The Hunt (19 page)

He presses a button and the attaché cases open with a snap. He spins them around for us to see inside. A FLUN inside each case.

The Director takes one out. “Nobody knows what realy happens out there in the Vast during the Hunt, how dirty it can get. For one, the Hunt has never been videotaped: videocameras are too heavy, and besides, cameramen wil simply throw the cameras down and join in the Hunt, unable to resist. And nobody realy cares how . . .

unsportsmanlike things can degenerate. Hunters have been known to . . . wel, resort to dirty tricks. It’s a dog- eat- dog world out there, and the more dog it is, the more interesting it’l be to read about later. Use these FLUNs on the other hunters. Everyone wil think it was just the hepers who shot them. Somewhere in the Vast when THE HUNT 137

you’re far removed from the Institute. One FLUN for each of you, three shots in each. Should be enough, no?”

“And what if we take out al the other hunters?” Ashley June asks.

Her voice is quiet but not hesitant. “And it’s only the two of us left?

What should we do?”

The Director’s reaction is almost violent. His hands cross together The Director’s reaction is almost violent. His hands cross together at the wrists, and he scratches deep white lines into the soft give of his wrists, his head snapping back like a sideways pogo stick.

“What do I realy care?” Beads of delirious light shoot out of his eyes. “What do I realy care so long as one of you wins? Oh, you sily girl!” He suddenly stops moving as if remembering something; he looks at both of us sternly. “Only know this: I want a clear winner. It’s always better that way. No ties. The public does not like ambiguity. If it comes down to just the two of you . . . wel . . .

there can be only one. You wil know what to do. Correct?”

Neither Ashley June nor I answer.

And he starts scratching again, long, slow strokes. “I see. I see. I see that I have not made myself clear. That I have not fuly conveyed to you just how vested I am in the success of this Hunt.

That I have not made clear how important this is to me, how one of you— and only one— must win the Hunt.” He places the tips of his forefi ngers on each eyebrow, runs them down their thin, soft arches. “Many people think I have a dream job here at the Institute. To be able to work in such proximity to the hepers.

Those people are ignorant fools. This place is hel.”

His face turns graven, darkness shadowing over him. “A successful Hunt would give me a chance to leave this place,” he whispers.

“This purgatory where heaven is only a glass wal away; but that

“This purgatory where heaven is only a glass wal away; but that glass is as thick as a thousand universes laid side by side. You can only take it for so long, to be tantalized with the sight and smel of hepers, yet to be deprived of it at every turn. It is its own type of 138 ANDREW FUKUDA

hel, to be so teasingly close yet so impossibly far. To get away from this faux heaven . . . and be promoted to work where heaven is real— the Ruler’s Palace. To fi naly be promoted to Minister of Science.”

Another long pause pregnant with angst. “Have you ever . . .

no, of course you haven’t. But I was there for a day. The Ruler’s Palace. When I was offi cialy appointed to this position. There, in al its glory and grandeur. The reality surpassed even the loftiest of my expectations. Towering sphinxes of hyenas and jackals, slippery-smooth marble edifi ces, the endless, elegant retinue of cupbearers, scribes, harpists, pages, message runners, court soothers, guards-men, the silky- robed harem of virgins. But that was not even the best of it. Have you any idea what that might be?”

I do not say anything.

“You might think it is the elegant pools lined with waterfals, or the grottoes, or the symphonic hal with the petal- cupped mercuric chandelier. But no, you would be wrong. Or the aquarium fi led with oysters and clams and squid and octopus that you can simply with oysters and clams and squid and octopus that you can simply pluck out like a dandelion and devour. But you would be wrong again. Or the paintings, or the royal stable with rows of regal stalions as far as the naked eye can take you. But again, you would be wrong.”

He lifts his index fi nger weighed down by a heavy emerald- cut inset ring. Immediately, the staffers and sentries about- turn and walk out.

When the front doors close, he wets his lips and continues. “It’s the food. The most exotic yet fattiest of meats, the choicest and bloodiest parts to sink your teeth into even as the animal’s heart pumps. Pump- pump, pump- pump, just like that, as you chew on its liver and kidney and brain. Of dogs, of cats. And that’s just the THE HUNT 139

appetizer. After that, the main course.” Out of the dark, I hear his lips quiver wetly. “Heper meat,” he hisses.

I stare blankly, a horror dawning on me.
Don’t widen your eyes,
my father’s voice belows,
don’t widen your eyes!

“Suppose I tel you there’s a secret stash,” he whispers. “That somewhere on the Palace grounds is a top- secret heper farm. Just supposing, of course. Because everyone knows that the last hepers on the face of the planet are in that Dome outside. But now, suppose that heper farm is underground, kept from view, spanning suppose that heper farm is underground, kept from view, spanning the whole length and width of the Palace grounds. Just supposing, of course. How many hepers? you might be asking. Who can say?

But during the one night I stayed there, I could hear their howls and cries at night. Sounded like there were dozens, possibly hundreds.”

He strokes his cheek. “Perhaps— just supposing— enough to provide the Ruler a heper meal for the rest of his life. Just supposing, of course.”

He looks at us in turn. “So now you know, yes? I am fi rmly committed to this Hunt’s success. Meaning one of you—

and only

one!— wil come out the winner. You do not want to know the consequences of failure.” He stands up. “Trust me on this one. So you wil give me this. One of you wil win. That is al. I have made myself clear.” He brushes by me and exits the room. The door closes behind him.

I let out my breath, and it’s a long time before I inhale again.

Afterward, Ashley June and I are sent to our respective rooms to be mea sured. A team of tailors— somber with hangdog faces—

takes mea sure ments for my tuxedo, their voices hushed in the airy library. It’s a stressful experience for me, especialy when the tailors 140 ANDREW FUKUDA

lean in a little too close for comfort. I see their nostrils fl aring; one of them even shoots me a curious look. I shoot him down quickly enough, but he gives me another odd look as the team packs up and leaves.

I head outside, wanting to be in open space. The last few hours have been intensely stressful. And it’s a beautiful night, perfect for calming my nerves. The sky is sprinkled with pretty sparkles of starlight; the crescent moon hovers high, layering the snow- capped eastern mountains with a fi lm of crusted silver. Soft gusts of air sigh across the plains, lifting the tension from my shoulders.

I hear footsteps behind me, the soft kick of sand.

It’s Ashley June, walking toward me, her eyes tentatively on mine.

When our eyes meet, her eyes fal shyly. She’s wearing a new outfi t: a black satin camisole, hung low and tight. Her long pale arms glide down her sides, shimmering under the moonlight, slippery marble columns. The sand shifts and swirls under me, dizzying me, disorienting me.

“I walk al the way back here, the least you can do is say hi,”

she says. She stands in front of me. “Oh, I see, you’re not even talking to me now.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m sorry.”

A breeze bilows her hair with soft undulations, exposing the skin of her neck. “Look, I’m not your enemy here. Yet.” She scratches her wrist. “I guess we’re supposed to wait until the Hunt for that.”

And I fi nd myself scratching my wrist in return. “Do me a favor,” I say. “If it comes down to only you and me in the Hunt, just shoot me in the pinkie toe, okay? No need to take me out with a shot through my eye.”

“Right pinkie or left?”

I scratch my wrist. “I’l take the left. Just aim carefuly, okay?

It’s a smal toe.”

THE HUNT 141

“Deal,” she says.

High above us, the shape of a large bird sails across the night sky.

Its wings span disproportionately large, unwieldy, and stiff. It circles around us, then dissolves in the distance.

“I came here to ask you something,” she says.

“No, you can’t have my FLUN.”

She doesn’t say anything. I turn to look at her, and she’s waiting She doesn’t say anything. I turn to look at her, and she’s waiting with those emerald green eyes of hers, quietly, hopefuly. As if she’s been waiting for this moment for a long time: when I’m realy alone with her, not distracted, our eyes fi naly meeting and merging.

“Take me to the Gala.” Her voice is soft and even.

I start lifting my wrist to scratch it. But her arms dangle by her side, stationary. “For real?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“I don’t even know if it’s . . . it’s not like a school prom, you know. It’s the Gala. A splashy government affair. It’s a whole other thing.”

“I know,” she says. “It won’t be like a prom at al. It wil be a thousand times more special.”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know.”

“It’l mean a lot to me.”

I glance over her shoulder, scan the horizon. “Look, I don’t know how to say this. I know the Gala wil be special and classy because of the music, the media, the red carpet, the dancing, the food—”

“It wil be special because of you. Because you’ve asked me to be

“It wil be special because of you. Because you’ve asked me to be with you.”

I look away. “I don’t know.”

And she moves suddenly toward me, swiftly closing the distance between us. She takes my elbow in her hand. The touch of her skin on mine jolts me. “Is it so hard to like me?” she asks, whispering, her eyes searching mine. “Is it realy that hard?”

142 ANDREW FUKUDA

I don’t say anything.

“Can you just pretend, can you just put on a mask, then?” And something about those words— or maybe it’s the way she says them— makes me look into her eyes, longer than I ever have with anyone but my father. “Because you’re realy ripping me apart inside.”

“It’s not you—”

“Just pretend,” she whispers, “that you’re realy into me. That you like the shape of my lips, the softness of my skin, the scent of my breath, the color of my eyes. And pretend that you can even see past al that, the surface, that you know me deeper than that. The hidden beneath. And that you are stil drawn to me, except even more so. Imagine there is nothing else right now but me standing before you, that no one else in the world exists. Not the other before you, that no one else in the world exists. Not the other hunters, not the staffers, not the hepers. Not even the moon or the stars or the mountains. And that you have longed for me for a long time, and I am here now, right before you. Pretend al that, just for one night.” Her free hand reaches to my back and puls me closer to her. We’re only inches away now. A gust blows; strands of my hair fal into my eyes.

And she reaches up and brushes aside my bangs, her fi ngers trailing slowly along the side of my head, above my ear, and down the side of my neck.

Years of resolve to freeze my heart and cauterize my feelings for her, and this one act is the fi rst personable and genuine touch I have felt in years of living alone and living lonely. It triggers something in me. A seismic shifting within, an eruption of what has lain only fraily dormant. Her eyes lock on mine, their touch as tangible as the feel of her hand on my elbow, but deeper, more probing. I feel the yearning of emotions I thought were long dead.

An unraveling in me.

THE HUNT 143

“Please?” she pleads. “Take me?”

And I surprise myself by nodding my head. She shakes with delight as she grips my elbow harder, her long, thin bicep fl exing, dissolving, fl exing, dissolving. I take her elbow in my hand now, dissolving, fl exing, dissolving. I take her elbow in my hand now, the etiquette of an invitation accepted. She tilts her head backward and closes her eyes slightly, eyelids fl uttering, lips parted. But then her upper lip quivers into a shaky snarl, and two fangs jut out, wetly white and razor- sharp. Fangs that would, in fi ve seconds fl at, rip into my chest, pummel through my rib cage, and tear out my stil-beating heart.

Why have I let myself forget, why, in a moment of weakness, did I give in? I can never forget that her beauty is laced with poison, that her lips veil twin rows of knives, that her heart is enclosed by a razor- sharp rib cage. She is impossible to me, untouchable, unreachable.

My hand on her elbow clamps down hard, with anger, with loathing, sinking deep into her bloodless fl esh. But she misinterprets the force of my emotions and lifts her face to the night sky, shaking more fervently. And I realize how, from the outside, on the other side of the mask, how easy it is for loathing to be mistaken for longing.

With dawn soon approaching, I walk Ashley June back to her room.

We make arrangements to meet tomorrow after dusk— she wants to come down and get dressed in the library so we can head to the Gala together, linked arm in arm. “It’s going to be so amazing,”

she gushes as I leave.

she gushes as I leave.

I head back to the library. Within minutes, the shutters come down.