

He's gone. Uncannily. And in his place is Fril y Dress, who, as usual, has materialized out of nowhere. “Impossible,”

she says, her voice shril er than usual. “There's no way a heper would come in here, into the hornets' nest. It's certain death.”

“But the odor,” Ashley June says, her mouth watering. “It's so strong.”

Suddenly her head snaps back, viciously. Slowly she turns around, her head lowering. She gazes at all of us, at me.

“What if one of the hepers snuck in here last night? What if one of the hepers is still hiding in this building?”

And just like that, we are fl ying out the doors, the escorts right next to us, at fi rst trying to coax us back into the lecture hal , but then, as we spin around corners and leap down fl oors (“The odor's getting stronger!” shouts Crimson Lips next to me), the escorts join in the frenzy, feed into it. Gnashing teeth, saliva trailing us, hands shaking in the air, nails grating against the wal s.

It's hard to separate myself from the group. That's my plan: to peel away, steal back to the library, and hope no one thinks much of my absence. But every time I turn a corner to get away, they're right there with me. It's my odor. And with all this running around, it's only getting worse. I was hoping they'd all sprint past me, giving me the opportunity to fl y down the stairs and out the door before they can double back. But they stay right with me. It's terrifying, to be so close to their teeth and claws. They will not be unaware for much longer.

What causes the group to leave me is more by accident than design. I black out— probably for no more than a second or two. One moment I'm running, the next I'm fl at on the...

 

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 16



I'm not even racing down fl ights of stairs anymore; I'm leaping down them, one fl ight at a time. The pain ricochets up my legs, shoots up my back.

They're catching up. No matter how fast I try to push myself, no matter how treacherously I bound down the stairs, the sound of the group behind me looms ever closer. Hard, scrabbling sounds, quick whispers of clothes being whisked this way and that. Only a matter of time now.

Unless . . .

“It's this way!” I shout. “The scent is this way, it's real y strong now, I think I'm on to it!”

“How did he get so far ahead of us?” someone shouts, a fl oor above.

I slam through a set of doors, run halfway across the hal way, then plunge through another set of doors and start leaping up stairs, three at a time.

“Wait for us!” someone shouts right below me.

“No way! I'm virtual y on top of it now.”

“How's the slow kid beating us?” Gaining so fast, just a matter of seconds.

Through another set of doors, a mad sprint down the long hal way. I take a quick look backward: the horde is coming on me like a rabid wave, Gaunt Man leaping from fl oor to wal to ceiling, Phys Ed darting along the crease where wal meets ceiling, the others all apace, their faces stoic, their fangs bared. Three seconds.

I throw myself through the set of doors in front of me. They swing open with a weird touch of familiarity. I see why: I'm back in the lecture hal . I've made ful circle. The hal is completely empty.

Everyone has joined the chase.

Where do I want to die? I wonder. At the back? Standing dramatically on a desk? Near the lectern?

And that's when I see the window.

Jump up, heave it open.

Not a mil isecond later, the group fl ows in like a black wave.

They're so synchronized: on the wal s, the fl oor, the ceiling, there's no jostling for position, no elbowing. Just a coordinated rapid sweep into the lecture hal , eyes spinning, nostrils fl aring.

“It jumped! It jumped outside!” I yel , perched in front of the open window, pointing out. Even before I fi nish yel ing, four of them are up there on the perch, jostling for position, peering through the window with me, their heads disconcertingly close to mine. A strong breeze thankful y picks up, gusts through the window.

“I can smel it everywhere! It's like it's right here, hiding, where?”

“It's gone—”

“We can chase it down, can't have gotten far—”

“Maybe,” I say. “If we go quick, we should be able to get to it.”

They are bunching their legs, readying to leap out of the window, when a whisper freezes them in place.

“You've been had.” A wet, quiet, sinister whisper, seething with threat.

It is the Director.

He's not looking at us, merely glancing at his nails, marveling at their pastel gleam in the moonlight. His voice is quiet, seemingly indifferent to whether anyone is listening.

“Some of you here think you're so smart,” he purrs. “You think you're such a quick study, that you know better than the experts here. A couple days at my establishment and suddenly you think you're smarter than the specialists who've devoted their lives to this fi ne Institute. Did you really think that the Institute I run would be so careless as to all ow a heper to be on the loose, to roam un-checked through the grounds?” He studies his nails.

A pause, then he continues, his voice even softer now. “And did you really think a heper would be so stupid as to be caught outside the protection of the Dome after dusk?” He puts his right hand down. “They might be animals, but they're not stupid. Like some of you here.”

It is deathly quiet. “There is arrogance and ignorance in spades here. Funny how often they go hand in hand. You need to remember who you are. You were selected by luck — not by merit, not by demonstrated ability, not by anything earned. Dumb luck. And now you saunter into my Institute and think you run the whole damn place.

“There is no heper. Yes, there is a discernible smel of heper that has blown in from the outside. It is more pungent than usual, yes. But there is no heper, not inside, not the way you think. You've all been victims of mass hysteria.”

Beefy, despite the Director's words, suddenly shivers. With desire. He can't hold back, he can't deny the heper smel in his nose.

Saliva from Phys Ed, hanging from the ceiling, drips down onto a chair. They can still smel me. They can't help themselves.

“Ah,” continues the Director, observing these reactions, “the power of mass hysteria. Once you've been told there's a face of a heper imprinted on a tree bark, you can't unsee that image so easily, can you? No matter what we say, you'l still see a heper. The conviction proves to be . . .

sticky. Not so easy to unring a bel once it's been rung.

Look at you all . You've almost got me convinced.”

Something lands on my hair, sticky and slightly acidic. I glance up; Abs is up there, hanging upside down. She's gazing at the Director, trying to control herself. More saliva drifts down, silvery and shiny like a spider's thread.

“It's understandable, your susceptibility to mass hysteria.

You're all heper virgins: you've never seen, smel ed, or even heard a heper before, not a live one, anyway. So at the fi rst hint of suggestion, you're all gone, lemmings charging off a cliff. And there's no breaking out of it now.

We've seen this happen time and again here at the Institute, with the new hires. They come here, wet behind the ears.

Some come to see a heper behind every shadow and lose their ability to function. Eventual y, they lose the ability to perform even the simplest of tasks.”

His head revolves, looking at each of us in turn. “We are not without our options, however.” At this, he glides away into the peripheral darkness. Fril y Dress emerges moments later, her face beaming.

“It's a program I came up with. The new hires were getting too distracted, so we had to come up with a way to, wel , desensitize them. The option of sniffi ng acidic powder to numb the smel nerves in the nostrils was considered, but not seriously. My plan was more humane.” She nods toward the back of the lecture hal .

A beam of mercuric light cuts through the lecture hal . An image lights up on a screen above her. We see a large room, like an indoor arena of sorts. Dotted around the perimeter are wooden posts sticking out of the ground like tree stumps. Thick, hardy leather straps are tethered to each post. Even on video, a palpably ominous air hangs over everything. A sense of sour dread seeps off the projected image. Nothing good happens in there, I think.

My insides contract and chil , become lined with a fi lm of frost.

The place looks strangely familiar. I search my memory banks, trying to— And then I recal . The lottery pick. The old, emaciated heper picking out the numbers. It was fi lmed right from this arena.

Fril y Dress, sensing the rapt attention, pauses dramatical y. She tugs on her earlobe. “This converted work space is now affection-ately called the Introduction. The name says it all . It is where you will be introduced to your fi rst live heper. In the fl esh, in the blood, right before you.”

Crimson Lips lets rip a huge snarl. Beefy starts grunting.

Drool streams down now from the ceiling in rivulets.

“Calm down. Nobody is going to be eating a heper. Not today, anyway. Not one fang, not one fi nger, will so much as touch heper fl esh. The leather straps that bind you to the posts will ensure that.”

She picks up a long ruler and uses it to indicate a circular trapdoor on the ground that looks very much like a manhole.

“The heper will emerge from this door on the ground. It wil come out, after you've all been secured to your posts, and for about fi ve minutes, you will get to see and hear and smel the heper. The only senses you will not be using— for now— are touch and taste, obviously. But that heper will be suffi ciently up close and personal. And you will be able to smel it— real heper, rather than your hysterical imaginings.

It will set you straight. The Introduction has been incredibly successful with our new hires. After this exposure, they're no longer heper virgins. Their ability to focus and not be distracted by faint heper odors is much improved. We think the program will be just the ticket for you all .”

“So there is heper in this building!” Gaunt Man says, his voice loud and gruff. “That's why heper smel is so strong!”

“There's one heper. And you haven't been smel ing it. It stays in its quarters. And that door you see in the photo is steel- reinforced and locks from the inside. It is completely safe in there. Has been for the past three years. And the sil y thing has enough food stored up in there to last a month.”

“But how do you get it to come out at the Introduction? How do we know it's going to come out when we're there?”

She scratches her wrist. “Let's just say that we offer choice morsels it can't refuse. Fruits, vegetables, sweet chocolate.

Besides, it knows it's in no danger. It's done this a dozen times, knows that everyone is securely tethered to...

 

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 17



By the time we arrive at the bottom fl oor, I'm spent. My knees feel as if a jackhammer has done a number on them, and my heads spins crazily from the spiraled descent. No one else is fatigued; if anything, the energy level has risen as anticipation draws to a climax. There's a lot of chatter, a lot of teeth grinding.

“Are there enough posts for all of us?” Ashley June asks.

Everyone is jostling for position in front of the closed double doors.

“Don't you worry, any of you,” Fril y Dress answers. “There are ten posts inside. Only seven of you. The posts are equidistant from the center, none has an advantage over another. A food item is placed near each post so all of you wil get a chance to see the heper up close and personal.”

Despite her words, they're still pushing. I separate myself inconspicuously to the side.

“What are we waiting for?”

“Just a bit longer. Paperwork needs to be pro cessed upstairs.

They'l let us know when we're good to go.”

“How?”

Fril y Dress shakes her head. “You'l see.”

“Is it really as great as she put it?” Phys Ed asks his escort.

“Better than advertised. So much better.”

“I can smel it!” Beefy says. “Stronger than ever!”

“Nonsense,” chides Fril y Dress. “The heper's still in its chambers.” But she seems uncertain, her nostrils moistening and fl aring.

“It's the same smel ! We've been smel ing this heper all this time.”

I take two steps back, slowly moving away from them.

“Getting stronger by the second.” More drool and shivers.

I play along. But those doors better open soon, because this is a smal enclave we wait in, and in such tight, unventilated quarters, my odor is amplifi ed.

Gaunt Man's head fl icks violently toward me. He's not just hissing; he's slobbering in his saliva. Foolishly, I meet his eyes. He is staring at me with a dawning realization, his eyes blinking, blinking, blinking with a new— At that very moment, the double doors swing open, an expulsion of steam and smoke enveloping us.

Shouts of excitement as we sweep into the room. The expanse, with its high arching ceiling (rounded and bal ooned like an indoor sports stadium) and wide spread of the dusty ground beneath, catches me by surprise. The heper's door is on the ground, in the very center of the arena, shaped and sized like a manhole. Ten wooden posts are spaced evenly around it. We disperse quickly, each of us running like kids choosing horses on a carousel. As Fril y Dress said, there's more than enough for all of us, but that doesn't stop general bedlam from ensuing. It's the morsels. Hunters are fi ghting over posts positioned before morsels deemed most attractive to the heper. Abs and Ashley June are having a feline fi ght over a post in front of a bunch of bananas.

“I was here fi rst,” snarls Ashley June.

“Wel , I'm already strapped in,” Abs hisses back. She snaps shut a latch in the strap around her ankles. “There.

Locked in.

Can't get out now even if I wanted to. And I don't.”

Across from me, Crimson Lips and Phys Ed are bickering over a post in front of some ears of corn. My attention shifts over to Gaunt Man, whose eyes are glowing at me like a bat's. I can't read his expression, but I sense confusion.

He's still trying to fi gure me out, questioning if he really did smel heper odor coming off me.

I ignore him, busy myself with the straps. There are four metal ic cuffs that lock around our wrists and ankles. Each cuff is tethered to the post by thick leather straps. Even strapped in, we have quite a lot of room to range: about a body length from the post. As long as the heper doesn't stray past the perimeter delineated by the morsels, it'l be safely out of our reach.

An escort walks in, stoic faced, and hands each of us a pair of shades. “Lights will be turned up in a moment,” he murmurs, “so the heper can see.” He checks each of our straps, spending the most time on Gaunt Man, whose straps are way too loose. Gaunt Man objects, raising his arm; as he does so, his shirt becomes untucked and he quickly reaches down to tuck it back in.

But not before I see it. A dul glint coming from his belt, curved and long like a dagger's blade.

An uneasy feeling touches the back of my neck. When the escort checks on my straps, it's on the tip of my tongue to say something.

But the escort walks off before I can speak. He stops at the very center of the arena and says, “Welcome to the Introduction, ladies and gentlemen.” Before walking out, he stamps his boot heavily on the circular door three times, a deep boom sounding. The lights inside the arena turn brighter. We throw on our shades.

And wait.

A mechanical whirring sounds from the circular door in the ground, fol owed by a series of robotic beeps. The door opens, just a crack. And then, just as swiftly, it drops shut, coughing up a puff of dust. Heads cock to the side. Then the door opens not a second later, a little wider this time.

Enough to see the outline of a head.

The twin dots of eyes peering out.

all the hunters explode toward the heper. Almost in unison, bodies snap against the restraints, fl ip in the air, and fal to the ground.

The door, again, fal s shut.

In a blink, everyone is upright and lurching against the restraints.

I pul against my mine, frothing at the mouth as I swing my head wildly to and fro. My shades fl y off.

I blink at the sudden brightness of the arena, now awash in vivid, keen colors. I see the hunters with a clarity that seems to enliven them. They are animals, bestial and overtaken with heper lust. Phys Ed and Crimson Lips have given to scratching their necks, leaving long white etches where their nails rake into skin. Their mouths gape wide, then snap shut like a steel trap, the harsh, rocky sound of teeth gnashing against teeth fi l ing the fetid air.

The trapdoor opens again; a ful y extended arm holds up the door. A head emerges from underneath, peering around like a peri-scope. Apparently assured, it steps out, leaving the door opened, all the better for a quick escape.

For a moment, all is quiet. The sloshing of saliva ceases; the crack of necks and knuckles and spines stop. We study the heper with an almost innocent curiosity, as if we don't mean to pil age its intestines and suck its blood and gorge it at the drop of a hat.

It is the same heper as the one on TV, frail and wispy. It blinks, surveys the piles of morsels distributed around it.

Then Ashley June lets loose a horrifi c scream of desire into the air. Within seconds, we're all yowling and mewling.

The heper is unmoved by the cacophony as it walks to the fi rst pile of food. Two loaves of bread, placed in front of Crimson Lips' post. The heper picks up a loaf, rams it into its mouth, and tears off a mouthful. It moves effi ciently, businesslike, as it grabs the other loaf and tosses it into the open door without so much as a glance at the hissing Crimson Lips. It's done this before. It shuffl es over to the next pile, bottles of water.

It twists open a cap, hoists the bottle upside down, and guzzles down water. Doesn't linger. Cradling the remaining bottles in the crook of its arm, it carries them over to the open door and drops them in. Then it is up and moving to another pile, the candy. all the while, even with snarls and screams about it, the heper never looks up. It is cool y minding its own business.

The heper moves past a stack of notebooks in front of Gaunt Man and toward the candy. My eyes catch a glimmer of stale light from Gaunt Man's waist. The dagger; Gaunt Man is taking it out now. White veins in his bony hand bulge out like sickly squirming worms as he grips the dagger and starts fi ling away at the leather strap. He knows he has to move fast: the heper isn't exactly laying out a picnic mat to dine in our midst. It's simply going to throw all the food and drinks and notebooks into its chamber and then dis-THE HUNT 101 appear. It'l be gone in less than a minute. A rage fi l s the arena, an explosion of frustration at the feeling of being cheated. Ashley June gives another bloodcurdling scream.

She strains against the straps, a desperation attending her desire.

Gaunt Man attacks the straps with extra fervor. He pul s taut the strap tethered to his left wrist while his right arm pistons back and forth, sawing away.

And just like that, the strap fal s in two. He stares stupidly at it dangling in half. Then it hits him; I see his body go erect.

Fantasy is now a dusking reality. And he's hunched over again, fi ling away at the straps tied to his legs, his right arm a blizzard of speed.

The heper has no idea. It is standing over the pile of candy.

It's unwrapping a candy, sucking on it, oblivious to what's going on behind him.

Gaunt Man has sliced through the two leg straps. He switches hands, starts sawing away at the fi nal strap on his right wrist.

The heper pauses, lifting its head into the air like a dog catching a scent.

Then it bends down and picks up another piece of candy.

The last strap is giving Gaunt Man some trouble. Perhaps in his excitement he's not focusing, or perhaps it's on account of having to use his left arm. But he's slower, and it's frustrating him. He lets out a scream of frustration that knifes into my ear drums.

...

 

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 18



The sight of heper blood so close, the smel of it rushing into the air, sends the other hunters into hyperdelirium. The screams rip into my ear drums, threatening to shatter them.

Don't cover your ears! Don't cover your ears! I do the only thing I can: I raise my head, look to the raf ters, and scream.

At the pain, at the horror I know is taking place. My scream joins the others around me. For a few moments, it is my scream that fi l s my ears, covers over all the jackal-and hyena- like howls around me. That is all I want. For just a few moments to be free of their screams.

Then, for the fi rst time, the heper makes a sound. A scream, so different from the screams of desire and hunger around it. This is a cry of horror and a burrowed resignation. It haunts me. It is the amplifi cation of what has lived in my own bones for years.

I hear the sound of bone crunched and then snapped.

Gaunt Man has broken one of the heper's legs. He's toying with it, like a cat with an injured mouse, biding his time. And he's doing it to nettle the other hunters as wel , teasing us with the prize that is so out of reach for us but so inevitable for him. The heper crawls now on its two arms and one leg, its left leg dragging in the dirt, its eyes delirious with unimaginable pain.

“Throw me the knife!” Abs shouts. She is looking at Crimson Lips, who has recovered the knife that Gaunt Man tossed away.

Crimson Lips is a blur; nobody's noticed until now that she's been sawing away at the straps.

“Throw me the knife!”

“The knife— listen to me, throw me the knife!” someone else yel s.

Gaunt Man's head snaps up, takes in what is happening.

He can't take his time anymore. Within seconds, Crimson Lips is going to cut through her restraints, will be charging toward the heper.

With a cry of anger, he leaps on the heper and sinks his fangs into the back of its neck.

Abs cuts through her fourth strap; even as it is fal ing away, she is already spinning around, leaping in one cheetahlike pounce to the heper. Her aim is off; she ends up upending Gaunt Man, and the two of them bounce away from the suddenly freed heper.

The heper scuttles on hands and foot, blood trailing behind it, frantical y trying to fi nd the door opening. Its eyes are pools of fevered dread and pain. It is disoriented, blinded by the blood pouring into its eyes. In its confusion, it is coming right at me.

Abs and Gaunt Man are on their feet, pouncing toward the heper. They land on it at exactly the same time, knocking it off its feet. Right into me.

Its head knocks into my shoulder a split second before its body slams into mine. Weirdly, it embraces me, its arms encircling my waist. Instinctual y, my arms swing around its body. I am holding it up, Abs and Gaunt Man right behind it, their nails sinking into its skin, their fangs bared and a second away from slashing downward and into it.

It looks up, and for one dreadful moment, our eyes meet. I wil never know if its eyes suddenly widened because of the fl ood of pain surging through its body or because of recognition. Of another heper.

Eventual y, when it is all over, the hunters are released. A staffer, speaking gravely, instructs us to return to our rooms for the remainder of the night. By then, there is hardly anything left of the heper, just its shredded clothes. Its blood has been licked off where it splattered; even the dirt, coagulated with the heper's spil ed blood, has been dug up, stuffed into mouths, chewed, and sucked on.

My escort is waiting outside the Introduction. “Go put on a change of clothes,” he tel s me, his nostrils twitching. “I smel heper all over you.”

The openness of the Vast is what I relish. After I climb the endless fl ight of stairs, lagging far behind everyone else, I fi nal y reach the ground fl oor. The others move on up to their quarters. I walk out into the open, the night sky fi l ed with stars. An easterly breeze blows, bil owing my clothes, wafting through my hair. I stagger toward the library, grateful to be able to get away, to be alone. Grains of sand blow against my face, but I barely notice.

Halfway back, I col apse to the ground.

I am so sapped of strength, I can't get up. I lay my head back down on the bricked walkway. It's the lack of water.

My desiccated brain lies shriveled in my skul , a sour plum.

Grayness takes over.

Minutes later— or is it hours?— I come to. I feel better, strength returned to my limbs. The sky is less dark, the stars fewer in num-ber and dimmer. I glance back at the Institute. Nobody has noticed me.

Even though I know it's futile, I do another walk- through the library, hoping to fi nd something to drink. A half hour later, I col apse on the lounge chair, body feeling like a crisp autumn twig, not a molecule of moisture within. My heart hammers away in alarm as if it knows what I'm trying to deny. That my situation is desperate. I won't last another night. They'l come for me after dusk when I don't show up and fi nd me fl opped on the fl oor. It'l be over moments later.

A metal ic click rings through the library, then a soft churning sound. The shutters. Pul ing down darkness, like my eyelids slowly closing. In the blackness, the air grows chil y. My body odor rises to my nose, a sickening stench of heper. I lift my arms, smel my pits.

Ripe. Tomorrow, after the sun sets and the moon rises, I'm a dead man.

A dead heper.

A dead heper.

Images of the heper's death fi l my sleep: feverish reinterpretations, the screams louder, the colors sharper. In my nightmare, the heper leaps into my arms, its blood running over my cheekbones, down my cheeks. In my thirst, my pasty- dried tongue reaches out refl ex-ively, dabbing at the blood. I suck on the blood, letting it soak into my tongue like mountain spring water into a dry sponge, then draw it down my parched throat, feeling its energy ripple through my sapped body. As my body begins to tingle warmer, the heper screams louder— until I realize the scream is coming not from the heper, but from the other hunters, all of them stil tied to their posts, pointing at me, screaming, as I kneel bent over the dead heper in my arms, its skin pasty and blotchy blue.

I shudder awake, the backs of my dry eyelids scraping against my eyebal s.

It is still the middle of the day. The beam of sunlight has returned, streaming across the library again, an il uminated tightrope from one end to the other. It is even brighter and thicker than I remember it.

I'm too tired to do anything but watch it. My thoughts scatter in haphazard, incoherent penumbras. It's all I can do, just mind-lessly watch the beam of light. So I do that, for minutes (hours?).

The beam shifts ever so with the passing time, traveling in a diagonal fashion along the far wal of the library.

Then something interesting happens. As the beam moves along the wal , it suddenly hits something that causes it to bounce off at an angle; the beam is refl ected diagonal y to the adjacent wal . At fi rst, I think it's just my mind playing tricks on me. I blink. It's still there, only more obvious now.

The original beam shooting across to the far wal and now the shorter, refl ected beam, bounced to the right wal .

It's enough to rouse me out of the lounge chair. I make my way to the far wal , my painful knees churning in sockets like cactus scraping on concrete. Where the beam hits the far wal is a smal circular mirror, no bigger than the palm of my hand, nailed to the wal . It is angled slightly, refl ecting the beam off to the side wal .

As I make my way to that side wal , it happens again. That second refl ected beam is in turn refl ected: now there are three sunbeams bouncing around the room. The third beam is weak and momentary. It grows brighter for about ten seconds, then fades. As it does, I hurry to the spot it is shining at, a faint dot of il umination on the spine of a book. I walk over and hook out the book. Feel its leathery feel in my hand, smooth and worn. I carry it to the fi rst beam of sunlight, the second beam itself now fading away. I hold the book to the light, fl ip it around to the front cover.

The Heper Hunt, it reads.

Many moons ago, the heper population— which in eras past, according to unsubstantiated theories, once, unfathomably, dominated the land— fel to dangerously low numbers. By Palatial Order 56, hepers were rounded up and farmed on the newly built Heper Institute of Refi ned Research and Discovery. To ap-pease a disgruntled populace, citizens in good standing were randomly chosen to participate in the annual Heper Hunt. It was a resounding success.

The fi rst sign of corruption was seen in the decreasing number of hepers at the annual Hunt. Typical y ranging between twenty and twenty- fi ve hepers, that number soon dwindled down to about fi fteen. Eventual y, only ten hepers were released, then only seven; fi nal y, on a night few have forgotten, the Palace released a statement: There were no more hepers in captivity at the Heper Institute.

And yet. Hushed rumors of secret hunting expeditions per- sisted: clandestine meetings at the Heper Institute for high- ranking Palace offi cials; convoys of carriages arriving there in the last hours of dusk; odd wails heard coming from across the Vast.

Rumors circulated and grew that corruption reached “al the way to the top.”

But then, after a few years, even those rumors ceased.

On the eleventh day of the sixth month of the fourth year of the 18th Ruler, it was announced that hepers...

 

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 19



And then there's the beam of light, dimmer now with the approaching dusk. Why had he gone to such lengths to create that beam— and the two others— to point to the journal? The journal was meant to be found, that's obvious, but by whom and why are not so obvious.

I'm shutting the journal closed when I notice a blank white page smack bang in the middle of the journal. What an odd omission.

The hundreds of pages before and after this page are fi l ed from top to bottom; yet this page, back and front, has been left blank. Not a dot of ink. Its whiteness is almost a shout.

The last sentence on the preceding page isn't even complete— it's cut off midway and then continues on the page after this blank sheet, picking up exactly where it left off. I tap the spine of the book, pondering, confused.

Like the refl ected beams of light that pointed me to this book, the very blankness of this page seems to be purposeful y directing my attention here. But as much as I examine it, I can't make heads or tails of it.

I fl op down, tired. The room is suffocating; I grasp around my neck, feel the scrim of sweat and dirt under my jawline. I don't even need to lift my arm to smel the odor exuding off me like a dog in heat.

It will be my escort who'l make the discovery. When he comes to summon me after dusk, he'l smel my odor fl owing out through the cracks along the door frame. He'l sprint around, look inside through the windows, the shutters having already been retracted.

He'l see me still sitting in this chair, sul en and tired, my chest rising and fal ing, breathing hard, eyes wide because I will , though resigned, still be very afraid. He will see the emotion pouring off me in waves. And then he'l understand.

He will not cal for the others. He will want me for himself.

He will leap through the glass windows— so frail in the face of his desire, like thin ice before a blowtorch— and even before the shattered shards have reached the ground, he wil be upon me. And then he will have me, devouring me with fangs and nails in just a few— And then, just like that, I realize something.

The blinding whiteness of the outside feels like acid dropped on my eyebal s. I let the light leak in a little at a time, until I can see without blinking, then without squinting.

It is hours before dusk, when the sun has just begun its descent.

The sun isn't going quietly: bleeding red into the sky, it The sun isn't going quietly: bleeding red into the sky, it infuses the plains with an orange- and- purple hue. Without the Dome to cover the heper vil age, the mud huts look exposed and inconsequential in the plains, like rat droppings. Soon the light sensors will detect the arrival of night and the glass wal s will arc out of the ground, form a perfect dome, and protect the hepers from the world outside. I must hurry.

There's a glimmer in front of the mud huts, like a hundred diamonds twinkling in the twilight. The pond. It's been staring me right in the face the whole time, while thirst ravaged and odor oozed off my body. How could I have been so blind? all the water I could possibly want, for drinking and washing, within easy access. The only danger would be the hepers, of course, who might not take kindly to my intrusion. They'l be confused, of course, on the arrival of a stranger somehow able to withstand sun rays. But I know how to handle them. Bare my fangs, snap my neck side to side, click my bones; I'm a master at impersonation. They'l likely scatter to the four winds.

Suddenly upbeat, I plow on toward the heper vil age.

Gradual y, the mud huts begin to take shape, growing in size and detail. Then I see the hepers, a group of stick fi gures moving slowly around the pond, stopping, moving, stopping. The sight of them both excites and unnerves me.

There are fi ve of them. They haven't noticed me yet, nor would they have: nobody has ever approached them during the day.

When I am about a hundred yards away, they see me. One of them, crouching by the pond, shoots straight up, his arm jacking forward like a switchblade sprung out, pointing at me. The others turn quickly, heads pivoting toward me.

Their reaction is instant: they turn and fl ee, bolting inside mud huts. I see windows shuttered closed, doors slammed shut. Within a few scant moments, they've all vacated the pond, leaving upturned pots and pails around the pond in their wake. Just what I was hoping for.

Nothing stirs. Not an opened shutter or a cracked door. I break into a trot, my dried- out bones dangling in my body, snapping with every jarring step. My gaze, fi xed on the pond, thirstily draws water out with the bucket of my eyes. I am getting closer, fifty yards out.

A door to one of the mud huts opens.

A female, that female heper, steps out. A look of rage on its face, but fear, too. It grips a spear in its right hand. Hanging off its hip is a simple fl at slab of dark hide leather, almost like a wide belt.

A deadly row of daggers lies strapped in taut against the leather, their blades strangely curved at the hilt.

I raise my hands with wide- open palms. I'm not sure how much it comprehends, so I use simple words. “No hurt! No hurt!” I shout, but what ekes out instead are hoarse, indecipherable sounds. I try to push the words out again, but I can't gather enough saliva in my mouth to lubricate my throat.

The setting sun, directly behind me, douses the heper vil age with color, like bright easel paint dripping onto drab leather shoes.

My shadow extends long and preternatural y thin before me, a long, gnarled fi nger reaching out to that girl heper. I'm nothing but a silhouette to it. No; I'm more. I'm the enemy, the predator, the hunter: that's why the other hepers fl ed.

But I'm also something else: a mystery. A confounding contradiction, because although I am in the sunlight, I am not disintegrating. And that is why the female heper has not fl ed but stands in front of me, puzzled, curious.

But not for long. With a primal scream, it strides toward me, its body at a slant, one arm extended backward. It fl ings its arm forward in a violent blur.

It takes a moment before I realize what's going on. And by then it's too late. I hear a whistling sound as the spear cuts through air, can even see the wooden length vibrating slightly from side to side as the spear slices toward me.

Right at me. In the end, I'm just lucky.

I don't move to avoid the spear— there's no time— and it whizzes through the space between my head and left shoulder. I hear and feel the whoosh by my left ear.

And then the heper is reaching down to its dagger strap; in less than a second, it's unstrapped a dagger and is instantaneously fl inging it with a rapid sidearm motion. The dagger shoots out of its hand, fl ashing in the sunlight. But way off. Way off. Like a mile off— the dagger sails harmlessly away.

Figures, I think. These hepers are nothing more than— But then the gleaming dagger begins to curve back toward me, its trajectory that of a boomerang, blinking wickedly fast in the light. As if winking with mischief. And before I know it, it's coming right at me. I dive to my right, hit the ground. The dagger swoosh es past my head, giving off the harmonic overtone of a singing bowl. I land ungraceful y, get the air knocked out of me. The ground is hard, despite the layer of sand and grit.

This heper girl— it knows what it's doing. This is not just for show. It really means to maim me, if not kil me.

I leap up, hands raised high, palms opened emphatical y. It is already reaching down toward the strap, where three more daggers lie taut against the leather. Like hunting hounds pul ing restlessly on a leash. In the blink of an eye, the heper has unstrapped a dagger and is already drawing back its arm. To unleash the next throw.

It will not miss this time.

“Stop! Please!” I yel , and for the fi rst time, the words come out clearly. It pauses midthrow.

I waste little time. I start walking toward the heper again, pulling off my shirt as I do. It needs to see my skin, the sun on the skin, see that I present no danger. I toss the shirt to the side. I'm close enough to see its eyes fol ow the shirt, then shoot back at me.

It is squinting; I stop in my tracks. I've never seen anyone squint.

It is so . . . expressive. The eclipsed half closing of the eyelids, the wrinkles coming off the corners of the eyes like a delta, the brows contracted together, even the mouth frozen in a snarl of confusion.

It is a strange expression, it is a lovely expression. It pul s its arm back again, the dagger glinting in the sun.

“Wait!” I shout with a craggy croak. It halts, its fi ngers whiten-ing as they grip the blade tighter. I undo the buttons of my pants, take them off. My socks, my shoes, everything off. Just my briefs left on.

I stand like that before it, then slowly move forward.

“Water,” I say, gesturing at the pond. “Water.” I make a cup motion with my hand.

It moves its eyes up and down my body, unsure and suspicious, emotions sweeping off its face, naked and primal.

Eyes fi xed on each other, I walk past, giving it a wide arc, and head to the pond. It's more like a swimming pool, the way it is rimmed with a metal ic border, perfectly circular.

Before I know it, I'm on my knees, my cupped hands pushing through the plane of water. The water, when it fl ows down my throat, is heaven's wet cool on hell 's coaled fi re. My hands...