The Hunt (9 page)

62 ANDREW FUKUDA

He notices. And when he answers, his head bobs enthusiasticaly on his narrow shoulders.

on his narrow shoulders.

No doubt about it, she’s good at this fl irtation game. And she’s up to something.

She raises her long arm, pointing at one of the monitors. Her arm stretches out effortlessly upward like the exclamation point at the end of a sentence that reads:
I’m gorgeous!
That arm has always done a number on me, al those years sitting behind her, especialy in the summer months when she wore sleeveless shirts and I could view the whole length of her wonderful, perfectly sculptured arms.

They were neither too thin nor too thick, just the perfect dimensions with perfect ridges that exuded both assurance and grace. Even the light freckles that sprinkle her arm, exploding in a splattering of dots as they disappear into her shirt, are more seductive than imperfect.

Slowly, I edge closer to Ashley June, positioning myself behind a smal pilar. I peer around the pilar; she’s moved even closer to him. Above them, images from security cameras shine with a dul blur. At least a good half of them center on the Dome.

“Can’t believe they’re running al the time.”

“Twenty- four/seven,” he answers proudly.

“And is there always someone watching these monitors?”

“Wel, we used to station a staffer here. But, wel, it became . . .

“Wel, we used to station a staffer here. But, wel, it became . . .

there was a policy change.”

“A policy change?”

There is a long pause.

“Oh, c’mon, you can tel me,” Ashley June says.

“Don’t tel anyone,” the staffer warns, his voice hushed.

“Okay. Our secret.”

“Some staffers became so lost in these images of the hepers that they’d . . .”

THE HUNT 63

“Yes?”

“They lost their senses, they were driven mad with desire. They’d rush out at the heper vilage.”

“But it’s enclosed by the Dome.”

“No, you don’t understand. They’d rush out in the daytime.”

“What?”

“Right from this very seat. One moment they’re staring at the monitors, and the next they’re rushing down the stairs and out the exit doors.”

“Even with the sun burning?”

“It’s like they forgot. Or it just didn’t matter to them anymore.”

Another pause. “So that’s why there was a policy change. First, no more recordings— ilegal bootleg copies were somehow winding up on the streets. And second, now everyone leaves this fl oor before dawn.”

“It’s completely unstationed during the day?”

“Not only is it unstationed, but look, the windows have no shutters.

They were taken down. So now, the sun pours in during the daytime. The best security system. Nobody’s coming in here after dawn. Nobody.”

There is a pause, and I think that’s the end of the conversation when Ashley June speaks again. “And what’s that big blue oval button over there?”

“I’m not realy supposed to say.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s safe with me.”

Another pause.

“Like everything else you’ve told me, al the stuff you could get fi red for disclosing, it’s al safe with me,” says Ashley June, this time with a hint of a threat in her voice.

“It’s the lockdown control,” he says tersely after a moment.

“What’s that?”

64 ANDREW FUKUDA

“It shuts the building down, locks al entrances, shutters al windows. There’s no leaving the building once lockdown has been deployed. Push it to set the system, push again to cancel—”

His voice gets drowned out by the approaching tour group, which has moved away from the windows and is now mumbling its way toward the back of the fl oor, toward the monitors. I slink back into the mix. Nobody’s noticed my absence. I don’t think.

By the time the group reaches the monitors, the staffer is back in his seat, his head swiveling back and forth, up and down. One of the escorts is speaking in a monotone voice, talking about the function of the monitors, how every square inch of the Institute is covered by a camera. But nobody is listening, they’re al staring at images of the Dome in the monitors. They’re stil looking for hepers.

hepers.

Except me. I’m watching Ashley June.

She’s slinked away again and is wandering around. Or at least pretending to. Something about her bearing— maybe the way she turns her head just so to read documents on desks or bends over as she passes by a control panel fi led with switches and buttons—

seems purposeful and deliberate. And she’s trying to go about un-noticed, but it’s near impossible. She’s a heper hunter, she’s female, she’s beautiful. She’s sizzling hot oil on your brains. Before long every male staffer around her has taken notice. She realizes this, too, and before long, gives up. She rejoins us at the monitors, tilting her head up. She stands very stil, immovable, unreadable.

I stare from behind, the line of hair streaming down over the nape of her neck, dark with a dul gleam. She’s up to something here in the Control Center; I can’t shake that feeling. Digging for information. Looking for something. Seeking confi rmation. I’m not sure. But what I am sure of: She’s playing a game the rest of us don’t even realize has begun.

THE HUNT 65

Lunch is late that night; it’s wel past midnight before we are taken down to a large hal on the ground fl oor and seated at a circular table. None of the escorts sit with us; instead, they retreat to their table. None of the escorts sit with us; instead, they retreat to their own table in the peripheral darkness. Without their hovering presence, the hunters are set at ease: our backs relax, we become more talkative. Lunch offers the fi rst time I’m realy able to meet the other hunters.

It’s the food we talk about initialy. These are meats we’ve never tasted before, only read about. Jackrabbit, hyena, meerkat, kanga-roo rat. Fresh kils from the Vast. Or so they say. The fl agship dish is a special treat: cheetah, typicaly eaten only by high- ranking offi cials at weddings. Cheetahs are diffi cult to catch, not because of their speed— even the slowest person can outsprint a fl eeing cheetah— but because of their rarity.

Each dish, of course, comes wet and bloody. We comment on the texture of the different meats on our tongue, the superior taste to the synthetic meats we usualy eat. Blood oozes down our chins, colecting in the drip cups placed below. We wil drink it al up at the end of the meal, a soupy colection of cold animal blood.

What I most need is absent from the dinner table: water. It’s been over a night since my last drink at home, and I can feel my body desiccating. My tongue, dry and thick, feels like a wad of cotton wool stuffed in my mouth. The past hour or so, spels of dizzi-ness have whirled in my mind. My drip cup gradualy fi ls with mixed blood. I wil drink it because it is liquidy and watery enough.

Kind of.

“I heard they stuck you in the library.” It’s a man in his forties, sitting next to me, beefy with broad shoulders; he’s the president of SPHTH (Society for the Protection and Humane Treatment of 66

ANDREW FUKUDA

Horses). His generous potbely protrudes just above table level.

My designation for him:
Beefy.

“Yup,” I say. “Sucks the big one, having to walk outside. You guys are probably partying up in here al day while I’m cooped up al by my lonesome, bored as anything.”

“It’s the sunrise curfew that would get me,” Beefy says, his mouth ful of fl esh. “Having to leave everyone and everything, drop of the hat, forced to leave. And al alone out there, surrounded by desert and sunlight in the day hours.”

“You got al those books,” Ashley June says next to me. “What’s there to complain about? You can study up on hunting techniques, get a leg up on us.”

I see the el der ly, gaunt man I’d met in the lab earlier scratch his wrist ever so slightly. He jams a piece of hyena liver into his mouth.

His designation:
Gaunt Man
.

“I heard,” says another hunter, “that the library belonged to a fringe

“I heard,” says another hunter, “that the library belonged to a fringe scientist with some pretty loony theories on hepers.” The woman, who looks fi t for her age— I place her in her mid- thirties, a dangerous age, equal parts fi t and savvy— sits across from me; she barely looks up from her plate as she speaks. Jet black hair, greased up, accentuating her angular pale chin. Her lips are luscious and ful, crimson with the dripping of fl esh blood, as if her own lips were bleeding profusely down her chin. When she speaks, her lips part across her teeth at an angle, as if only one side of her lips can be bothered to move. Like a lazy snarl. I think:
Crimson Lips
.

“Where did you hear that?” I ask.

Crimson Lips looks up from her bloody plate and holds my gaze, mea sur ing me. “What, the library? Because I’ve been asking about you,” she says, her voice cool and diffi cult to read, “and why you were put there. My escort knows everything. Quite chatty, once THE HUNT 67

you get him started, actualy. Told me, too, lest we start feeling too sorry for you, of the great view you have.”

“Same view you guys get. Except I’m out in the boondocks.”

“But you’re closer, though!” Beefy says, blood spraying out of his mouth and speckling down his chin. A wad of half- chewed rabbit liver fl ies out, landing near Crimson Lips’ plate. Before Beefy can liver fl ies out, landing near Crimson Lips’ plate. Before Beefy can move, she snaps up the chunk and puts it into her mouth. He glares at her briefl y before turning his attention back to us. “You’re closer to the Dome. To the hepers.”

At that, it’s as if every head turns to look at me.

I quickly bite off a large chunk of meat; I chew it slowly, deliberately, buying time. I scratch my wrist rapidly. “With about a mile of daylight between me and them. And at night, an impenetrable glass dome insulating them from me. They might as wel be on a different planet.”

“It’s cursed, that place,” says Crimson Lips. “The library, I mean.

Eventualy, it gets to you, drives you batty. It’s the proximity. Being so tantalizingly close, being able to smel them but not get to them.

Every person who’s stayed there has lost it, sooner or later.

Usualy sooner.”

“I heard that’s what happened to the Scientist,” says Beefy. “He got the itch one night. A few months ago. At dusk, he ventured out, went right up to the Dome. Was pressing his face against the glass like a kid outside a candy store. He simply forgot the time and then

. . .
well, hello, sunrise!
” He shrugs. “At least that’s the theory.

Nobody saw it happen. They found a pile of his clothes halfway between the library and the Dome.”

between the library and the Dome.”

“Good riddance, is what I hear,” Crimson Lips says. “He was absolutely useless. They looked at his research after he disappeared.

Notebooks and journals fi led with absolute dreck.”

68 ANDREW FUKUDA

Dessert arrives, ice cream. This is one of the few foods for which I don’t have to fake an appetite. I scarf it down, slowing down only when a sharp pain pinches my forehead. The other hunters continue to stuff their faces, especialy the two sitting on my left.

They’re in their twenties, both students at the Colege. He’s a phys ed major, she’s undeclared. Physical specimens, both of them, to say the least. He’s rippling in muscles, although he doesn’t fl aunt it.

She’s more of an exhibitionist, wearing daring cutoffs that show off her abdominal muscles. Lookers, too, with crystaline skin, high-bridged noses, and doorknobs for cheekbones. Both Phys Ed and Abs have a natural bounce to their step that speaks of effortless strength and agility. But dumb as doorknobs. One thing’s instantly clear: They’re the top contenders. One of them is going to win the Hunt. The other is going to fi nish what ever hepers are left over.

No wonder Gaunt Man is unhappy.

Frily Dress springs in from nowhere, her shril voice ringing across the hal like a shattered plate. “And did we al have a stupendous the hal like a shattered plate. “And did we al have a stupendous lunch?” she asks. It’s apparent she has: her chin is stil dripping with fresh blood. “Time to move on to the next part of the tour. In fact, we’ve been moving so fast, we have almost nothing left on today’s agenda. My, my, my, you al realy should pace yourselves slower. You won’t learn anything at this breakneck speed!”

I catch Gaunt Man shoot me a knowing look, as if to say:
Didn’t I
tell you? This whole thing is a meaningless exercise in
redundancy.

“So,” continues Frily Dress, “the only thing left remaining on to night’s itinerary is the visit to the Dome. This is going to be a real treat. Mind you, we’l likely not see any hepers since they sleep at night, but their odors are realy pungent there. To die for, realy.”

A few necks twitch around the table.

“So, shal we? Make our way now?”

THE HUNT 69

And like that, we’re al standing, waiting for our escorts. And then, away we go.

By the quick pace of our feet rushing down the stairs; by the force with which the exit doors are fl ung open; by the look of excitement on even Gaunt Man’s face; by the spasmodic and minuscule vibra-on even Gaunt Man’s face; by the spasmodic and minuscule vibra-tions of our heads— I know we are excited. I know we are desirous.

As if by tacit agreement, no one speaks. We are silent, our shoes fi rst padding the hard marble fl oors and then, once outside, lilting on the softer give of the brick path. Even as we walk past the library, nobody says anything. Only Gaunt Man peers inside, curiously, then at me, perhaps wondering why I, of al of them, have been housed in there. When the brick path comes to an end and our shoes hit the hard, dusty gravel of the Vast, it is as if nobody dares even breathe, we are so wordless.