The Hunt (3 page)

sign of trouble. The water is so shalow, even your bely 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.

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 yeling, 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 eventualy, 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 puled 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, puling 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 caled 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.

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

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

THE HUNT 17

I lift up my right arm. It’s dotted with goose bumps, grotesque little bumps like cold chicken skin. I paddle harder, propeling 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 al. 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 al 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 al 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.

18 ANDREW FUKUDA

“Coach!” Poser yels, 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 yelow mess fi led 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 shrils, 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 yels 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.

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 stil 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.

THE HUNT 19

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 puls their faces down as they step aside, but that’s okay. I’m used to it, that look.

It’s the way I look at myself in the mirror when I’m alone at home.

You live too long trying not to be something, eventualy you wind up hating that thing.

In en glish literature class right before the Declaration, no one can concentrate. Al we want to do— including the teacher, who jettisons any pretense of teaching— is talk about the Declaration.

I’m quiet, trying to thaw out, coldness stil dug in deep in my bones.

The teacher insists the Declaration is about another Hunt. “It’s not like the Ruler is going to marry again,” she says, her eyes stealing like the Ruler is going to marry again,” she says, her eyes stealing up to the clock, counting down the minutes to two A.M.

Finaly, at one forty- fi ve A.M., we’re led to the auditorium. It’s bubbling over with excitement. Teachers line the sides, shifting on their feet. Even janitors loiter in the back, restless. Then two A.M.

arrives and the screen above the stage is fi led with our nation’s sym-bol: two white fangs, standing for Truth and Justice. For a frightful moment, the projector sputters and blanks out. A groan ripples across the rows of seats; technicians fl y to the projector that sits, heavy and unwieldy, like al audiovisual equipment, in the center of the auditorium. Within a minute, they have it up and running again.

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 20

ANDREW FUKUDA

this eve ning that I would be speaking, many of you”— he pauses dramaticaly—“if not al 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. Al across the land, over fi ve milion citizens huddle around TVs and large screens with bated breath.

“My announcement to you, gentle people, is that this year we wil 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 wil 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 led 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 ls 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 He is a wiry, sharp man, offi cious in demeanor, dressed to the nines.

There wil be a hunting party of between fi ve and ten this year, he tels 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 wil receive a randomly THE HUNT 21

assigned sequence of four numbers. In exactly twenty- four hours, the numbers of the sequence wil be randomly picked and publicly announced live on TV. Anywhere between fi ve to ten of you wil have this winning sequence.”

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

“The lottery winners wil be immediately taken to the Heper Institute of Refi ned Research and Discovery for a four- night training period. Then the Hunt wil 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 wil 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 al.”

Then more foot stomping, silenced with an uplifted hand. “One more thing,” he says. “Did I mention anything about the hepers?”

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, realy. 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 controled of environments.

To ensure not only that wil they provide us with succulent fl esh and rich blood, but that they wil also be more . . . dexterous than last time. Finaly, 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 wil receive your lottery numbers at your workstation within a minute. Mothers at home, your numbers wil be sent via e-mail to your offi cial account. And for those in high 22

ANDREW FUKUDA

school and colege, your numbers are awaiting you back at your desk. Good luck to you al.” His image fades out.

Usualy 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, usualy lined up along the side soup— gushes out. The teachers, usualy 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 maniacaly 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

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 taly over the fi rst number is drawn up on the blackboard:

# of students with that number

1

3

2

4

3

1

4

5

5

3

6

2

7

4

8

3

9

2

2

THE HUNT 23

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.

Al fi ne with me.

It’s dark when I arrive home, a hint of gray smearing the sky. In another hour, the morning sun wil peek over the distant mountains to the east. A siren wil 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.