The Hunt (6 page)

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 al 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 oscilated 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 colecting herself. I was about to push the closet door open when she spoke.

“Wait?”

“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.

THE HUNT 39

“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 stil raining hard?” she said fi naly.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“It’s supposed to rain al 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 umbrela to night?”

“I did.”

“I walked to school to night,” she said, and we both knew she was lying. “But I left my umbrela 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 halways subsided, even as the last students and teachers vacated the school, the
clip- clop
of horse hooves fading into the distance.

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, 40

ANDREW FUKUDA

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 umbrela. I let the rain soak my clothes, seep al 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 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.

Finaly, 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 42

ANDREW FUKUDA

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, scrols 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 halways 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 halway 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; al 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 offi cials 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 THE HUNT 43

hunters. We are perfectly stil, as if the molecules in the air have been glued together, fastening everything in place.

The offi cial, when she appears, catches us al 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 gracefuly 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 gracefuly 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 spils 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 al. 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 wil be dying to hear about the Hunt afterwards; you’l al be plenty busy afterwards dealing with the media, especialy 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 al.

You’l have
so
much to share with the media afterwards. Over the next few nights, your schedule wil 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 fl ick 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 skils, absorb the tidbits of advice we give you. These are not ordinary hepers, the classic advice we give you. These are not ordinary hepers, the classic hepers 44 ANDREW FUKUDA

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 fare like spears and daggers— but you’d be surprised by how adept they’ve become at using them.

“So keep your focus. If you start daydreaming too much about their blood, about the taste of their warm fl esh under you, the feel of their hearts beating swiftly under your nails, the skin of their necks just about to break under the sharp pricks of your fangs”—

a glazed look enters her eyes—“the taste of that fi rst squirt of blood in your mouth, gushing into a stream . . .” She shakes her head, clearing her eyes. “That is what you need to avoid. Focus on your training so that you can help yourself be the victor. Because remember: You’re training not only to hunt down the hepers, but also to beat out the other hunters. We’ve found from past Hunts that usualy only one hunter comes to dominate the Hunt, who devours most, if not al, of the hepers. Out there in the desert, there’s no community spirit, no spreading the wealth. You get to the hepers fi rst, last thing you’l want to do is share the riches. No, inevitably, you’l fi nd yourself gorging on the embarrassment of riches set before you. You want to be that hunter, you want to be the winner. So train hard. Focus. To the swift go the spoils.”

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

A sumptuous breakfast, then a tour of this facility. You’l see the training grounds, the artilery room, the Control Center, the medita-tion lounge, the dining area. And fi naly, at the end of the night, we’l take you to . . . the heper vilage.”

Offi cials step forward from outside the circle and stand next to THE HUNT 45

each hunter. The offi cial on my right is a sulen gray statue. In his hand is a package.

“That’s right,” she says, stil 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 al 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 folow our beckoning escorts. Our circle disintegrates as we disperse, quietly, swiftly. We are taken down different halways, through different doors, until al that remains are the emptied chairs stil positioned like the numbers of a handless, dysfunctional clock.

My escort leads me brusquely down a halway, up a fl ight of stairs, along another halway, and then down another fl ight of stairs without speaking. We walk the length of yet another halway, dimly iluminated 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 felow schoolmate— and chivalry demands the girl be given the last guest room in the main building.

Your room is actualy 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.