[ Truyện tiếng anh] The Hunt

Author : Andrew Fukuda

Don't Sweat. Don't Laugh. Don't draw attention to yourself. And most of all, whatever you do, do not fall in love with one of them.
Gene is different from everyone else around him. He can't run with lightning speed, sunlight doesn't hurt him and he doesn't have an unquenchable lust for blood. Gene is a human, and he knows the rules. Keep the truth a secret. It's the only way to stay alive in a world of night--a world where humans are considered a delicacy and hunted for their blood.
When he's chosen for a once in a lifetime opportunity to hunt the last remaining humans, Gene's carefully constructed life begins to crumble around him. He's thrust into the path of a girl who makes him feel things he never thought possible--and into a ruthless pack of hunters whose suspicions about his true nature are growing. Now that Gene has finally found something worth fighting for, his need *****rvive is stronger than ever--but is it worth the cost of his humanity?

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 1



THERE USED TO be more of us. I'm certain of this. Not enough to fi l a sports stadium or even a movie theater, but certainly more than what's left today. Truth is, I don't think there's any of us left. Except me. It's what happens when you're a delicacy. When you're craved. You go extinct.

Eleven years ago, one was discovered in my school. A kindergarten student, on her fi rst day. She was devoured almost immediately.

What was she thinking? Maybe the sudden (and it's always sudden) loneliness at home drove her to school under some misbegotten idea that she'd fi nd companionship.

The teacher announced nap time, and the little tyke was left standing alone on the fl oor clutching her teddy bear as her classmates leaped feetfi rst toward the ceiling. At that point, it was over for her. Over. She might as wel have taken out her fake fangs and prostrated herself for the inevitable feasting. Her classmates stared down wide- eyed from above: Hello, what have we here? She started to cry, they tel me, bawl her eyes out. The teacher was the fi rst to get to her.

After kindergarten, when you're free and clear of naps, that's when you show up at school. Although you can still get caught by surprise. One time, my swimming coach was so enraged by the team's lethargic per for mance at a school meet, he forced all of us take a nap in the changing room. He was only making a point, of course, but that point near did me in.

By the way, swimming is fi ne, but don't do any other sport if you can help it. Because sweat is a dead giveaway. Sweat is what happens when we get hot; water droplets leak out like a baby drooling. I know, gross. Everyone else remains cool, clean, dry. Me? I'm a leaky faucet. So forget about cross- country, forget about tennis, forget about even competitive chess. But swimming is fi ne, because it hides the sweat.

That's just one of the rules. There're many others, all of them indoctrinated into me by my father from the time I was born. Never smile or laugh or giggle, never cry or get teary- eyed. At all times, carry a bland, stoic expression; the only emotions that ever crack the surface of people's faces are heper- cravings and romantic- lust, and I am obviously to have nothing to do with either. Never forget to apply butter liberal y all over your body when venturing out in the daytime. Because in a world like this, it's a tough task explaining a sunburn, or even a suntan. So many other rules, enough to fi l a notebook, not that I ever felt inclined to write them down. Being caught with a “rulebook” would be just as damning as a sunburn.

Besides, my father reminded me of the rules every day. As the sun was going down, over breakfast, he'd go over a few of the many rules. Like: Don't make friends; don't inadvertently fal asleep in class (boring classes and long bus rides were especial y dangerous); don't clear your throat; don't ace your exams, even though they insult your intel igence; don't let your good looks get the better of you; no matter how the girls might throw their hearts and bodies at you, never give in to that temptation. Because you must always remember that your looks are a curse, not a blessing. Never forget that. He'd say all this while giving my nails a quick once- over, making sure that they weren't chipped or scratched.

The rules are now so ingrained in me, they're as unbendable as the rules of na-ture. I've never been tempted to break any of them.

Except one. When I fi rst started taking the horse- drawn school bus, my father forbade me from looking back at him to wave good-bye. Because people never do that. That was a hard rule for me, initial y. For the fi rst few days of school, as I stepped onto the bus, it took everything in me to freeze myself, to not look back and wave good- bye. It was like a refl ex, an insuppressible cough. I was just a kid back then, too, which made it doubly hard.

I broke that rule only one time, seven years ago. It was the day after my father staggered into the house, his clothes disheveled as if he'd been in a tussle, his neck punctured.

He'd gotten careless, just a momentary lapse, and now he had two clear incisions in his neck. Sweat poured down his face, staining his shirt. You could see he already knew. A frenzied look in his eyes, panic running up his arms as he gripped me tight. “You're alone now, my son,” he said through clenched teeth, spasms starting to ripple across his chest.

Minutes later, when he started to shiver, his face shockingly cold to the touch, he stood up. He rushed out the door into the dawn light.

I locked the door as he'd instructed me to do and ran to my room.

I stuffed my face into the pil ow and screamed and screamed. I knew what he was doing at that very moment: running, as far away from the house before he transformed and the rays of sunlight became like waterfal s of acid burning through his hair, his muscles, his bones, his kidney, lungs, heart.

The next day, as the school bus pul ed up in front of my house, steam gushing from the horses' wide and wet nostrils, I broke the rule. I couldn't help myself: I turned around as I stepped onto the bus. But by then, it didn't matter. The driveway was empty in the dark birth of night. My father was not there. Not then or ever again.

My father was right. I became alone that day. We were once a family of four, but that was a long time ago. Then it was just my father and me, and it was enough. I missed my mother and sister, but I was too young to form any real attachments with them. They are vague shapes in my memory. Sometimes, though, even now, I hear the voice of a woman singing and it always catches me off guard. I hear it and I think: Mother had a really pretty voice. My father, though. He missed them terribly. I never saw him cry, not even after we had to burn all the photos and notebooks. But I'd wake up in the middle of the day and fi nd him staring out the un-shuttered window, a beam of sunshine plunging down on his heavy face, his broad shoulders shaking.

My father had prepared me to be alone. He knew that day would eventual y come, although I think deep down he believed it was he who would be the last one left, not me.

He spent years dril -ing the rules into me so I knew them better than my own self. Even now, as I get ready for school at dusk, that laborious pro cess of washing, fi ling my nails, shaving my arms and legs (and recently, even a few chest hairs), rubbing ointment (to mask the odor), polishing my fake fangs, I hear his voice in my head, going over the rules.

Like today. Just as I'm slipping on my socks, I hear his voice. The usual warnings: Don't go to sleepovers; don't hum or whistle. But then I hear this rule he'd say maybe just once or twice a year. He said it so infrequently, maybe it wasn't a rule but something else, like a life motto. Never forget who you are. I never knew why my father would say that. Because it's like saying don't forget water is wet, the sun is bright, snow is cold. It's redundant. There's no way I could ever forget who I am. I'm reminded every moment of every day. Every time I shave my legs or hold in a sneeze or stifl e a laugh or pretend to fl inch at a slip of stray light, I am reminded of who I am.

A fake person.

The Heper Lottery BECAUSE I TURNED seventeen this year, I'm no longer mandated to ride the school bus. I walk now, gladly.

The horses— dark, gargantuan brutes that came into favor long ago for their game- fi nding ability but are now consigned to pul ing carriages and buses— can detect my unique odor. More than once they've swung their noses in my direction, singling me out, their nostrils gaping wide, like a wet, silent scream. I much prefer the solitude of walking under the darkening dusk sky.

I leave home early, as I do every night. By the time I walk through the front gates, students and teachers are already streaming in on horse back and carriages, gray shapes in a murky blackness.

It is cloudy to night and especial y dark. “Dark” is this term my father used to describe the nighttime, when things get covered over in blackness. Darkness makes me squint, which is one reason it's so dangerous. Everyone else squints only when eating something sour or smel ing something putrid. Nobody ever squints just because it's dark; it's a dead giveaway, so I never let so much as a crease cross my brow. In every class, I sit near the mercurial lamps that emit the barest suggestion of light (most people prefer gray- dark over pitch-black). That cuts down on the risk of an inadvertent squint.

People hate those seats near the lamps— too much glare — so I can always fi nd a seat by one.

I also hate getting called on in class. I've survived by blending in, defl ecting attention. Getting called on in class puts the spotlight solely on me. Like this morning, when I get called on by the teacher in trig class. He cal s on students more than anyone else, which is why I detest the man. He also has the puniest handwriting ever, and his faint scribbles on the board are near impossible to see in the gray- dark.

“Wel , H6? What do you think?”

H6 is my designation. I'm in row H, seat 6: thus my designation.

My designation changes depending on where I am. In my social studies class, for example, I'm known as D4. “Mind if I pass on this one?” I say.

He stares blankly at me. “Actual y, I do. This is the second time in a week you've done this.”

I look at the blackboard. “It's got me stumped.” I resist trying...

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 2



“Give it a shot, come on now.”

“I really don't know.”

“What's gotten into you? This is basic stuff for you.” He peers at me. I'm one of the smarter students in school, and he knows that.

Truth is, I could easily be the top student if I wanted to— grades come that easily to me, I don't even have to study— but I deliberately dumb down. There'd be too much attention at the top. “Look here.

Let's work together on this. Just read the question fi rst.”

Suddenly the situation has intensifi ed. But nothing to panic over. Yet.

“Guess my brain's not quite awake yet.”

“But just read the question. That's all .” His voice now holds an edge of sternness.

Suddenly I don't like this at all . He's beginning to take it personal y.

More eyes start to peer back at me.

Out of ner vous ness, I begin to clear my throat. Then catch myself. Just in time. People never clear their throats. I breathe in, forc-ing myself to slow down time. I resist the urge to wipe my upper lip where I suspect smal beads of sweat are starting to form.

“Do I need to ask you again?”

In front of me, Ashley June is staring more intently at me.

For a moment, I wonder if she's staring at my upper lip.

Does she see a slight glisten of sweat there? Did I miss shaving a hair? Then she puts up an arm, a long slender pale arm like a swan's neck arising out of the water.

“I think I know,” she says, and gets up from her seat. She takes the chalk from the teacher, who is taken aback by her forthrightness.

Students don't usual y approach the board uninvited. But then again, this is Ashley June, who pretty much gets by with what ever she wants. She gazes up at the equation, then writes with a quick fl ourish in large letters and numbers. Moments later, she's done and adds her own check mark and an “A+” at the end. Dusting off her hands, she sits back down. Some of the students start scratching their wrists, as does the teacher. “That was pretty funny,” he says. “I like that.” He scratches his wrist faster, demonstrably, and more students join him. I hear the rasp rasp rasp of nails scratching against wrists.

I join them, scratching my wrists with my long nails, hating it.

Because my wrists are defective. They don't itch when I fi nd something humorous. My natural instinct is to smile— smiling is this thing I do by widening my mouth and exposing my teeth— and not to scratch my wrist. I have sensitive nerve endings there, not a funny bone.

A message on the PA system suddenly sounds over the loud-speakers. Instantly, everyone stops scratching and sits up. The voice is robotic, man- female, authoritative.

“An important announcement,” it blares. “To night, in just three hours at two A.M., there will be a nationwide Declaration made by the Ruler. all citizens are required to participate. Accordingly, all classes held at that time will be canceled. Teachers, students, and all administrative staff wil gather in the assembly hal to watch the live broadcast from our beloved Ruler.”

And that's it. After the sign- off chimes, nobody speaks.

We're stunned by this news. The Ruler— who hasn't been seen in stunned by this news. The Ruler— who hasn't been seen in public in decades— almost never makes a TV appearance. He usual y leaves Palatial and other administrative announcements to the four Ministers under him (Science, Education, Food, Law) or the fi fteen Directors (Horse Engineering, City Infrastructure, Heper Studies, and so on) under them.

And the fact that he is making a Declaration is missed by no one. Everyone starts speculating about the Declaration.

A nationwide Declaration is reserved for only the rarest of occasions. Over the past fi fteen years, it's happened only twice. Once to announce the Ruler's marriage. And second, most famously, to announce the Heper Hunt.

Although the last Heper Hunt occurred ten years ago, people still talk about it. The Palace surprised the public when it announced it had been secretly harboring eight hepers. Eight living, blood- fi l ed hepers. To lift morale during a time of economic depression, the Ruler decided to release the hepers into the wild. These hepers, kept under confi nement for years, were fattened and slow, bewildered and frightened. Cast out into the wild like lambs to the slaughter, they never had a chance. They were given a twelve- hour head start. Then, a lucky group chosen by lottery were permitted to give chase after them. The Hunt was over in two hours. The event generated a surge in popularity for the Ruler.

As I walk to the cafeteria for lunch, I hear the buzz of excitement. Many are hoping for an announcement of another Heper Hunt. There is talk of a lottery for citizens again. Others are skeptical— haven't hepers become extinct? But even the doubters are drooling at the possibility, lines of saliva dripping down their chins and under their shirts. Nobody has tasted a heper, drunken its blood, feasted on its fl esh, for years now. To think that the government might be harboring some hepers, to think that every citizen might have a shot at winning the lottery for the Hunt . . . it sends the school into a tizzy.

I remember the Hunt from ten years ago. How for months afterward I didn't dare fal asleep because of the nightmares that would invade my mind: hideous images of an imagined Hunt, wet and violent and ful of blood. Horrifi c cries of fear and panic, the sound of fl esh ripped and bones crushed puncturing the night still ness. I'd wake up screaming, inconsolable even as my father wrapped his arms protectively around me in a strong hug. He'd tel me everything was all right, that it was just a dream, that it wasn't real; but what he didn't know was that even as he spoke, I'd hear the lingering sounds of my sister's and mother's wretched screams echoing in my ears, spil ing out of my nightmares and into the darkness of my all - too-real world.

The cafeteria is packed and boisterous. Even the kitchen staff are discussing the Declaration as they scoop food— synthetic meats— onto plates. Lunchtime has always been a chal enge for me because I don't have any friends. I'm a loner, partly because it's safer— less interaction, less chance of being found out. Mostly, though, it's the prospect of being eaten alive by your so- called friend that kil s any possibility of shared intimacy. Cal me picky, but imminent death at the hands (or teeth) of a friend who would suckle blood out of you at the drop of a hat . . . that throws a monkey wrench into friend-ship building.

So I eat lunch alone most of the time. But today, by the time I pay for my food at the cash register, there's barely a seat left. Then I spot F5 and F19 from math class sitting together, and I join them.

They're both idiots, F19 slightly more so. In my mind, I cal them Idiot and Doofus.

“Guys,” I say.

“Hey,” Idiot replies, barely looking up.

“Everyone's talking about the Declaration,” I say.

“Yes,” Doofus says, stuffi ng his mouth. We eat silently for a while. That's the way it is with Idiot and Doofus. They are computer geeks, staying up into the wee hours of the day.

When I eat with them— maybe once a week— sometimes we don't say anything at all . That's when I feel closest to them.

“I've been noticing something,” Doofus says after a while.

I glance up at him. “What's that?”

“Somebody's been paying quite a bit of attention to you.”

He takes another bite into the meat, raw and bloody. It dribbles down his chin, plopping into his bowl.

“You mean the math teacher? I know what you mean, the guy won't leave me alone in trig—”

“No, I meant somebody else. A girl.”

This time, both Idiot and I look up.

“For real?” Idiot asks.

Doofus nods. “She's been looking at you for the past few minutes.”

“Not me.” I take another sip. “She's probably staring at one of you.”

Idiot and Doofus look at each other. Idiot scratches his wrist a few times.

“Funny, that,” Doofus says. “I swear she's been eyeing you for a while now. Not just today. But every lunchtime for the past few weeks, I see her watching you.”

“What ever,” I say, feigning disinterest.

“No, look, she's staring at you right now. Behind you at the table by the window.”

Idiot spins around to look. When he turns back around, he's scratching his wrist hard and fast.

“What's so funny?” I ask, taking another sip, resisting the urge to turn around.

Idiot only scratches his wrist harder and faster. “You should take a look. He's not kidding.”

Slowly, I turn around and steal a quick glance. There's only one table by the window. A circle of girls eating there. The Desirables.

That's what they are known as. And that round table is theirs, and everyone knows by some unwritten rule that you leave that table alone. It is the domain of the Desirables, the pop u lar girls, the ones with the cute boyfriends and designer clothes. You approach that table only if they let you. I've seen even their boyfriends waiting dutiful y off to the side until granted permission to approach.

Not one of...

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 3



Swimming practice after lunch— yes, my coach is a maniac— is almost called off. None of the squad members can concentrate. The locker room is abuzz with the latest rumors about the Declaration.

I wait for the room to clear before getting changed. I'm just slipping out of my clothes when someone walks in. “Yo,”

Poser, the team captain, says, ripping off his clothes and slipping into his extra- tight Speedos. He drops down for push- ups, infl ating his tri-ceps and chest muscles. A dumbbel sits in his locker awaiting his biceps curls. His Buffness the Poser does this before every practice, jacking up to the max. He has a fan club out there, mostly fresh-men and sophomores on the girls' squad. I've seen him let them touch his pecs. The girls used to gawk at me, the braver ones sidling up and trying to talk to me during practice until they realized I pre-ferred to be alone. Poser has thankful y drawn away most of that attention.

He does ten more push- ups in quick succession. “It's got to be about a Heper Hunt,” he says, pausing halfway down.

“And they should forget about doing it by lottery this time.

They should just pick the strongest among us. That would,”

he says, fi nishing his push- up, “be me.”

“No doubt about,” I say. “It's always been brawn over brains in the Hunt. Survival of the fi ttest—”

“And winner takes all ,” he fi nishes as he pushes out ten more push- ups, the last three on one hand. “Life distil ed down to its raw-est essence. Gotta love it. Because brute strength always wins. Always has, always will .” He runs his hand over his bicep, looking approvingly, and heads out the door. Only then do I ful y remove my clothes and put on my trunks.

Coach is already barking at us as we jump in and continues to berate us for our lack of focus as we swim our laps. The water, always too cold for me even on a normal day, is freezing today. Even a few of my classmates complain about it, and they almost never complain about the water temperature. Water at cold temperatures affects me in a way it doesn't anyone else. I shiver, get something my father called “goose bumps.” It's one of the many ways I'm different from everyone else. Because despite my near identical physiological similarity with them, there are seismic fundamental differences that lie beneath the frail and deceptive surface of similarity.

Everyone is slower today. Distracted, no doubt. I need more speed, more effort. It takes everything in me to stop shivering. Even when the water is at its usual temperature, with everyone splashing away, it usual y takes a ful twenty minutes before I'm warm enough.

Today, instead of getting warmer, I feel my body getting colder. I need to swim faster.

After a warm- up lap, as we are resting up on the shal ow end, I am almost overcome by a sudden urge to kick off and swim the forbidden stroke.

Only my father has seen me use it. Years ago. During one of our daytime excursions to a local pool. For what ever reason, I dipped my head underwater. It is the fi rst sign of drowning, when-ever even the nose and ears dip below the surface. Lifeguards are trained to watch for this: see half a head submerge underwater, and they're instantly reaching for their whistles and life preservers.

That's why the water level, even at the deep end, goes up only to our waists. It's the depth that gets to people, renders them inca-pacitated. If their feet can't touch bottom without their jaw line sinking below water, a panic attack seizes them like a refl ex. They freeze up, sink, drown. So even though swimming is considered the domain of adrenaline junkies, those will ing to fl irt with death, real y, it's not. Here in the pool, you can simply stand up at the fi rst 16 ANDREW FUKUDA sign of trouble. The water is so shal ow, even your bel y 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.

It wasn't even scary. I opened my eyes, my arms pale blurs before me. I heard my father yel ing, 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 eventual y, 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 pul ed 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, pul ing 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 called 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.

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

I lift up my right arm. It's dotted with goose bumps, grotesque little bumps like cold chicken skin. I paddle harder, propel ing 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 all. 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 all 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 all 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.

“Coach!” Poser yel s, 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 *****rvive, 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 *****rvive. I vomit into the pool, a heaving green yel ow mess fi l ed 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 shril s, 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 yel s 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.

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 still 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.

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 pul s their faces down as they step...

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 4



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 this eve ning that I would be speaking, many of you”— he pauses dramatical y—“if not all 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 au***orium leans forward at this. all across the land, over fi ve mil ion citizens huddle around TVs and large screens with bated breath.

“My announcement to you, gentle people, is that this year we will 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 will 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 au***orium, fi l ed 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 l s the au***orium. 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 nines.

There will be a hunting party of between fi ve and ten this year, he tel s 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 will receive a randomly assigned sequence of four numbers. In exactly twenty- four hours, the numbers of the sequence will be randomly picked and publicly announced live on TV. Anywhere between fi ve to ten of you will have this winning sequence.”

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

“The lottery winners will be immediately taken to the Heper Institute of Refi ned Research and Discovery for a four- night training period. Then the Hunt will begin.” The au***orium 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 will 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 all .”

Then more foot stomping, silenced with an uplifted hand.

“One 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, real y. 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 control ed of environments.

To ensure not only that will they provide us with succulent fl esh and rich blood, but that they will also be more . . .

dexterous than last time. Final y, 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 will receive your lottery numbers at your workstation within a minute. Mothers at home, your numbers will be sent via e-mail to your offi cial account. And for those in high school and col ege, your numbers are awaiting you back at your desk. Good luck to you all .” His image fades out.

Usual y 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, usual y 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 maniacal y 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 HEPER HUNT LOTTERY

NUMBERS

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 tal y over the fi rst number is drawn up on the blackboard:

First sequence number

# of students with that number 1 3 2 4 3 1 4 5 5 3 6 2 7 4 8 3 9 2 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.

all fi ne with me.

It's dark when I arrive home, a hint of gray smearing the sky.

In another hour, the morning sun will peek over the distant mountains to the east. A siren will 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.

Somebody was just here. A few moments before I arrived.

I live alone. I have never invited anyone here. Other than me, nobody has even stood at the front door before. Until today.

Cautiously, I make my way around the perimeter of the house, looking for signs of disturbance. Everything looks fi ne. The stockpile of cash left by my father and secreted in the fl oor boards, though slowly diminishing, is untouched.

Closing the front door, I stand listening in the darkness of my home. No one else in here. Whoever was standing outside never came in. Only then do I light the candles.

Colors break out.

This is my favorite time of day. When I feel like a prisoner taking his fi rst steps of freedom or a diver rising from the depths of the mythical sea, drawing in his fi rst gasps of air. This is the moment, after the endless gray black hours of night, I see color again. Under the fl ickering light of the candle, colors burst into being, fl ooding the room with pools of melted rainbows.

I put dinner in the micro wave. I have to cook it twenty times, because the timer only goes up to fi fteen seconds. Hot, slightly charred, is my preference, not the tepid, soppy mess I'm forced to eat outside. I remove my fangs, place them in my pocket. Then I bite into the burger, relishing the heat as it attacks my teeth, savor-ing the solid feel of charred crispiness. I close my eyes in enjoyment.

And feel dirty, ashamed.

After my shower— showering is this thing you do where you rub gobs of hand sanitizer and pour water over your body to get rid of odor— I lie on the sofa, my head propped up on folded sweatshirts.

Only one candle is alight; it casts fl ickering shadows on the ceiling.

Sleep- holds dangle above me, placed there years ago merely for show on the off chance a visitor might drop by.

The radio is on, the volume set low. “Many experts are speculating that the number of hepers will be in the range of three to fi ve,” the radio analyst says.

“But because the Director was silent on this issue, there really is no way of knowing.”

The radio program continues, with a few cal ers chiming in, including a crotchety woman who speculates that the whole thing is rigged: the “winner” will end up being someone with deep pockets and close friends in high places. Her cal is suddenly cut off. Other cal ers weigh in about the number of hepers in the Hunt this time.

Only one thing is for certain: it has to be at least two, because the Director— in a voice loop that has been played over and over— used the plural tense: heper s.

I listen to a few more cal ers, then get up and switch off the radio. In the quiet that fol ows, I hear the gentle pit- pat of rain on the shutters.

My father sometimes took me out in the daytime. Except for the times he took me swimming, I hated going outside.

Even with sunglasses, the brightness was overwhelming.

The burning sun was like an unblinking eye, spil ing light like acid out of a beaker, turning the city into an endless fl ash.

Nothing moved out there.

He would take me to empty sports stadiums and vacant shop-ping mal s. Nothing was locked, because sunlight provided the best security. We'd have the whole Core Park to fl y kites or the empty public pool to swim in. He told me this ability to withstand...

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 5



It's an endless stretch of desert plains. Nobody knows how far it goes or what lies beyond it.

Because I live in the outer suburbs, far from the tal offi ce build-ings of the Financial District and farther yet from the center of the metropolis where towering governmental skyscrapers clutter the landscape, it doesn't take long before the city is wel behind me.

The city boundary is vague: there's no wal to demarcate the beginning of the Vast. It arrives indiscernibly. Scattered homes give way to dilapidated poultry farms, which in turn cede to crumbling shacks long ago abandoned. Eventual y, it's just the spread of empty land. The Vast. There's nothing out there. No place to fl ee. Only the cruelest of elements, the three Ds: desert, desolation, and death.

There's no escape for us out here, my father would say, no sanctuary, no hope, no life for us at all. Don't ever come out here thinking there's escape to be had.

I don't dil ydal y out here but head north. About an hour out, an isolated mound of soft green fuzz sits there in the middle of the Vast, an aberrational od***y discovered years ago by my parents. And what I need is in the green fuzz. By the time my feet hit the soft grass, I'm sprinting toward a glade of trees. I reach for a red fruit hanging off a branch. I tear it off, shut my eyes, and sink my teeth through the skin. The fruit crunches in my mouth, watery and sweet, my jaws working up and down, up and down. When my father and I ate the fruit, we'd eat with our backs to each other. We were ashamed, even as we chewed, bite after bite, juice running down our chins, unable to stop.

After my fourth fruit, I force myself to slow down. I pluck away at the different offerings of fruit, tossing them into a bag. I pause for a minute, gazing up at the sky. High above me, a large bird glides across the sky, its wings oddly rectangular. It circles around me, its form strangely unchanging, then heads east, disappearing into the THE HUNT 27 distance. I pick a few more fruit, then head over to our favorite spot, a large tree whose leaves spread lush and high. My father and I always sat under this tree, munching fruit, back against the trunk, the city in the far distance, darkened and fl at. Like a dirty puddle.

Years ago, we would explore the green fuzz for signs of others like us. Signs like rutted cores of discarded fruit, trampled grass, snapped branches. But we almost never found anything. Our kind was careful not to leave any giveaway signs. Even so, I'd occasional y fi nd that unavoidable and clearest of signs: less fruit on trees.

That meant others had been there as wel , plucking and eating. But I never saw any of them.

Once, between bites, I asked my father, “Why don't we ever see other hepers here?”

He stopped chewing, half turned his head toward me.

“Don't use that word.”

“What word? Heper? What's wrong with—”

“Don't use that word,” he said sternly. “I don't want to hear that word coming out of you ever again.”

I was young; tears rushed to my eyes. He turned ful y toward me, his large eyes swal owing me whole. I tilted my head back to keep the tears from rimming out. Only after my tears dried did he turn his eyes away. He gazed afar at the horizon until the rocks stopped churning inside him.

“Human,” he fi nal y said, his voice softer. “When we're alone, use that word, okay?”

“Okay,” I said. And after a moment, I asked him, “Why don't we see other humans?”

He didn't answer. But I can still remember the sound as he bit off large chunks of apple, loud crunches exploding in his mouth as we sat under a tree drooping with ripe fruit.

And now, years later, there's even more fruit hanging off the trees, an overabundance of color in the verdant green fuzz.

So sad, to have colors signify death and extinction. And that's how I eat now, alone in the green fuzz, a solitary gray dot among splashes of red and orange and yel ow and purple.

Dusk arrives, the night of the lottery. Inside every home, young and old are awake, jittery with excitement. When the night horn sounds, shutters and grates rise, doors and windows fl ing open. Everyone is early to work and school to night, to chitchat and tap impatiently on computer screens before them.

At school, there's not even an attempt at normalcy. In second period, the teacher doesn't cal the class to order but simply disregards us as she taps away on her deskscreen.

Halfway through class, a citywide announcement on the intercom is made: Because work productivity in the city has fal en so drastical y, the announcement of the lottery numbers has been moved up a few hours. In fact, it will now be broadcast live in a few minutes. “Have your numbers in front of you,” the announcer ends cheerily, as if everyone hasn't already memorized them.

Instantly, delirium breaks out in the classroom. Students rush back to their seats, eyes fastened on deskscreens.

“Are you ready for the lottery yet?” the news anchor says a few minutes later, all aplomb abandoned in his excitement.

“I have mine right here,” he says, holding up a sheet of paper with his numbers. “To night might just be my night, I woke up with a feeling in me.”

“As did every citizen of this great city, no doubt,” chimes in his co- host, a slim woman with jet black hair. “We're all so excited.

Let's go now to the Heper Institute, where the numbers are about to be picked.” She pauses, her fi nger reaching up to her earpiece. A feral glint invades her eyes. “We're getting word now of a surprise.

This is a whopper, folks, so sit down.”

In the classroom, heads snap back and then lurch forward.

No one says a word.

“Instead of having the Director pick the numbers, the Palace has decided a captive heper will pick the numbers.”

Somebody snorts loudly; several students suddenly leap onto their desks.

“You heard that right, folks,” she continues, and her voice is wetter now, with a slight lisp. “We're getting a live feed. . . .”

She pauses again. “I'm hearing that it's coming from a secret location from within the Heper Institute. Take us there now.”

Instantly, the view of the newsroom switches to that of a bare, ****rnous indoor arena. No windows or doors.

Placed in the center of the arena is an empty chair. Next to it, a large hemp sack and a glass bowl. But nobody is looking at the sack or the chair or the glass bowl. all our eyes are fastened on the blurry image of a male heper crouched in the corner.

It is el der ly and wiry, but its stomach is fat- marbled and protrudes disproportionately to its thin frame. Hair plasters its arms and legs, and the sight of the hair sends a river of lip smacking through the classroom.

The videocamera zooms in and then out on the heper. But clearly the camera must be running unmanned, on autopi lot. If anyone were in the arena with the heper, the heper would have been devoured within seconds. The newest wave of videocameras— weighing a relatively spry two tons— is capable of autozooming, a technological advancement unimaginable just a de cade ago.

The camera zooms in now, capturing the heper's uncertainty as it gazes upward at something offscreen. Then, as if instructed, it gets up and walks to the chair. There is indecision in its every step, caution. Emotions pour nakedly off its face.

A student shakes his head violently, drool trapezing outward, some of it landing on me. Saliva pours out of our mouths, col ecting in smal pools on desks and the fl oor.

Heads are half ****ed sideways and back, bodies tensed.

Everyone in a trance and a heightened sense of alertness.

The news anchors have been silent.

The heper reaches the chair, sits down. Again, eyes bulging wide, it looks offscreen for direction. Then it reaches into the hemp sack and takes out a bal . A number is printed on it: 3. It holds the bal up to the camera for a second, then puts it in the glass bowl.

It takes a moment before we realize what's just happened.

The news anchors break their silence, their voices wet and blubbery with saliva. “We have the fi rst number, folks, we have the fi rst number. It's three!” Loud groans all around, fi sts crumpling sheets of paper. The teacher in the back of the classroom whispers a cuss.

I stare down at my own paper: 3, 16, 72, 87. Cool y, I cross out the number 3. Only a few classmates are still in the running. It's easy to spot them. Their eyes are sparkling with anticipation, drool running down their exposed fangs.

Everyone else is unclenching now, muscles relaxing, mouths and chins being wiped. They slump in their chairs.

The heper ner vous ly reaches for another number.

16.

More groans. I take my pen and cross out 16, a slight tremor in my fi ngers. Must hold the pen tighter, get my fi ngers under control.

As far as I can tel , that last number took out the remaining contenders in the class. Except me. Nobody has noticed yet that I'm still in the running. I kick out more saliva, let it run down my chin. I hiss a little, **** my head back. Heads fl ick toward me.

Before long, a crowd has gathered around my desk.

The heper pul s out the next number.

72.

There is a momentary, stunned silence. Then heads start bop-ping, knuckles cracking. My next number— 87—is chanted like a mantra. Somebody runs...

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 6



For a second, it lifts its head and stares offscreen. Then its eyes widen with fear, and its head shakes violently. It pins its head between its knees.

“It doesn't want to pick the last number,” a student whispers.

“I told you,” my teacher says, “these hepers are smarter than they look. It somehow knows these numbers are for the Hunt.”

The screen blacks out. The next shot is of the newsroom.

The anchors are caught off guard. “Looks like we're having technical diffi culties,” the male anchor says, quickly wiping his chin.

“We should be back on air shortly.”

But it takes more than a few moments. Video of the heper picking the fi rst three numbers is looped over and over.

Word spreads around school about me; more students crowd the classroom. Then more news: Another student in the school is still in the running. As I pump out more saliva down my chin and jerk my head in staccato fashion, I make some rough math calculations in my head. The odds that I have the last winning number are 1 in 97. That's just a little over 1 percent. A comfortingly low chance, I tel myself.

“Look!” someone says, pointing at the deskscreen.

The TV channel has shifted away from the newsroom to an outdoor location. The male heper is gone. In its stead is a female heper, young. This heper is sitting outdoors in a chair, a hemp sack and glass bowl on the ground next to it.

The image is glassy and shiny, as if a glass wal stands between the heper and camera. Behind the heper, distant mountains sit under the few stars that dot the night sky.

Unlike the other heper, this female heper is looking not nervous ly offscreen, but directly at the camera. With a col ectedness in its gaze, a self- possession that seems odd in a captive heper.

Some of the boys lurch up on desks. A female heper is known to be the choicer morsel of the two genders. The fl esh meatier, fattier in parts. And a teenage one— as this one appears to be— is the most succulent of all , its taste beyond compare.

beyond compare.

Before the hissing and drooling kicks up again, the heper is already reaching into the sack. It calmly removes a bal , holds it with outstretched arm toward the camera. But it's the eyes I'm looking at: how focused they seem to be on mine, as if they see me in the camera lens.

I don't need to see the bal to know the heper has picked number 87. An explosive hiss curdles out from classmates, fol owed by a phat- phat- phat of smacking lips. The congratulations begin: ears brought down to mine, rubbing up and down, side to side. A minute later, between ear hugs, I glance down at the deskscreen.

Amazingly, the heper is still holding the numbered bal up to the camera, a look of quiet defi ance imprinted on its face.

The picture starts to fade out. But in the moment before it does, I see the heper's eyes moistening, its head slanting forward ever so, hair bangs fal ing over its eyes. Its defi ance seems to melt into a sudden, overcoming sadness.

Before too long, they come. Even as my classmates are stil congratulating me, I hear their offi cious boots thumping along the hal way.

By the time they open the door to my classroom, every student has taken his or her seat, standing up at attention as the team of four walks in. They are all immaculately dressed, silk suits with tight, clean lines.

“F3?” the squad leader asks from behind the teacher's desk.

Like his suit, his voice is silky, pretentious, but with undeniable authority.

I put my hand up.

all four pairs of eyes swivel and fasten on me. They are not hostile eyes, just effi cient.

“Congratulations, you have the winning lottery combination,”

the leader murmurs. “Come with us now, F3. You will be taken directly to the Heper Institute. Your ride is awaiting you in front of the school. Come now.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I feel like the luckiest guy in the world.

But I need to pick up a few items from home, clothes.” And my shaver and scrubber and nail clipper and fang cleaner — “No. Clothing will be supplied at the Institute. Come now.”

I've never been in a stretch carriage, much less one drawn by a team of stal ions. The stal ions are sleek black, merging seamlessly with the night. They turn toward me as I approach the carriage, their noses sniffi ng me out. I climb inside quickly. Students and teachers spil out of the school from the east and west wings, rushing over to gawk. But they all stand a respectful distance away, silent and still .

Because of the darkly tinted windows, it's unnerving how pitch-black it is inside. I restrain the urge to stretch out my arms or to widen my eyes. Head bent down, I slide my body forward slowly until my knees hit the soft front of the leather seat. I hear more bodies fol owing me in, feel the seat sag under the weight of their bodies.

“Is this your fi rst time inside a stretch?” a voice next to me asks.

“Yes.”

Nobody says anything.

Then another voice: “We will wait for the other winner to get here.”

“Another student?” I ask.

A pause. “Yes. Shouldn't be long now.”

I stare out the tinted window, trying not to give away the fact that I can't see a thing in here.

“Some papers to sign,” says yet another voice. A faint rustle of papers, the unmistakable snap of a clipboard.

“Here you go.”

My eyes still trained outside, I swing my right arm in a wide arc until I hit the board. “Ooops, I'm such a klutz sometimes.”

“Please sign here and here and here. Where the Xs are.”

I stare down. I can't see a thing.

“Right where the Xs are,” yet another voice chimes in.

“Can we just wait a bit? I'm kind of caught up in the moment —”

“Now, please.” There is a fi rmness in that voice. I sense eyes turning to look at me.

But just then, the limo door opens. “The other lottery winner,”

someone whispers. A faint gray light from the outside spil s inside.

Not a moment to lose. I whip my eyes down, barely catch sight of the Xs, scribble my name down. The carriage tilts with the added weight. Then, before I can see who entered, the door swings shut and the interior is plunged into blackness again.

An ankle jams into my shin.

“Would you watch where you put your legs!” a voice snaps at me. It's a girl's voice, somewhat familiar.

I stare out the window, not even trying to meet her eyes.

“Do you two know each other?” a voice asks.

I decide the safest action is to shrug and scratch my wrist.

Something ambiguous that could be interpreted a number of ways.

The sound of wrists scratching in response. I'm safe for now.

“Please sign these papers. Here, here, and here.”

There is a momentary pause. Then she speaks with command.

“My friends are outside. The whole school is outside. This is the best moment of my life. Can you please rol down these windows so they can see me? It'd be good for the school, for the community, to join us in this wonderful time.”

For a long time, there is no response. Then the window rol s down and the gray outside light ambles in.

Sitting across from me is Ashley June.

We ride in silence and darkness, the offi cials dispensing with smal talk. The stal ions stop at a stoplight; the click- clock of their hooves comes to a momentary cease. The muffl ed, rumbling sounds of the crowd outside fi lters through: bone snaps, teeth grinding, the crackle of joints and ankles. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people line the streets, watching our passage.

Ashley June is silent but excited. I can tel . Snaps of her neck crack out in the darkness in front of me. I throw in a few snaps of my own, cracking my knuckles once or twice.

This is not the fi rst time Ashley June and I have been in the dark in close quarters. It was a year or two ago, before I became the re-cluse I am today and just as Ashley June was beginning her mete-oric rise in the ranks to the Desirable club. It was raining that night and the class was cloistered inside the school gym. Our gym teacher never showed, and nobody bothered to let the offi ce know.

Somehow— these things just have a way of happening— everyone started playing spin the bottle. The whole class, all twenty or so of us. The class divided into two circles by gender. The words— This is so lame, I'm outta here— were on my lips when the guys suddenly spun the bottle and got things going.

It whirled around in a blur, then slowed, coming to a stop at the boy sitting across from me.

Then it continued to inch forward slowly, as if through glue, until the bottle mouth, like the gaping mouth of a dying goldfi sh, came to a stop. Pointing right at me, dead center, no question about it.

“Suck fest,” the boy next to me said bitterly. “So close to me.”

And it was as though an electric jolt shot through the girls' circle. They started whispering, heads huddling together, casting me luring, excited looks. In a fl ash, a girl reached forward and spun the bottle. The bottle twirled fast, then broke into a slower blur. When it was crawling through its fi nal rotation, girls leaning back in dis-appointment as the bottle passed them, and just as it was slowly passing by Ashley June, she reached forward and stopped it with her foot,...

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 7



We bumbled awkwardly in the confi ned space as we took off our arm sleeves. I grabbed the zipper, pul ed at it, felt it give.

With our sleeves off, we paused. Now was the moment.

Was she waiting for me to move fi rst? Then the sound of her neck cracking, a loud bony snap. A low rumbling in her throat, then a snarl, so close, the hiss wetting the wal s and ceiling and fl oor of the black-ened closet enclosing me.

I let my mind go blank, an erasure, then a replacement with a primal urge manufactured in the imaginings of my mind. I opened my mouth and a snarl hurled out, its raw savagery and urgency catching me by surprise. My arms fl ew forward toward her and our forearms col ided, nails gashing against skin. For a second, alarm shot through my mind: if blood was spilt, her ardor would quickly— in a microsecond— shift, and she would be at my neck, her fangs sinking razor quick through my skin, and the others outside would pour in just seconds later, diving inside in an orgy of blood. But caught up in the moment, I did not stop, we did not stop, but brusquely brushed aside arms, so many impeding us, shoved elbows and shoulders away, jostled for position. We knocked up against the wal s confi ning us on every side, hol ow thumps thud-ding as our elbows and knees hit against the invisible wal s.

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 all 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 oscil ated 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 col ecting herself. I was about to push the closet door open when she spoke.

“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.

“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 still raining hard?” she said fi nal y.

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“It's supposed to rain all 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 umbrel a to night?”

“I did.”

“I walked to school to night,” she said, and we both knew she was lying. “But I left my umbrel a 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 hal ways subsided, even as the last students and teachers vacated 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, 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 umbrel a. I let the rain soak my clothes, seep all 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 get bumpier by the minute until they yield to the give of desert sand. Final y, 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 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, scrol s 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 hal ways 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 hal way 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 ****rnous hal is dark. In the middle is a circle of curved- back velvet chairs dotted about like the numerical digits of a clock; all 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 officials 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 hunters. We are perfectly still , as if the molecules in the air have been glued together, fastening everything in place.

The offi cial, when she appears, catches us all 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 graceful y 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 graceful y 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 spil s 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 all . 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 will be dying to hear about the Hunt afterwards; you'l all be plenty busy afterwards dealing with the media, especial y 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 all.

You'l have so much to share with the media afterwards.

Over the next few nights, your schedule will 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 flick 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 skil s, absorb the tidbits of advice we give you. These are not ordinary hepers, the classic hepers 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...

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 8



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

A sumptuous breakfast, then a tour of this facility. You'l see the training grounds, the artil ery room, the Control Center, the me***a-tion lounge, the dining area. And fi nal y, at the end of the night, we'l take you to . . . the heper vil age.”

Offi cials step forward from outside the circle and stand next to each hunter. The offi cial on my right is a sul en gray statue.

In his hand is a package.

“That's right,” she says, still 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 all 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 fol ow our beckoning escorts. Our circle disintegrates as we disperse, quietly, swiftly. We are taken down different hal ways, through different doors, until all that remains are the emptied chairs still positioned like the numbers of a handless, dysfunctional clock.

My escort leads me brusquely down a hal way, up a fl ight of stairs, along another hal way, and then down another fl ight of stairs without speaking. We walk the length of yet another hal way, dimly il uminated 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 fel ow schoolmate— and chivalry demands the girl be given the last guest room in the main building. Your room is actual y 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. They worked in the daytime for two days straight. We rewarded them with some extra food. Those things will do anything for food.”

“Who supervised them? Who could have . . . you let them just roam freely?”

My escort just shakes his head with a “you've got a lot to learn, kid” look.

He pushes open the front doors and walks in. The interior is surprisingly spacious and airy. But the conversion from library to guest room is incomplete. It's really still a library, the only modifi cation being a set of sleep- holds newly attached to the ceiling. Otherwise, the whole library looks virtual y untouched: shelves still ful of books, old, yel owed newspapers hung in cherrywood holders, and reading desks positioned evenly about the fl oor. A musty smel hangs over everything.

“The sleep- holds,” he says, gazing upward. “Just instal ed yesterday.”

“Hepers?”

He shakes his head. “That one we did. Hepers would never come inside. Too afraid of a trap. They're dumb, but not stupid, know what I mean?”

He shows me around at breakneck speed, pointing out the reference section, the mercuric light switches, and the closet fi l ed with clothes for me and explaining how the shutters work automatical y by light sensors. “They're super quiet, the shutters,” he tel s me.

“They won't wake you.” He speaks hurriedly. It's obvious he has something else on his mind. “You want to try out the sleep- holds? We should try them, make sure they fi t.”

“I'm sure they're fi ne, I'm not fussy that way.”

“Good,” he says. “Now, fol ow me, you're going to like this.”

He leads me down a narrow aisle, his footsteps quick and eager, then turns sharply to the back of the library. Lying on a bureau next to a smal , square window is a pair of binoculars. He picks it up and peers out the window, his mouth open, drool sloshing audibly in his mouth. “I'm demonstrating how to use these binoculars because you asked me to. I'm only responding to your request,” he says robotical y, his index fi nger turning the zoom dial. “It's only because you asked me to.”

“Hey,” I say, “give me a look.”

He doesn't respond, only continues to peer intently through the binoculars. His eyebrows are arched like the wings of an ea gle.

“You can adjust the zoom by turning this dial,” he mumbles.

“Up and down, up and down, up and . . .” His voice drifts.

“Hey!” I say, louder.

“And on this side is the focus dial,” he mumbles, his slim fi ngers sliding over the control. “Let me explain to you how this works.

Since you asked. It's complicated, let me explain careful y.

This might take a while.”

Final y, I snatch the binoculars out of his hands.

His hand snaps around my forearm. I don't see it happen, he moved too fast. His nails pierce my skin, and for one horrible, sickening moment, I think those nails are about to slice through and draw blood. He lets go immediately, of course, even takes a step or two back. A glazed, distant look is still clouding his eyes, but it is dissipating fast.

Three nail indentations are planted in my wrist, dangerously deep. But no blood.

“Apologies,” he says.

“Don't worry about it.” I hold my arm behind my back, feeling the indentation with the fi ngers of my other hand.

Stil no moisture: still no blood. If a drop of a drop of blood had seeped through, he'd already be at me.

“Did I demonstrate it wel enough for you?” His voice is pleading. “Do you understand how to use the binoculars now?”

“I think I can give it a try.”

“Perhaps one more demonstration will —”

“No. I can handle it.” Keeping the binoculars behind my back, I turn to look outside. A crescent moon shines behind a scrim of clouds, its thin, sickly light fal ing down. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

He doesn't say anything, so I turn to look at him. For a moment, the clarity in his eyes turns slightly opaque again.

A line of drool that hasn't yet been wiped away thickens down his chin. “Hepers,”

he whispers.

I don't want him hovering behind me, pestering me for another “demonstration,” so I wait until he leaves. I'm fi l ed with a strange dread but also an excitement as I pick up the binoculars. Other than my family, I've never laid eyes on a heper.

At fi rst, I'm not sure what I should be looking for. Then moonlight spil s through a break in the clouds, il uminating the swath of land. I swivel the binoculars slowly, searching: a brief burst of cactus, a boulder, nothing— A smal col ection of mud huts sitting inconspicuously off in the distance. The heper vil age. My guess is it's about a mile away. A pond of some sort— no doubt man- made; no body of water could possibly survive in this terrain— lies in the center. Nothing moves.

The mud huts are as nondescript as the desert.

Then I see something.

Moonlight glimmers...

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 9



I watch as it stands up, takes a sip of water from cupped hands.

Its back is to me, its head staring east at the mountains.

For a long time, it does not move. Then it bends down, cups its hands, takes another sip. Its movement, even for so simple an act, is graceful and sure. Its head suddenly swings in my direction; I fl inch back.

Perhaps it has caught a refl ection off the binoculars' lens.

But it is looking past me, at the Institute. I zoom in on the face. Those eyes: I remember them from earlier this eve ning, on my deskscreen, their brown tone like the trunk of a wrongly fel ed tree.

After a few moments, it turns around and disappears into a mud hut.

Hunt Minus Four Nights I AM CURIOUS about the library they've lodged me in and intend to stay up through the day hours to explore. But the night's activities have worn me out; no sooner have I sat down to read the welcome package than I fi nd myself waking up, hours later.

Somebody is pounding at the door. Startled, I jump up, my heart hammering. “Give me a minute!” I shout. I hear a mumbled response.

Fear douses me awake. I'm realizing now. My face. I'm not ready. My fi ngers reach for my chin: a faint stubble just breaking the skin. Enough to be noticed. And what of my eyes? Are they bloodshot with fatigue? And do my fake teeth need to be whitened, my body washed?

Never forget to shave. Get enough sleep to avoid bloodshot eyes. Never forget to whiten your teeth every morning before you leave. And wash every day; body odor is the most dangerous— My father's instructions. I've abided by them every single day of my life. But my razor blades and eyedrops and fang whiteners and underarm ointments are stashed miles away at home. Given the right mix of other products, I could cobble together what I need. For example, three sheets of aluminum foil dissolved in horse shampoo with a liberal application of baking soda will , after a fortnight, congeal into a ser viceable bar of underarm deodorant. Trouble is, I don't have these ingredients at hand. Nor do I have a fortnight to spare.

The door pounding gets louder, more insistent. I do the only thing I can. Grab my penknife and quickly raze my chin, making sure not to chafe my skin. That would be a fatal mistake. Then I grab my shades and head to the front door.

Just in time, I catch myself. My clothes. They're creased from being slept in, a tel tale sign that I didn't sleep in the sleep- holds. I run to the closet, throw on a new outfi t.

The escort is not happy. “I've been knocking for fi ve minutes.

What's the matter with you?”

“Sorry, overslept. Sleep- holds were comfy.”

He turns, starts walking. “Come now. The fi rst lecture is about to begin. We have to hurry.” He takes another glance back at me.

“And lose the shades. It's cloudy to night.”

I ignore him.

The Director of the Heper Institute is as sterile and dry as his surroundings, which is saying a lot. His face has a plastic sheen, and he likes to stand wherever it is dark. He exudes an austere authority that is both quiet and deadly.

He can whisper a rat to death with the razor- sharp incisions of his careful y nuanced words.

“Hepers are slow, hepers like to hold hands, hepers like to warble their voices, hepers need to drink copious amounts of water.

They have an expansive range of facial tics, they sleep at night, they are preternatural y resistant *****nlight. These are the rudimentary facts about hepers.” The Director speaks with a practiced élan. He pauses dramatical y in the dark corner, the white glow of his eyes disappearing, then reappearing, as he opens his eyes. “After de cades of intense study, we now know signifi cantly more about them.

Much of this information is known to only a few of us here at the Heper Institute of Refi ned Research and Discovery.

Because you will be hunting hepers in four nights, it has been determined that you, too, will become privy to the latest research. Everything we know about hepers, you wil know. But fi rst, the waivers.”

We all sign them, of course. The papers are handed out by of-fi cials in gray suits who emerge from the darkness behind us. All information learned over the next few weeks will not be disclosed or disseminated to any person after the Hunt is completed unless the Heper Institute expressly grants permission. I initial next to it.

You may not sell your story for publication or option said story for a theatrical production unless the Heper Institute expressly grants permission. I initial next to it. Compliance is total and irrevocable.

I initial next to it. Upon punishment of death. I sign and date it.

The Director has been watching us careful y as we sign, each hunter in turn. His eyes are black holes, sucking in observations with a slippery, keen acuity. He never misses a thing, never guesses wrong. As I hand over my waiver papers, I feel his eyes clamp down on me like a suddenly jammed stapler. Just before the papers are taken from me, they dangle off my hand, shaking ever so slightly.

His eyes fl ip to the papers, to the way they are quivering. I know this without looking, from the piercing cold burn on my wrist where his eyes settle. I grip the papers tighter to stil them.

Then I feel his stare shift away, the cold burn on my wrist evap-orating. He has moved on to the next hunter.

After all the papers have been col ected, he continues without missing a beat. “Much of what is known about hepers is more fi ctional than factual. It's time to debunk these myths.

“Myth one: They are wild beasts at heart and will be continual fl ight risks. Fact: They are easily domesticated and are actual y quite afraid of the unknown. Truth is, during the day while we sleep and the Dome is retracted, they are unsupervised and free to roam.

The whole stretch of the plains, as far as you can see, free for them to escape, far and away. If they choose. But they never have. Of course, it's easy to understand why. Any heper who leaves the safety of the Dome is— come nighttime— free game. Within two hours, it would have been sniffed out, chased down, and devoured. In fact, this has happened. Once or twice.” He does not elaborate.

“Myth two: They are passive and submissive, ready to lie down rather than fi ght back. Ironical y, this myth has been perpetuated by previous Hunts when the hepers showed anything but re sistance. Historical accounts of that Hunt refl ect how useless they were: fi rst, the initial fl ight, where they proved to be slow and disorga nized; and second, their submissive surrender when surrounded by us. Even when we were two miles away, they just gave up. Stopped running. And when we came on them, not a single one fought back, not so much as even a single raised arm.

Practical y lay down and let us have at them.

“What our research has demonstrated, however, is that hepers can be trained to be aggressive. They've demonstrated surprising acumen with the weapons provided. Primitive weapons, mind you, mere spears, knives, daggers, axes. And, quite endearingly, they've even fashioned leather guards that they place around their necks for protection. Those naive darlings.” He starts scratching his wrist, then stops. He jots something down in his notebook. “Not sure how they got the leather. Surprisingly resourceful, they can be.”

We sit still as he fi nishes writing. He snaps the notebook shut, starts speaking again.

“Myth three: They are a male- dominated society. This is another myth perpetuated by previous Heper Hunts. You've all heard about it, how it's always the men who take charge — futilely; the men who make all the decisions— the wrong ones, as we also know.

The women typical y do nothing but fol ow. Fol owers.

Submissive.

We thought this was simply how they were ge ne tical y wired: men dominate, women submit. But our research has produced some startling results. Currently, we have fi ve hepers in captivity, all but one of which is male. Four males, only one female. Want to wager a guess who's the leader?”

His eyes sparkle with excitement.

“This is one of the more surprising discoveries. In fact, it was I who was the fi rst to spot the trend. Even early on, when the hepers were mere toddlers, it was I who noted that the sole female heper seemed to be in the forefront of everything. A natural- born leader.

Today, she is without question the leader of the pack. They look to her for . . . wel , everything. Where she goes, they fol ow. What she commands, they obey. During the Hunt, if you want to cut off the head from the body, you take her out fi rst. With her out of the picture, the group will quickly disintegrate. Easy pickings, thereafter.”

He licks his lips.

“This girl. all of you have seen her, in fact. On TV— she was the one who picked the last number. That wasn't supposed to happen, of course. We would never have put a female on the airwaves, especial y one so young. We know the effect a young female heper has on people. It was supposed to be a little boy heper. But she . . .

well , before we knew it, she took control of the situation and put herself in front of the camera. That girl . . .” His words grow slithery with saliva. Spittle col ects at the corners of his mouth.

His eyes grow distant; he is lost in some dreamland. When he speaks, his voice is soft with desire. “She would be delicious, so . . .”

He snaps out of it with a quick fl ick of his head. “I...