The Hunt (26 page)

Not that anyone is. No tears lost

here: it only means less

190 ANDREW FUKUDA

competition for the rest of us. But no cause for outright jubilation, either— it’s not as if Beefy were ever a contender. If either Phys Ed or Abs had been missing, there’d be an al- out celebration right now.

“I’m sorry to have to say this,” he continues, “but with al staffers preoccupied at this moment with the search, the lectures for the early eve ning are canceled. You are free to do as you wish. Be mindful that the Gala begins in three hours at high moon, midnight on the dot. May I suggest you use this time to get some beauty sleep?

You do want to look your resplendent best for the cameras and guests.”

Gaunt Man walks up to me as we’re al leaving. “Did you see the lectures that were canceled?” He bends down to read the pam-lectures that were canceled?” He bends down to read the pam-phlet in hand. “ ‘
Taking Advantage of the Fauna and Flora of
the
Vast
’ and ‘
The So cio log i cal Heper Tendencies in an
Environment
of Fear: How Best to Leverage Gain
.’ Remember how I said al this was a crock, that these lectures, this orientation, even the Hunt, was just a show?”

I nod, making sure to hide my irritation. I’m hoping to leave, but he’s planted himself fi rmly in front of me without the slightest inclination of letting me go. Once he gets going, Gaunt Man can go on for a while. From across the hal, Ashley June shoots me a knowing look. She leans back against the wal, settling in.

“Need any more proof?” Gaunt Man says. “They’re admitting this is al a sham by how easily they cancel the lectures. Without even batting an eyelash. It’s al just a joke.” His tongue slips out, wet and oily, lubricating his lips. “Release the hepers already. Just let us have at them.”

“What do you think happened to him?” I ask, trying to change the topic.

“The big guy? He’s a fool. He was trying to imitate me. Went THE

HUNT 191

out there trying to show ingenuity and moxie the way I did. But what an idiot. Probably went out there with his SunBlock Lotion foolishly thinking it’d help. For my money, the search teams should start looking for him outside— what remains of him, anyway—

start looking for him outside— what remains of him, anyway—

somewhere between here and the Dome.”

“Maybe,” I say noncommittaly. I pause, waiting for him to go away. But he doesn’t. “What do they have you wearing?” I ask.

Gaunt Man has shown such a disdain for the event, perhaps any topic related to it wil cause him to pick up and leave.

“For the Gala?” He humphs. “A traditional, boring tuxedo that has

‘Irrelevant Old Guy’ written al over it. What about you?

Something high- end and splashy, I’d expect.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Media’s been arriving in droves since yesternight. Reporters, photographers, journalists. This Hunt’s becoming more and more a media event by the hour. Heard they’re jockeying for post- Hunt interviews,” he says irritably. “And for the Gala, they’re gonna want to front the good- looking hunters. Including you, pretty boy; they probably have you in one of those dapper suits.”

“Hardly,” I say. But he’s right. My suit, Super 220 with worsted cloth and ful silk linings with my name sewn into the inseam, felt like a regal carpet when it was fi tted on me yesternight.

“So I’ve been hearing something about you.”

“What’s that?”

“What’s that?”

“You have a partner in crime. That the two of you’l be going out in force during the Hunt. The dynamic duo, you and the pretty one.”

“The pretty one?”

“Right there,” he says, pointing at Ashley June, stil waiting for me across the hal. “That’s the word on the street, anyway.”

“Where are you hearing al of this?”

192 ANDREW FUKUDA

“I have my sources,” he says. “So what’s your strategy?” His voice takes on an edgier tone. Now I know why he’s approached me: to talk about this. “Cut out fast, make us chase you both? Or start with the pack, beat us out with a gradual but methodical increase in pace?”

“Wel, you know we—”

“Separate the heper pack into two groups, then divide and con-quer? Or keep them together, play to their group hysteria?”

“It’s realy something I can’t get into right now.”

He’s quiet, as if muling this over. “Say,” he whispers, “got any room for an old geezer like me? In your aliance, I mean. I may not room for an old geezer like me? In your aliance, I mean. I may not have the brawn, but I’ve got the brains. Not saying you and her ain’t brainy, but I’ve got street smarts only experience gives.

Maybe I can help.”

“You know, we prefer to work in just a smal group. Just the two of us, actualy.”

“What is it they say? ‘Though one may be overpowered, and two can defend themselves, a cord of three is not quickly broken.’ ”

“Look, I don’t know.”

He stares at me, his gaze turning cold. “I see.” He begins to walk away, stops, half turns toward me.

“Things I know about you,” he says. “Don’t think I didn’t notice heper smels coming off of you the other day. Don’t think I’m unaware that you’ve somehow gotten access to heper fl esh.

Realy, just what is going on in that library during the day when you’re al alone? What kind of access to heper meat do you have in there? Is there a secret bootleg stash you’ve discovered?

Information like this could come out to harm you.” He sniffs viciously, his nostrils shrink-ing inward. “I
still
smel it.”

A staffer approaches; Gaunt Man shoots him a look, then walks away.

THE HUNT 193

THE HUNT 193

“Yes?” I say to the staffer.

“Pardon me. I wanted to let you know that your tuxedo is ready and has been delivered to your lodging. Also, the eve ning gown for your date tonight”— the staffer looks quickly at Ashley June

—“has been delivered to your lodging. The Director approved her request to get dressed there.”

“Okay.”

“Something else. When you walk to the Gala from the library, the media wil be lined up along the brick walk, waiting for you.”

“Is that realy necessary?”

“The Director’s orders. Once he realized the two of you were going as a couple, he decided you’d make an entrance of the fi rst order.”

“I see.”

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“You and the girl are not to spend the day in each other’s rooms again.”

again.”

“How do you—”

“How we know is irrelevant. But the Director is afraid of public perception. With the media here, he wants to avoid even a suggestion of impropriety among the hunters.”

“You’ve got to be—”

“Make sure you wake up in your own rooms tomorrow.”

“Listen, I—”

“The Director’s orders,” he says, and leaves. I watch him walk over to Ashley June. A short, clipped conversation later, he’s walking out. I head toward Ashley June.

As I walk past Gaunt Man, now talking to Abs and Phys Ed, I hear him giving the same spiel about joining their aliance. He’s desperate. Desperately hungry for heper fl esh, desperately in need 194 ANDREW FUKUDA

of help. He doesn’t stand a chance of getting either. That’s someone to keep an eye on. There’s no teling what a person can become capable of once desperation takes hold of him. Can’t put anything past him.

Back in the library, Ashley June and I get changed for the Gala, Back in the library, Ashley June and I get changed for the Gala, she in the periodical section, I by the front desk. My tuxedo, which I fi nd hanging off the reserve shelf in plastic wrap, fi ts me to a tee.

It comes with bels and whistles I could have done without: diamond-embedded cuff links, iron buttons embossed with the Ruler’s face.

Despite these, it’s an impressive suit that compliments me wel.

Ashley June, her voice traveling down the length of the library, keeps warning me not to sneak a peek until she’s ready. And she takes her time, much more than I think necessary to simply take off clothes and throw on a fi tted dress.

Before she’s done, there’s a knock on the door. A retinue of staffers walks in. Each carries a smal case in tow. “Makeup,” they say curtly, and I point them to Ashley June. To my surprise, one of them stays behind. “I’m going to do your face,” she says.

“I don’t think so,” I reply. There’s too much risk that she’l spot a stray hair folicle on my body or face or get close enough to smel my body odor.

“It’s the Director’s orders. Sit down now, lean your head back.”

“No. It’s not going to happen, trust me.”

“It’s just a touch- up job. It’l be barely noticeable.”

“So don’t do it. How can I make myself clearer?”

She glares at me. “You’l answer to the Director.”

“Fine. Send him down here.”

Anger boils in the staffer’s half- closed eyes. She slams the kit shut and joins the others in the periodical section. There’s not a THE

HUNT 195

chance she’l report this to the Director. She’s al too aware of what happened to the escorts. Punishment wil be meted out for indiscretions, but not to the hunters, who apparently have immunity.

From the back of the library, I hear Ashley June objecting to the makeup. But with less success. They are having their way with her.

I barge in, ready to parlay my hunter immunity card. They’re grouped tightly around Ashley June, badgering her with their demands to sit back! pul your hair back! stop scrunching your face!

Al I can see of Ashley June are her knuckles, pressed white against the armrests of her leather chair.

“Get out.” My voice is steady and quiet.

They spin around, surprise and annoyance written on their faces.

They spin around, surprise and annoyance written on their faces.

“This is not up to her. Or you.”

“Get out.”

“You’l answer to—”

“The Director? Sorry, but I’ve already heard this speech. Now get out.” I see the smalest and youn gest of them, a girl no older than me, clutching her makeup bag. She’s afraid, and for an instant I feel a stab of sorrow for her. “Look, don’t worry. Leave a makeup kit and a mirror here; we can put it on ourselves. Now get out.”

They offer little re sis tance after that.

“That was close,” Ashley June says after the front doors close.

A look of horror suddenly crosses her face. “Get out!”

“What?”

“Get out!”

I spin around, expecting to see one of the staffers stil lurking.

“No, you! Close your eyes. Close them, I said! Now get out!”

“What’s going on?”

“You’re not supposed to see me yet. Not until I’m completely ready. Go, already!”

196 ANDREW FUKUDA

How does the saying go? Girls wil be girls? True, even in the moments after imminent death, apparently.

One
hour
later, she’s ready. I busy myself during that time taking out the FLUNs and familiarizing myself with them. They’re simple to operate: a safety on the underside that’s easy to disengage and a large trigger button on top. I don’t fi re off any practice shots.

With only three rounds in each gun, I don’t want to waste even a single one.

As I look at the FLUNs, my thoughts drift to the hepers. I quickly try to think of something else, but my mind keeps boomeranging back to them. I see them walking in the middle of the Vast, map in hand, eyes swiveling around, trying franticaly to fi nd a shelter that does not exist. A dawning realization, then a sense of inevi-tability when they see the dust clouds in the distance, the hunters bearing down on them. Then the arrival of claws and nails and fangs fl ooding over them in a sea of ardent desire.

I wish I’d never met them, never talked to them; that they’d remained crude savages in my mind, incapable of the speech or inteligence or humanity that I’d thought separated me from them.

inteligence or humanity that I’d thought separated me from them.

The appearance of Ashley June in her dress and fuly made up quickly banishes these morbid thoughts. She’s—

in a word—

resplendent. They’ve cut no corners on her dress. A tank- style silk chiffon gown, blazing lava red, fronted with ornate crystals. A tasteful touch of plumage. But it’s her face that’s the true marvel.

Soft and graceful, without compromising the fi ne angles of her jawline. And her eyes. They cast a spel, those hazel green eyes, they realy do.

“I wish,” she says a little shyly, “the dress were a little brighter.

THE HUNT 197

With some green to match my eyes, and a lighter red to comple-ment my hair.”

“It’s fi ne.” I shake my head, knowing I can do better. “You look amazing. I realy mean that.”

“You’re just saying so,” she says, but I can tel even she doesn’t believe that.

“It’s al over for me now. You know that, don’t you? Al night, in

“It’s al over for me now. You know that, don’t you? Al night, in front of everyone, I’m going to be ogling you with big eyes, sweaty palms, and a heart hammering, pounding away. You’re the death of me, Ashley June, you realy are.”

She gives me a funny look, a frown creasing her smooth forehead.

“Sorry,” I say, “was that overkil with the cheese?”

“No, it’s not that. I liked it. But who’s ‘
Ashley June
’?”

I stare at her. “You are.”

The day my father and I burned the journals and books, we stole out of our home at noon, carry ing heavy burlap sacks. I was just a young boy, and I cried the whole way there. Not loudly; not even sobs escaped me. But a trail of tears fel from the corner of each eye, and though the day was hot and the distance relatively long, those tears never dried.