The Hunt (10 page)

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

I worry that the colective excitement wil 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 stil remember in fi rst grade how al my classmates used to zoom past me, and al 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 al sleeping this time of night.”

70 ANDREW FUKUDA

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

“What?”

“Wel, just mud huts, a pond, laundry lines. That’s al, 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 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 oscilations 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 wals are cratered and THE

HUNT 71

rough, punctured by smal, unframed windows. Each hut sits on two encircling rows of rectangular stones, coarsely fi tted together.

two encircling rows of rectangular stones, coarsely fi tted together.

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

“Probably al 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 smels they sel.”

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

Phys Ed says.

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

“Didn’t think so, but the air realy 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.

72 ANDREW FUKUDA

I shift away from the group. “I’m going to walk around the Dome, see if I can see anything on the other side.” Thankfuly, no one folows 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 being ripped apart into a hundred pieces.

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 al 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 al the time.”

“The escorts say they’re naturaly 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

“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 what, this Hunt’s over in two hours tops.”

“One hour, if I have anything to do with it,” she whispers. It’s THE

HUNT 73

clearly meant for only me to hear. I steal a sideways glance at her.

Since we’ve arrived at the Heper Institute, she’s been less brash, less front and center, than the starlet I know at school, hardly a blip on the radar, in fact. She stil commands attention, of course, on account of her attractiveness, but she hasn’t fl aunted it the way she does at school.

A breeze sifts across the Vast, blowing strands of hair across her pale cheekbones. Her eyes, hardened under the stony night light, seem restless. She suddenly bends down to tie her laces. I stop with her. She takes her time, untying and then retying the laces on with her. She takes her time, untying and then retying the laces on her other shoe as wel.

By the time she stands up, the group has moved on ahead. “You know, I’m so glad you’re here,” she says softly. “It’s just so good to have a . . . friend.”

The sound of the desert wind fi ls the silence between us.

“I think we should team up,” she says. “I think we can realy 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 al kinds of heper societies and clubs at not lying. She a member of al kinds of heper societies and clubs at school.

74 ANDREW FUKUDA

“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 aliances.

The winner always comes out of the strongest aliance. 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 wel. 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 colege students, for example: they’re athleticaly and physicaly 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 mentaly wily
and
physicaly 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.

“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 wil 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. Actualy, I’l have to THE HUNT 75

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. Al these years.”

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

“And why is that?” she says, and paces forward to catch up with the group, her hair bilowing 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 from protocol is not permitted,” they recite, almost in unison. We ignore 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, folow 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 76

ANDREW FUKUDA

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 caling this place a helish solitary confi nement, and now it’s a resort? No, realy, I’d so much rather be in the main building,” I lie, walking over to her. The escorts, thankfuly, don’t folow.

“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 that’s only among the staffers. It’s pretty oppressive. Wouldn’t mind it myself, getting away from it al. And from al 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 al 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 folow, 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.