[ Truyện tiếng anh] The Hunt

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 30



Capping the bottle, I see the pile of clothes where Ashley June fel . She'd gambled, foolishly, coming out so early.

The protective gear was meant for late dusk, not now when the sun still had two hours of life in it. I remember what my escort had told me days ago, how the sight and smel s of hepers had driven some staffers to charge out at the Dome in the middle of the day. I'd found it hard to believe back then, but no more.

Strange, I think, looking at the pile of clothes. all I see on the ground is the SunCloak. No sign of her other clothes: shoes, socks, pants. Just the SunCloak. Maybe she was naked underneath the way Beefy was? I head over and kick at the cloak, expecting it to be sodden and sticky with yel ow fl uid and melted skin. But there's nothing at all . No sign of any yel ow fl uid. Then it hits me.

She's in the library. Somehow she was able to escape inside in time.

But when I spin around toward the library, I see something that— My mouth drops. My eyes widen.

The rays of the descending sun saturate the outside of the library— the wal s, the shutters, the brick pathway— in a sea of purple and orange. And standing in the midst of this color is Ashley June. Color radiates off her pale skin, mixing with the orange of her hair, the green of her eyes.

Her mouth is slightly parted, ful and whole. And she is not screaming, not disintegrating.

We stare at each other, speechless, my eyes helplessly agog.

She reaches into her mouth, tilts back her head, pul s something out.

A set of fake fangs.

She holds them out to me like a peace offering.

The fi rst thing she asks for when we walk in is water.

“Of course,” I tel her, remembering how parched I was a couple of days ago. “You've gone this whole time without water?”

She doesn't answer but downs a whole bottle of water.

That's answer enough.

“That's why I col apsed outside,” she says, eyeing my other bottle of water.

“You want more?”

“Yes, but not to drink.” She grabs the bottle. “In case you haven't noticed— the others certainly have— I'm beginning to smel .

really bad.”

“You should wash up inside. Sun'l give you a sunburn, your skin's so fair.”

She shoots me a look as if to say, Really? I haven't survived seventeen years by accident, buddy.

“In the back,” I say quickly. “There's a place with a drain in the fl oor.” She walks around the circulation desk and the fl oor.” She walks around the circulation desk and disappears. Leaving me with my tangled, bewildered, searching thoughts.

When she comes back ten minutes later, I haven't moved.

Her hair is slick wet and her face freshly scrubbed. She looks paler and drained, but her eyes are brighter. “I hope you don't mind,” she says timidly.

“What?”

“I said I hope you don't mind. I had to put on your clothes.

My own stuff is . . . there's too much of a smel in them.”

“No,” I say, eyes looking down, “it's okay. all that stuff they gave me are a few sizes too smal . I've never worn that outfi t before, it's yours now.”

We stand at a slant, looking at everything but each other.

“I'm sorry for using up two bottles of water.”

“It's okay. We still have a half bottle left.”

As soon as I say the word we, it's as though something breaks in her. Her head turns to mine; when I meet her eyes, they've wel ed up. She snaps her eyelids shut, and when she opens them again, her eyes have dried. She's good, she's practiced; just like me.

“Have you lived alone?” I ask her.

She pauses. “Yes,” she answers gently, sadly. “For almost as long as I can remember.”

Her story, told to me after we sit down, is not unlike mine.

She remembers a family: parents, an older brother.

Cheerful conversation at home, laughter, feelings of safety once the shutters came down at dawn and the world was locked outside, meals around a table, warm bodies asleep around her. Then she remembers the day.

She was bedridden with a fever and stayed home while her parents and brother hiked to get some fruit. They left ten minutes after dawn. She never saw them again.

One day in a family, the next day alone. Solitude and loneliness her constant companions, their presence so enervating and cold, like two damp socks worn on a winter day.

That was ten years ago. She was only seven. At fi rst it was incredibly hard. To live. Not an hour went by that she did not con-sider giving herself up at school. It would be so easy. *****ccumb.

Stand in the middle of the soccer fi eld during recess, prick her fi nger, let a droplet of blood seep. Watch them come fl ying at her. The end would be brutal but swift. Death would be an escape from this unbearable loneliness.

But her parents had taught her two things. Ingrained them in her.

The fi rst was survival: not just the basics, but the nuances, the minu-tiae, every conceivable situation she might fi nd herself in. The second was life, the importance of it, the preciousness of it, the duty to persevere and never let it end prematurely. She hated how clinical y they indoctrinated her: by the time they were gone, she had become a reluctant expert at survival.

Her beauty was a curse, especial y as she— and classmates around her— hit puberty. Attention, something she was repeatedly told by her parents to avoid, came her way with the force of a testosterone- fi l ed tidal wave. Boys would write letters to her, stare at her, converse with her awkwardly, throw spitbal s at her, join the same clubs she did. Girls, seeing the social advantages of befriend-ing her, fl ocked around her. Nothing she did to minimize her beauty helped. Clunky, self- cut hair; an abrasive, caustic personality; aloof-ness; feigning disinterest in boys; even outright stupi***y. But none of these helped. The attention kept coming.

One day, she realized her approach was all wrong. Her defense was too . . . defensive. It didn't fi t her, and this kind of faux defensive life would eventual y be her undoing. She saw that. And she decided the best defense was offense.

Instead of tamping down her beauty, she played it up. She threw off the meek, stupid persona and instead exuded confi dence and poise. It was an easy act mostly because it didn't feel like one. More than anything, it gave her power.

She control ed the pieces, and instead of being pushed about by the horses and knights and queens 176 ANDREW FUKUDA about her, she turned them all into pawns. She grew her hair long and in a way that complimented her svelte fi gure.

She'd stare down the boys who gazed at her, grab the social knives meant to backstab her and use them to cut down her competition. She was ruthless until she was needed.

Eventual y, it became clear she had to get a boyfriend. As long as she was unattached, the boys would continue clamoring after her like magnet maggots. And too many questions about her would arise if she didn't.

So she plucked the varsity quarterback, an obnoxious and surprisingly insecure se nior who played it cool when with her in public but in private boiled like lava. Kil ing him turned out to be easier than she'd thought. For their one- month anniversary (teens can be so sappy), she suggested a picnic at a secluded spot a few hours away from the city limits. He was all over the idea. They brought wine and blankets. Once there, he drank too much— she kept pouring— until he passed out. She tied him to a tree that was, in the late autumn, stripped of leaves and would provide no shade once the sun rose. She left him passed out and walked home.

She never saw him again. When she went back to the tree the next day, there was only a pile of clothes hanging off limp lines of rope, slightly bleached by the toxicity of melted fl esh. She took the clothes and rope and burned them.

As with most “disappearances,” the subject was taboo and spoken of only in hushed whispers. A perfunctory search was conducted and then abandoned after only twelve hours; the matter was fi led away as a DBS (disappearance by sunlight). She pretended to be devastated by this tragedy, her heart cracked by the loss of her “soul mate.” At his funeral, she professed her undying devotion and love to him, promising that her soul was forever bonded with his.

It achieved everything she hoped it would. Boys largely left her alone; girls sympathized with her tragic loss, and her stock rose even higher. Nobody questioned her lack of a dating life even as the other girls in the Desirables necked, armpitted, and otherwise hooked up at parties. She was the tragic fi gure in need of time and space. Give her a few years, she'd eventual y come around, her friends thought.

She continued to build the deception. She joined the HiSS (Heper Search Society), a group that operated under the theory that hepers were still at large and had infi ltrated society. The members of the HiSS sought to fl ush out these heper infi ltrators.

“Why put yourself in the midst of the very people most keen to sniff you out?” I ask.

Because, she answers, the HiSS was the one place no one would ever suspect you. Membership in that club was the eye of the storm, where neither suspicion nor accusation would blow your way. And there was an added benefi t: She would be the fi rst to know about another suspected heper.

Her...

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“Because it could have all been a ruse. You might have just been trying to bait other hepers into coming out. It was a real possibility. So I just kept watching you. Even snooped around your house during the day.”

“So there was someone outside!”

Her shoulders slumped forward. “You should have come out. I was hoping you would. I stood waiting, hoping you'd open the door, step out into the sunshine. See me, standing right there in the sun with you. all mystery gone, everything out in the open, just like that.” She pauses. “Just think how things would be so different. If that really did happen back then instead of just now.”

I pick up the bottle at my feet, uncap it, and hand it to her.

She nods her thanks. I watch her mouth as she tilts the bottle toward her, her upper lip pressing into the opening as her lips slowly part.

Water pours out; a thin trail snakes down her neck and gathers behind her col arbone.

“Wel ,” she says, recapping the bottle, “here we are.”

I shift my legs under me. “You have a plan,” I say. “I saw you up to something in the Control Center, snooping around, asking questions.”

“What was a plan,” she says with mild frustration. “It wasn't going to work, I quickly saw that.”

“Which was?”

“I knew going in that I couldn't let the Hunt take place. It would completely expose me— there's no way I can keep up with the pace, the running. And even if I could, I'd be breathless and sweaty by the time we reached the hepers. And even if I weren't hot and sweaty— and I most defi nitely would be— there's no way I could eat the hepers. Kil them, yes, I could do that, but eating them? No way.”

I nod. That's exactly how I see things.

She continues. “So then I thought: What if I could somehow sabotage the whole Hunt? What if I could fi nd a way to lower the wal s of the Dome at night? The hepers would be left out there exposed and for the taking. Everyone would be fl ying out there, hunters and staffers within seconds.

Just like that, in one fel swoop, and no Hunt anymore.”

“Except?”

“Except there's no way to lower the Dome wal s. No button to push, no lever to pul , no combination of buttons to press.

It's all automated by sunlight sensors.” Her voice, which has been rising, suddenly stops. Then quieter: “So that took me to Plan B. That was what happened today. Except it turned out more like Plan B Fail.”

“You used the sun protection equipment,” I say quietly, fi nal y understanding why she and Beefy ran outside. “You used them to convince him. That with the equipment, he could get to the heper vil age even in the daytime. Where he'd have the hepers all to himself.”

She nods. “That's what I told him. That's what I was hoping for.

I knew the equipment wouldn't work for long, not against the afternoon sun. But if it got him halfway there, close enough to see and smel the hepers, it wouldn't matter anymore.

His desire for heper fl esh would take over, he'd choose the taste of heper even if it meant dying in the sun.”

“You were right. That's what happened. He total y lost it.”

“He wouldn't believe me at fi rst. But then I told him I didn't care what he believed, I was going out to get the hepers al for myself, he could stay inside and eat leftover pasteurized blood and pro cessed meats for all I cared. He saw me fl ying out with the protective blanket, saw how the equipment seemed to be really working. So then he came out himself.”

“It almost worked,” I say quietly.

“How close did he get to them?”

“You didn't see?”

She shakes her head. “I fainted, completely blacked out.

When I came to, you were walking back already, the Dome closed. I mean, I could see he didn't make it.”

I'm glad she didn't see. She would be asking me why I tried to stop Beefy. And I wouldn't be able to answer her.

Because even I don't know. “Do you have a Plan C?” I ask.

She scratches her wrist. “How about I tel you after you tel me your Plan A?”

I pause. “Break my leg.”

“Excuse me?”

“Hours before the Hunt begins, fal down a fl ight of stairs.”

“For real?”

“Yes.”

“That's pretty lame. There are so many holes in that, I can't even begin.”

“Like what?”

“Wel , for starters, breaking a leg without spil ing blood is possible, perhaps, but I wouldn't want to stake my life on those chances.

For starters.”

I don't say anything.

“Any other plan?”

“Wel , I just thought of another one. We have FLUNs now.

We can just take out the other hunters.”

She stares incredulously at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You're not serious?”

“What? What's wrong with that plan?”

“Where do I start? Ten seconds into the race, they'l be out of range. Leaving us behind. With the hundreds of spectators gawking at us, wondering why we're so slow.

We'l be barely out of the gate before we're mauled to death.”

I raise my hand, then stop. Ever so slowly, it fal s back down.

“Should I go on?” she asks, a friendly smirk on her face.

“No, it's okay—”

“My Plan C, then,” she says. “I also only recently thought of it”— a fl ash of humor in her eyes—“so we'l need to work out the kinks. But do you remember when the Director was tel ing us about the start of the Hunt? How an hour before dusk, the building will be locked down to prevent any ban*** hunters? Wel , that got me thinking. What if we were somehow able to disengage the lockdown? With all the hundreds of guests already here for the Gala, there's—”

“Going to be a chaotic free- for- all ,” I say, nodding.

“Disengage the lockdown, and suddenly everyone's going to be tearing out of this building, hunting down the hepers.

Sheer pandemonium as all the guests and staffers rush out into the Vast. Nobody's going to even notice our absence.”

“And two hours later and all the hepers are dead. Hunt over.

We survive. Us,” she whispers. And her eyes hook into mine. Something stirs in me.

I stare at her, nodding slowly. Then I stop, shake my head.

“There's one fl aw.”

“Which is?”

“We don't know how to disengage the lockdown.”

Her eyes twinkle. “Yes, we do. And it's easy. For us, anyway.

The other day, when we were visiting the Control Center, I was snooping around. A guy started tel ing me about how the lockdown works. Can you believe it's a button? Push the button down, and lockdown is set for an hour before dusk; push the same button again and the setting is canceled.”

“No way. Can't be that simple. For security, they'd have to —”

“And they already have a fail- safe system. The sun. They don't close the shutters in the Control Center in the daytime, remember?

To keep people out. So that means the only time you can cancel the lockdown setting— before dusk— sunlight is pouring in. You can't get to it. They can't get to it. More effective than if that button were surrounded by laser beams and a moat of acid. It's genius.”

“And so is our plan.”

“My plan,” she adds quickly, the suggestion of a smile on her lips.

“It really might work,” I say, excitement uncharacteristical y slipping into my voice. “That really might work.” We rack our brains, trying to fi nd weaknesses in the plan. By our silence, I know we can't fi nd any.

“I need to wash up. Shave.”

The water feels good on my face. I scrub my neck, my armpits, and then there's no water left. I take out the blade, graze my skin just so. My nails are chipped in a few places, but nothing to worry about. Just a few more nights, then I get to go home. That's the plan, so it seems.

When I walk back, she's gone. I glance up at the clock. Just past six, ten more minutes of daylight.

Only she hasn't left. She's in the reference section, where the sunbeam is. She's holding a book up in the air, her back to me. The beam of light is hitting her square in the chest.

“So you found the beam.”

She spins around and the sight of her face— haloed by the light— still s me. There's a gentle smile on her face, a daring display of emotion. I feel wal s between us crashing down, dirt bricks and cement chunks hitting the ground, the feel of fresh air and gentle sunshine on pale, deprived skin.

“Hi.” Her voice is tentative but friendly, like shy arms extended, hopeful for but uncertain of an embrace.

We look at each other. I try not to stare, but my eyes keep snapping back toward her. “You found the beam.”

“Hard to miss. But what's it all about?”

“You don't know the half of it. So much more than meets the eye.” I walk over to where she's standing. “At just the right time of day, the beam shines at the...

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“Oh,” she says quietly. “No way.”

I nod. “But he was really strange. Must have spent months just writing up that journal, copying excerpts into it. Everything from textbooks to scientifi c treatises to ancient religious texts. And then there's this really weird blank page—”

“You mean this one,” she says, opening the book to the blank page. And before I can say anything, she continues, “The page that reveals a map when you hold it up to the sunbeam?”

I pause. A map? “Exactly,” I say in a low voice. “That's exactly the page I was talking about.”

She stares at me, a smile cracking through her face. “Liar,”

she says. “You so didn't know about the map.”

“Okay, you're right,” I say to her broadening smile. “I didn't know about the map. But give me a look- see. Hold up that page to the beam. Sun's going down, we don't have much time.”

Sure enough, once she holds it up to the sunbeam, a map bleeds out of the page. But more: not just the outline of a map, but a tap-estry of rich colors splashing across the page like a painting.

“You should have seen this map fi ve minutes ago when the sunbeam was stronger. The colors were fl ying off the page, they burned into your eyes.”

The vista depicted on the map is detailed and comprehensive.

In the bottom left corner, I see the gray slab building of the Heper Institute. Right next to it is the Dome disproportionately large and sparkling. The rest of the map captures the land to the north and east, the stale brown of the Vast transforming into the lush green of the eastern mountains. Most curious of all is a large river fl owing south to north, painted in a verdant deep blue. My fi nger trails along it.

“The Nede River,” Ashley June says.

“Thought it was just a myth.”

“Not according to this map.”

My fi nger pauses. “Hel o, what's this?”

Where the Nede River slants toward the eastern mountains, a brown raftlike boat is drawn. It's anchored beside a smal dock.

Also noticeable is a thick arrow drawn from the boat and up along the river channel, toward the eastern mountains.

“I know, I was confused when I saw that, too. It's as if it's saying that the boat is meant to journey down the Nede River. Toward the eastern mountains.”

“Doesn't make sense. Rivers fl ow from mountains, never up them.”

“Do you think”— her voice lights up—“it was his escape route?

The Scientist's?” She sees my confusion. “Everyone says he got burned up by the sun. But if he really was a heper like you say, there has to be another explanation for his disappearance. Maybe he got away. By boat. This boat.”

Possibly, I think. But then I shake my head. “Why would he leave a record of his escape route? Doesn't make sense.”

“I suppose. But one thing's for sure.”

“What is?”

“This map is for only hepers to see. Nobody else would be able to see this, even accidental y. Not as long as you need sunlight to view it.”

I bend over to study the map more closely. The amount of detail is astonishing the closer you get. Fauna and fl ora reveal themselves with surprising specifi city. “What does this all mean?” I ask.

“I don't know.”

“We'l fi gure it out,” I say.

She's quiet, and when I look up, her eyes are shiny with wetness.

She's smiling. “I like it,” she says, “when you say we.”

My eyes linger on the smal creases at the ends of her lips. I want to extend my hand, trace those smal creases with my fingertips. I look into her eyes and smile in return.

She peers at my face as if it were a page, like a toddler learning how to read, enunciating in her mind the syl ables of emotion on my face.

I'm unsure of what to do or say next; uncertainty fl oods the moment. So I turn my stare down, pretend to study the map.

“Where do you think they'l be sending the hepers?”

“Could be anywhere. It really doesn't matter, they could practical y place an X anywhere on the map as long as it's eight hours out. Not west, is my guess. They wouldn't want the hepers getting too close to the Palace. On a windy day, their scent might be picked up by the Palace staff. They wouldn't want to run the risk of Palace staffers sabotaging the Hunt.”

She's doesn't say anything for a long time. When I look up, she's rubbing her bare arms.

“The other night,” she says quietly. “When the Director was here. Do you remember how he went on about the heper farms at the Palace?” She shakes her head. “He was just kidding, right? The whole thing about heper farms, the hundreds of hepers? That was just a fi gment of his sick fantasy, right?”

“I don't know. Maybe. I couldn't get a read on him.”

She keeps rubbing her arms. “It's so freaky, just thinking about it. I've got goose pimples all over my arms.” She looks at me. “Do you get goose pimples, too?”

I walk over and stand close, looking at the tiny bumps on her arms. “I do get them. But I cal them ‘goose bumps,' not ‘goose pimples.' ”

“ ‘Goose bumps,' ” she repeats. “I like that better. Doesn't sound as nasty as ‘goose pimples.' ”

Before I can stop myself, I reach out and touch her arm.

With my fi ngertips. Her skin, so soft, shivers under my touch. She draws back.

“I'm sorry,” we both say simultaneously.

“No, I am, I shouldn't have,” I start apologizing.

“No, I— I—it wasn't a fl inch. Like, I wasn't drawing back in disgust or anything like that . . . it's hard to explain.” And then she suddenly grabs my hand and places it, open palmed, on her forearm.

A jolt shoots up my arm, a skein of heat and electricity. I draw back my hand, but her eyes are fi l ed with invitation and longing.

“I just . . . ,” she starts.

The goose bumps on her arms pop up even more. This time, when the palm of my hand sinks into the soft give of her arm, she doesn't fl inch back and I don't remove my hand. We look at each other, the tears in her eyes a refl ection of the wetness in my own.

A short time later, she fal s asleep on the sofa. It's a total col apse.

Her body folds up like a failed origami piece, her head twisted to the side against the top of the sofa. Her mouth is slightly open, smal puffs of breath pulsing out. The way her body's torqued, she's going to wake up with a sore neck. I reach out to center her head on the armrest. In her slumber she complies, shifting her head at the gentle urging of my hands. So strange to be touching a person.

I sit on the other end of the sofa, my body heavy but relaxed.

Above us, the sleep- holds hover on the ceiling, two unblinking ovals staring down like all - knowing eyes, leering at me with mocking accusation. They have taunted me al my life, those sleep- holds. There was a time when I harbored a fantasy. In that fantasy, I live the normal life of a normal person. Every night, I take to the sleep- holds, my baby twins— in my mind, always girls— asleep in the next room, their cherubic faces made chubbier as they hang upside down. And my wife sleeps, hanging next to me, her face pale yet luminescent in the mercuric night light, her long hair spil ing down to just touch 188 ANDREW FUKUDA the fl oor, her feet graceful even in the straps of the sleep- holds. And in my fantasy, there is no pulsating push- push of blood into my upside- down face; no pain from the sleep- holds tearing into the skin of my feet; no drip of tears fal ing to the ground beneath me.

Only calm and coldness and still ness. all is normal.

Including me.

I glance over at Ashley June, so wonderful y drooped on the sofa, her chest rising and fal ing, rising and fal ing. Beneath closed eyelids, slight bulges of her eyes move side to side.

A spittle of saliva sits at the corner of her open mouth. I fi nal y let my eyes close, sleep tugging me into a deep, blissful wel . It is new, this sensation.

Of fal ing asleep, lying down next to someone. I drift asleep, as intimate and daring and trusting an act as I've ever risked.

Hunt Minus One Night AT FIRST, NO one is particularly alarmed when Beefy fails to show for breakfast. He's notoriously diffi cult to rouse from sleep, something his now departed escort often complained about. Only after the dishes have been cleared from the table and we're all moving to the lecture hal is a staffer sent scurrying to his room to check on him.

There is surprise, but not sorrow, when news of his disappearance breaks out. We're in the lecture hal by this point, listening to a se nior staffer drone on about upcoming weather con***ions (heavy rain and windy) and how they might affect the Hunt in two nights, when another staffer pigeon walks into the hal .

He whispers something to his superior; the superior stands up and walks out, leaving the ju nior staffer at the lectern.

“One of the hunters has disappeared,” he says. He pauses, at a loss of what to say next. “Teams are now scouring this building in an effort to fi nd him. Another search team is surveying the grounds outside....

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

“Need any more proof?” Gaunt Man says. “They're admitting this is all a sham by how easily they cancel the lectures. Without even batting an eyelash. It's all just a joke.”

His tongue slips out, wet and oily, lubricating his lips.

“Release the hepers already. Just let us have at them.”

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

“The big guy? He's a fool. He was trying to imitate me.

Went out there trying to show ingenuity and moxie the way I did.

But what an idiot. Probably went out there with his SunBlock Lotion foolishly thinking it'd help. For my money, the search teams should start looking for him outside— what remains of him, anyway— somewhere between here and the Dome.”

“Maybe,” I say noncommittal y. I pause, waiting for him to go away. But he doesn't. “What do they have you wearing?” I ask. Gaunt Man has shown such a disdain for the event, perhaps any topic related to it will cause him to pick up and leave.

“For the Gala?” He humphs. “A tra***ional, boring tuxedo that has ‘Irrelevant Old Guy' written all over it. What about you? Something high- end and splashy, I'd expect.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Media's been arriving in droves since yesternight.

Reporters, photographers, journalists.

This Hunt's becoming more and more a media event by the hour.

Heard they're jockeying for post- Hunt interviews,” he says irritably. “And for the Gala, they're gonna want to front the good- looking hunters. Including you, pretty boy; they probably have you in one of those dapper suits.”

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

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

“What's that?”

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

“The pretty one?”

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

“Where are you hearing all of this?”

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

“Wel , you know we—”

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

“It's really something I can't get into right now.”

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

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

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

“Look, I don't know.”

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

“Things I know about you,” he says. “Don't think I didn't notice heper smel s coming off of you the other day. Don't think I'm unaware that you've somehow gotten access to heper fl esh. Real y, just what is going on in that library during the day when you're all alone? What kind of access to heper meat do you have in there? Is there a secret bootleg stash you've discovered? Information like this could come out to harm you.” He sniffs viciously, his nostrils shrink-ing inward. “I still smel it.”

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

“Yes?” I say to the staffer.

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

“Okay.”

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

“Is that really necessary?”

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

“I see.”

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

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

“How do you—”

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

“You've got to be—”

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

“Listen, I—”

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

As I walk past Gaunt Man, now talking to Abs and Phys Ed, I hear him giving the same spiel about joining their all iance.

He's desperate. Desperately hungry for heper fl esh, desperately in need of help. He doesn't stand a chance of getting either. That's someone to keep an eye on. There's no tel ing what a person can become capable of once desperation takes hold of him. Can't put anything past him.

Back in the library, Ashley June and I get changed for the Gala, she in the periodical section, I by the front desk. My tuxedo, which I fi nd hanging off the reserve shelf in plastic wrap, fi ts me to a tee. It comes with bel s and whistles I could have done without: diamond-embedded cuff links, iron buttons embossed with the Ruler's face.

Despite these, it's an impressive suit that compliments me well .

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

Before she's done, there's a knock on the door. A retinue of staffers walks in. Each carries a smal case in tow.

“Makeup,” they say curtly, and I point them to Ashley June.

To my surprise, one of them stays behind. “I'm going to do your face,” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine. Send him down here.”

Anger boils in the staffer's half- closed eyes. She slams the kit shut and joins the others in the periodical section.

There's not a chance she'l report this to the Director. She's all too aware of what happened to the escorts. Punishment will be meted out for indiscretions, but not to the hunters, who apparently have immunity.

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

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

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

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

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

“This is not up to her. Or you.”

“Get out.”

“You'l answer to—”

“The Director? Sorry, but I've already heard this speech.

Now get out.” I see the smal est and youn gest of them, a girl no older than me, clutching her makeup bag. She's afraid, and for an instant I feel a stab of sorrow for her.

“Look, don't worry. Leave a makeup kit and a mirror here; we can put it on ourselves. Now get out.”

They offer little re sis tance after that.

“That was close,”...

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 34



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

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

The appearance of Ashley June in her dress and ful y made up quickly banishes these morbid thoughts. She's— in a word— resplendent. They've cut no corners on her dress. A tank- style silk chiffon gown, blazing lava red, fronted with ornate crystals. A tasteful touch of plumage. But it's her face that's the true marvel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I stare at her. “You are.”

The day my father and I burned the journals and books, we stole out of our home at noon, carry ing heavy burlap sacks.

I was just a young boy, and I cried the whole way there. Not loudly; not even sobs escaped me. But a trail of tears fel from the corner of each eye, and though the day was hot and the distance relatively long, those tears never dried.

We found a clearing in the woods. By then, our shoulders hurt from the weight of the sacks and we were glad to unburden ourselves of them. My father told me to gather some wood, smal twigs and sticks, nothing too big. When I got back, he was hunched over on his knees, his face almost touching the ground as if in deep, penitent prayer. In his hand was a magnifying glass he was using to direct the sunbeam onto a pile of leaves. He told me not to move, 198 ANDREW FUKUDA and I stood where I was, absolutely still . Without fanfare, a wisp of smoke rose from the pile of leaves that grew thicker and darker. A fl ame suddenly burst out, devouring the leaves in its midst.

“The sticks,” he said, stretching out his hand to me.

The fi re grew. Every once in a while, he'd hunch down and blow into the fi re. It'd rear up in anger and surprise, venting sparks. He placed two shorn branches into the fi re and sat back. The fi re roared with a ferocity that frightened me. He told me to fetch the books and journals, and I brought them over to him.

For a long time, they lay next to him. He sat without moving until I realized he could not muster that last ounce of wil power for that fi nal, irrevocable act. He asked me to come to him, and I did, sitting in the cozy warmth of his lap. I held a picture book, my sister's. I knew every drawing inside, the color of every dog and cat and house and dress.

He took a deep breath, and for a moment I thought he was going to explain again why we were burning the books. But instead his whole upper body began to hitch, as if he were trying to contain loud hiccups. I put my hand on his broad hand, muscles and rocks under his coarse skin, and told him it was okay. Told him I understood why we were burning the books, that because Mommy and sister had disappeared, we could not keep anything in the house that would cause unexpected visitors to ask about them. I told him “it was too dangerous,” reciting back words he'd earlier told me that I had not understood and still did not.

I think he meant to go through each book with me one last time.

But for what ever reason, he did not. He simply took each book and threw it into the fi re one after the other. I stil remember the feel of my sister's picture book pul ed away. I did not resist, but the feel of the journal against my fi ngertips as it was whisked away and tossed into the fi re felt like something lost forever.

We left an hour later, when there was nothing left of the fi re (or books) but dying embers and gray ash. Like my father, ashen and gray, his inner fi re smothered out. Just before we crossed the clearing, I went back for the burlap sacks we'd forgotten to take with us.

They were lying right beside the pile of ashes. As I bent to pick them up, something came over me: I blew softly into the embers the way I'd seen my father do. Fine ash kicked up into the air and into my eyes. But right before my eyes shut, watering against the sting, I saw the smal est glow in the midst of the black ashes. Red, orange, a re-surgent spark of an ember. It was a drop of the June sun in a sea of gray ashes.

It was not until years later, in a schoolyard on a drab gray night, that I saw the color of that red glow again. It was the color of her hair, a girl I have never seen before but from whom I cannot look away.

When she turns to me, our eyes connecting even across the length of the schoolyard and through the kaleidoscope of crisscrossing students, I remember that red ember glowing in the dark ashes like a June sun.

Her designation is Ashley June, I think to myself.

Alone in the library, standing before her in the beams of the midnight moon, this is the memory I share with her.

The press are out in ful force when we step out of the library. As far as the brick path extends to the main building, reporters and photographers are lined along each side. Mercuric fl ashlights pop everywhere, not that they bother us. An escort leads us at a maddeningly slow pace, stopping us every few steps to pose for a camera or to answer a few interview questions.

Ashley June's arm stays hooked in mine the whole time, her wrist bent at the crook of my elbow. It's an awesome feeling. Alone, I would have hated the fanfare and onslaught of media attention.

But with her next to me, I'm comfortable and at ease, and I sense the same is true for her. The soft weight of her hand on my arm, the occasional moments when the side of her hip brushes lightly against mine, the sense of togetherness as we navigate down the path. I think it's because we're masters of this game of image projection and deception that we're so comfortable with the media. A pose, a sound bite, an image: right down our all ey.

“How has your training gone? Do you feel prepared for the Hunt?”

“It's been great, and we're chomping at the bit to get on with it.”

“Is it true that the two of you are an all iance?”

“It's no secret. We're together.”

“Which of the hunters do you think will chal enge you the most?”

And on and on went the questions.

The usual y short walk takes us almost an hour, and there's no letup of media and curious guests once we get to the main building. They're still arriving in droves, guests and media, in carriages of various shapes and sizes; the horses are sweaty and out of breath as they are led away to the stable out back.

Inside, there are even more media and onlookers. They're cor-doned off behind velvet ropes, and our escort thankful y takes us past them without stopping. “To the main hal ,” he says, glancing quickly at his watch.

They've spared no expense in decorating the main banquet hal . Gold chandeliers descend from high ornate ceilings, casting a misty mercuric light over each table. Onyx- embedded table silver, porcelain plates commissioned during the neo- Gothic Ruler era, wineglasses encrusted with diamond shavings set on embroidered violet linen tablecloths. A fl ower basket sits center on each table, double- layered jade stemming from the Selah dynasty. Tal windows with decorative swagged velvet curtains loom over and around us. Guests cluster at the windows facing east, gazing at the Dome.

It sits like a sliced marble bal . At the far end of the banquet hal , the grand staircase ascends to the second fl oor, its perfectly centered red carpet bright and lush like a swol en tongue. In the center of the hal is a large dance fl oor, gleaming under the mercuric lights.

The hunters are separated, each to his or her own assigned table. When Ashley June removes her arm from mine to be taken to her table, it feels like a tragic parting.

High- standing Palace offi cials sit at my table, their spouses peppering me with nettlesome questions. The food comes out in waves, tuxedoed waiters and wait- resses with ruffl ed front blouses balancing trays of dripping meat as they maneuver between tables. Large bibs are tied on us, draping over our tuxedos and gowns from our necks to knees. They quickly become splattered with droplets of blood as we eat. After days of eating endless plates...

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The Hunt Page 35



I'm not the only one who's looking at her. Gaunt Man, two tables away, is staring at her, his eyes wide and bulging.

He takes a sip from his wineglass. And another, his eyes never budging from her.

Last to speak is the Director. He's powdered his face, buffed up his hair, polished his nails a blood red. “Dear esteemed guests, I trust that you have found the Institute— with its unsul ied reputation— to have met your high expectations to night. The food, the décor, the grandeur of this bal room— all , I do hope, to be pleasing *****ch regal guests as yourselves, who ordinarily wouldn't deign to travel so far for entertainment. But this is not an ordinary occasion, is it? For tomorrow night, the Heper Hunt begins!”

The guests, already with a few drinks in them, clink glasses, pound tabletops.

“To night is the night to celebrate the benevolent sovereignty of our beloved Ruler, under whose leadership the Heper Hunt was made possible. And celebrate we shal ! Without restraint! For we will have plenty of time tomorrow daytime to sleep off to night's ex-cesses!” The rasping of wrists sounds across the hal .

The Director totters slightly; I realize that he's had a few too many drinks in him. “Now, just in case some of you are getting ideas, ideas about, hmm . . . shal we say, ‘unoffi cial y' joining this Hunt tomorrow, upon my shoulders fal s the burden of dispel ing any such hope. This building goes into lockdown mode an hour before dusk. You simply won't be able to leave this building for the duration of the Hunt.”

He swirls the wine in his glass dramatical y, gazing at it in the mercuric light. “Sometime before lockdown, the hunters wil be taken to an undisclosed, secret location. At the cusp of dusk, as early as each shal dare, they will set off into the Vast after the hepers. And so,” he says, his voice rising, “the most exciting, most scin-til ating, most extravagant, most bloody, most violent Heper Hunt ever shal begin!”

The banquet hal erupts into a spasm of hisses and bone cracks and wineglasses smashed.

After the speech, as the guests settle down, a string quartet assembles on the edge of the dance fl oor. The quartet plays the Baroque piece slowly and freely, a late- century arrangement. Gradual y, couples make their way to the fl oor. Halfway through the fi rst song, I catch sight of Gaunt Man rising from his chair. He has his eyes on Ashley June, and as he starts making his way toward her, his tongue sticks out, licks his lips. I push my chair back and walk swiftly toward Ashley June, outpacing Gaunt Man. She sits with her hands placed in her lap, her back straight, head up, expectantly.

As I draw closer to her, her head tilts up ever so, and she looks at me from the corner of her eye. Do I detect the faintest smile touch her lips, a brief emergence of her cheek dimple? I offer her my elbow and she takes it, rising graceful y from her chair with the slightest pul on my arm.

We walk to dance fl oor, past Gaunt Man, left standing stiffl y and awkwardly by himself.

As if on cue, the quartet starts another song, this one softer and more romantic in tone. There are whispers and murmurings all around, and then the other couples on the dance fl oor slide away to the edge, surrendering the spotlight to Ashley June and me, the 204 ANDREW FUKUDA hunter couple. The fl oor is ours. And suddenly, unwittingly, all eyes in the bal room are on us. A few photographers move into position, cameras at the ready. I turn to face Ashley June: a hint of dread in her eyes. Neither of us wants this attention. But it is too late for that. My shoulder squares with hers, so close I feel heat waves humming off her body.

And despite everything, there is an almost audible click of rightness. A strong pul draws us closer, as if our hearts are powerful, insistent, opposite magnets.

Drumming up everything I learned in school, I fi st both hands and interlace my knuckles with the knuckles of her fi sted hands.

Back at school, I dreaded dance classes, hating the proximity, fear-ing that I hadn't shaved the light hairs on my knuckles close enough.

But with Ashley June now, I am free of fear. And free to feel: the texture of her skin, the musky proximity of her body, her breath delicately touching my neck. Her glistening green eyes look into mine. I wish I could whisper to her, but there are too many eyes upon us, the music too soft. But what I would say.

I'm so lost in the moment that I almost forget we actual y have to dance. I press my knuckles deeper into hers to let her know I'm about to start. A slight push back in ac know ledg ment, and then we begin. For two people who've never danced together, we're surprisingly adept. Our bodies move in fl uid synchrony, the distance between us constant and close. Other than a few minor brushes, our legs are harmonized and rhythmic, our feet fal ing within inches of one another, never closer. In my school dance class, dancing was never more than a bul et- point progression to fol ow, a checklist to complete in sequence. But with Ashley June it is a fl ow, a matter of simply hoisting a sail and all owing yourself to be caught up. At the end of the piece, I let her loose for the three- step spin, and her long, slim arms raise above her head like a whirling dervish. She teases out of her spin, hair spil ing seductively across her face, her green eyes puncturing me deep inside. I hear a few gasps coming from the tables.

“Wow,” I mouth to her.

The next piece begins. Ashley June and I separate. Now begins the obligatory dances with the wives of the offi cials, all streaming their way over to me, their high- offi cial husbands too disinterested in dancing or their wives (or both) to bother rising from their tables. It's taxing, the endless dancing and perfunctory smal talking, and after a number of dances, a fi lm of sweat starts forming on my forehead. I need to take a break, but there are simply too many women waiting in line.

“Do you smel something?” asks the woman in front of me.

I've been dancing with her for the past minute, but it's only when she asks that question that I really see her for the fi rst time.

“No, not real y.”

“Smel of heper is so strong. Don't know how you can al concentrate with that odor around. So distracting. I know they say you get used to it after a while, but it's so potent it's like it's right in front of me.”

“Sometimes when there's a westerly wind blowing, the odor blows inside from the Dome,” I say.

“Didn't seem to be much of a breeze to night,” she says, glancing out the opened windows.

The next woman is even more direct. “I say,” she declares, “there's a heper in this hal somewhere. Smel 's quite pungent.”

I tel her about the westerly wind.

“No, no,” she says, “it's so strong it's like you're the heper!”

I scratch my wrist; she fol ows suit. Fortunately.

After the song ends, she curtsies and I bow; the next woman in line is already heading over. There's a swift movement, and someone else cuts in. It's Ashley June.

Looking in her eyes, I can tel she knows exactly what's going on and she's worried. The other woman is upset and about to complain until she realizes who it is. She backs away. Ashley and I begin to dance.

Some cameras start click-ing again.

This time, the dance lacks enjoyment. We're too conscious of the people around, too fearful of a sheen of sweat that might appear on my face any moment, of the odor I'm emitting. I've danced too hard. When the number ends, I say (loudly, so others can hear) to Ashley June that I need to use the restroom. I'm not sure what good that'l do me, but I can't exert any more energy dancing. Got to get away, give my body a chance to cool down. She tel s me she'l wait for me.

I'm cooling down and doing my business at the urinal when somebody walks in. He stands at the urinal next to mine even though the whole row is otherwise unused. The whole restroom is empty, in fact.

“How long you going to last?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“Simple enough question. How long are you going to last?”

He's a tal and imposing man, broad- shouldered. A prissy pair of glasses sits on his nose, completely at odds with the burly brawn of his body. The tuxedo is il - fi tting, a few sizes too smal and bunched under his arms.

I decide to ignore him, instead focusing on hitting the target sticker in the urinal. That's what you have to hit, supposedly the lowest splash zone that gives optimum drainage. In most places, the sticker is of a fl y or bee or soccer bal .

Here, it's a picture of the Dome.

“Long or short?” the man says.

“What?”

“Long time or short time?”

“Look, I still don't know what you're talking about.”

The man sniffs. “I predict short. Maybe thirty minutes. Soon as you hunters are out of sight, that's when the other hunters take you out. You and the girl both.”

A reporter. Probably a paparazzi hack who's snuck in using fake credentials, jonesing for an inside scoop. This is how they work: throw out an outrageous story to get a reaction, then report on the reaction. The best thing to do is ignore him.

I zip up and walk over to the paper towel dispenser by the door.

He zips up and pul s up next to me, hand under the dispenser, blocking my way out....

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 36



“And the girl. The pretty one you were just dancing with. Be careful about her.” His eyes fl ick to me for the fi rst time. I expect to fi nd sternness in them, and it's there. But the hint of kindness, I did not. “You need to watch out. She's not who you think she is. Don't let her lead you astray.” And with that, he brushes open the door and disappears.

Freakin' weirdo, I think to myself. I grab a paper towel and am about to scrub my armpits when a party of four or fi ve come boisterously in. They're loud, unsteady, and clearly inebriated. I step out. I scan quickly for the paparazzi guy, but he's nowhere to be seen.

“Come with me.” It's Ashley June materializing out of nowhere, whispering at my side. “We've done our due diligence. Everyone's so hammered, they won't notice we've gone. Come,” she says, and I do.

She leads me out of the hal , her slim fi gure weaving right through the dance fl oor, between dark moving shapes.

Outside the banquet hal , the corridors are empty and the music grows dimmer the farther we walk away. I think we're heading to her room, but on the stairwel we walk past the third fl oor and continue heading up until there are no more fl ights of stairs to climb. At the very top, she pushes open a door on the landing, and a burst of starlight fal s on us.

“I've been up here a few times. Nobody ever comes,” she says softly. The Vast lies spread before us like a frozen sea, its plates calm and smooth. And above us a slew of stars, shimmering slightly, suggestive of an even deeper emptiness.

She leads me to the center of the roof, the smal pebbles beneath our feet shifting as we step. She stops and faces me.

I am right behind her. Our shoulders touch as she turns, and she does not pul away. She is so close, I can feel her breath on my lips. When she looks up at me, I see the refl ection of the stars in her eyes, wet as with the eve ning dew.

“Did your parents ever give you a designation?” she asks.

I nod. “They did. But then they just stopped using it one day.”

“Do you remember what it was?”

“Gene.”

She is silent for a few moments; I see her lips gently mouthing the word, as if trying it on for size.

“What about you?” I ask.

“I don't remember,” she says quietly. “But we shouldn't be cal ing each other by our family designations anyway. We might get careless and inadvertently cal each other by our designations in front of others. It might draw unnecessary —”

“Attention,” I fi nish for her.

For a moment, we suppress the smile spreading on both our faces, as if my lips and hers are two sides of the same mouth. We stop ourselves, as we always have, and start scratching our wrists.

“My father used to tel me that all the time. Don't draw unnecessary attention to yourself. all the time. Guess yours did, too.”

She nods, a sadness crossing her face. Together, we look out at the Vast, at the Dome sitting smal in the distance.

From below us, we hear a group of partyers heading out, probably to the Dome, their drunken voices slurred and garbled. Their voices grow dimmer, then fade out altogether.

“Hey, let me show you something,” Ashley June says. “Can you do this funky thing? We need to sit down fi rst.” She then plants her right foot down on the bal s of her foot and starts bouncing her leg up and down in a quick, vibrating motion. “When I'd get impatient or restless, I used to want to do this with my leg. My parents warned me against it, but I'd still do it when alone. Once your leg gets going, it goes on autopi lot. Look, I'm not even consciously thinking about it, it moves on its own.”

I try. It doesn't work.

“You're overthinking this,” she says. “Just relax, don't think about it. Make quicker, shorter jerks.”

On the fourth try, it happens. The leg just starts hopping on its own, a jackhammer bouncing away. “Whoa- ho!” I shout in surprise.

She smiles the widest I've seen; a smal sound escapes her throat.

“That's called ‘laughter,' ” I tel her.

“I know. Although sometimes my parents called it ‘cracking up.' Ever heard that one?”

I shake my head. “It was just ‘laughter' for us. And we didn't do it much. My dad— he was always worried I'd forget myself and slip up in public.”

“Yeah, mine too.”

“Every morning, he'd remind me. Don't do this, don't do that.

No laughing, no smiling, no sneezing, no frowning.”

“But it got us here. Alive still , I mean.”

“I suppose.” I turn to her. “My dad had this one really odd saying. Maybe your parents used to say it to you as wel ?

‘Never forget who you are.' ”

“ ‘Never forget who you are'? Never heard that one.”

“My dad would say it maybe once a year. I always thought it strange.” I stare down at my feet.

“When did yours . . . you know?”

“My parents?”

She nods gently.

I stare at the eastern mountains. “My mother and my sister, years ago. I don't remember much about them. They just vanished one day. Then my father, about seven years ago.

He got bitten.”

We fal into a silence after that, comforting and shared.

Music from the banquet hal comes at us muted and indifferent, a thousand miles away. Eventual y, our eyes drift over to the Dome, tran-quil and sparkling.

“Ignorance is bliss,” she whispers. “To night, asleep, blissful y unaware of what awaits them tomorrow. The end of their lives. Poor things.”

“There's something you should know,” I say after a while.

“About what?”

“The hepers.”

“What is it?”

I pause. “When I got water from the pond, I wasn't like in and out. I actual y interacted with them. Spent time there.

And you know, they speak. They even read. They're not the savages I thought they were, not even close.”

“They speak? And read?” She looks incredulously at the Dome.

Nothing moves inside.

“They love to. They have books in the mud huts. Shelves of them. And they're creative: they draw, paint.”

She shakes her head. “I don't understand. I thought they were raised like barn animals. Why were they domesticated and trained?”

“No, I know this is hard to grasp, but it's not even about them being domesticated or trained like circus animals.

They're beyond that. They're, like, normal. They think, they're rational, they joke around. Like you and me.”

A frown creases her face. She is quiet, mul ing something over.

“So you haven't told them about the Hunt,” she says matter- of-factly.

“They have no idea,” I answer. “Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”

“What did you tel them about yourself?”

“The Scientist's replacement.” I hesitate. “It would have been too . . . awkward to say I was a heper hunter. Maybe I should have said something to them. Maybe I should have let them know about the Hunt.”

“No, you did the right thing,” she says. “What good would it have done? They'd still be as good as dead.”

A zil ion mil ion thoughts plummet through my mind over the next few seconds. Then: “Think we should do something?”

She turns to me. “Pretty funny.”

“No. I mean, seriously. Instead of our plan, should we do something to help them?”

Her eyes widen a smidge, then droop back down. “What do you mean?” she asks.

“Shouldn't we . . .”

“What?”

“Do something to help them?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“I'm not. They're us. We're them.”

Deep surprise sets in her eyes. “No, they're not. They're way different from us. I don't care if they can speak, they're stil glorifi ed cattle.” She grips my hand tighter. “Gene, I don't mean to come off as coldhearted. But there's nothing we can do for them. They're going to die during the Hunt whether or not we use it to our advantage.”

“We could, I don't know, we could tel them not to leave the Dome. That the letter informing them about the Dome malfunctioning is all a hoax.” I run my hand through my hair, gripping it hard. “This is really hard, Ashley June.”

When she speaks again, her voice is softer. “If they die to night according to our plan, then at least their deaths give us a chance of a real life. But if we just sit on our hands, their deaths are not only meaningless, but will ensure our deaths. We can make their deaths meaningful, giving us a chance of a real life, Gene.” Her eyes are wide and pleading. “Our new life, Gene. Together. Is that so bad, to make something good come out of this?”

I don't say anything.

Tears start to wel in her eyes, and perhaps for the fi rst time in her life, she doesn't hold them back. They stream out and trail down her cheeks. I reach out with my arm, meaning to wipe them away with my sleeve; but she grabs my hand and places it...

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The Hunt Page 37



As gently as I can, I reach out and lower her arm. “Please,” I say softly, a whisper's whisper, “don't misunderstand. But . .

.

I never . . . it's never done anything for me.”

Instead of hurt in her eyes, relief and emotion fl ood them.

She lowers her arm. “It's the same for me. I've always faked how much I enjoyed it.” She turns her head the other direction. “The times with the boyfriend, the one time with you in the closet. I felt like something was wrong with me.”

She sighs with a shudder. “Of course something was wrong with me,” she says, her voice hitching. “I'm not normal. I'm a heper.” The last word comes out like a release, the fi nal plea of guilt.

Hardly knowing what I'm doing, I grab her hand with my open palm placed on top of the back of her hand. I feel the smal ripple of bones, the slight startle in her fi ngers. I pul my hand away, but she reaches for it. And places her open palm in my hand, the skin of her palm touching the skin of my palm, a ful embrace.

We stare at each other, eyes wide. The sensation, unlike anything I've felt before, is overpowering. I don't dare to breathe. Her eyes close, her head tips upward. With that, her lips part, ful and strangely beckoning.

And then her fi ngers interlace with mine. I've never seen that before, never knew such a thing was even possible.

But the soft skin on the sides of her fi ngers as they graze the sides of my fi ngers is like the nape of her neck, tender and smooth, sending a chil and a heat up and through my body.

“Ashley June,” I whisper.

She doesn't say anything, just keeps her head tilted heavenward, eyes closed. “I know,” she fi nal y whispers, “I know.”

Stars blinking down. Ashley June's head on my shoulder, her arm draped across my chest, still holding my hand. We haven't let go, even as we lay down and drifted to sleep. I hear smal puffs of her even breathing, the faint thump of her heartbeat against my rib cage. My eyes close. I fal asleep again.

When I wake up, the sky has lightened, the muted stars receded into the gray sky. The scent of dawn hangs ripe in the air. Ashley June is gone from my side. I sit up, the pebbles shifting under me.

She's nowhere on the rooftop. I head over to the ledge, puzzled.

I see her in the distance. Walking, deep in thought.

Minutes later, I'm outside on the brick path, hurrying toward her. Evidence of the eve ning's revelry is littered everywhere: paper plates, kabob skewers, wineglasses, empty bottles, strewn all along the path. Even puddles of vomit. As I draw closer to her, she senses me and turns around, waits for me to catch up.

“Hey,” she says with a faint smile, and reaches for my hand.

“Hope no one sees us.”

“Nah, everyone's completely sloshed.”

“Hope so. What are you doing?”

“Something was weighing on me. I had to take a walk to clear my mind.” She squeezes my hand. “I'm glad you came. Come with me,” she says, and we head toward the Dome.

Hand in hand, we walk under the brightening skies, our hands fi tting perfectly, our arms intertwining with surprising ease, her skin soft against my own. Our bodies lilt toward each other intimately as we approach the Dome. It is easy to forget what this day is. A day that will end in the Hunt, in violence and death.

And then we stop in front of the Umbilical.

“Open it,” she says.

Inside, sitting dead center on the conveyor belt, is a large envelope. I look at Ashley June and she nods with her wide, penetrating eyes.

I take it out, feeling the large embossed lettering in all caps: URGENT: OPEN IMMEDIATELY.

“I thought it would be here by now. It's the letter informing the hepers about the supposed Dome malfunction. It's what gets them out of the Dome, out into the Vast. It's what turns them from the protected into unwitting prey. It's what makes the Hunt possible.

It's what kil s the hepers.”

I stare at her, then back down at the letter. “Why are you showing this to me?” I ask.

“Because I wasn't fair to you before, Gene.” I try to interrupt, but she shakes her head. “No, this is important, so let me speak. I feel like I may have forced you to agree to something you'l later regret.”

“That's not—”

“No, Gene, listen! I don't want you to feel you were coaxed into something. So I want to give you one more chance. To really think about it, and make up your own mind about what you want to do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If you put that letter back into the Umbilical, then the Hunt happens. We happen. But you can also not put it back; you can rip it to shreds. Then the hepers live. It's up to you. It really is up to you, I mean that.”

“If I rip it up, the Hunt gets delayed. Maybe by a few days, possibly as long as a week. I won't last that long. I'l be found out wel before then.”

“I know,” she says.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because,” she says, her voice wavering, “I can see how something like this might eat you up. I couldn't live with myself knowing I did this to you. But now, look, it's in your hands now, literal y.

You choose.”

I stare at the envelope in my hands, square and fat. I shake my head. I cannot decide.

“Don't do this,” I say, but she looks away from me, biting her lower lip, her eyes shining with a new wetness. I look at the Dome, the mud huts inside, doors and windows still closed.

I think of the hepers inside, asleep in their beds, chests rising, fal ing, eyes closed, skin pulsing delicately with the pulse of blood.

The dawn sun peeks over the crest of the eastern mountains. A slate of pink orange radiates across the Vast, hitting the top of the Dome; the refracted rays bounce inside, shimmering the pond underneath with a refl ected glow. Dawn has come.

Ashley June cannot look at me. Her eyes dart left and right over my shoulder. I stare at her, waiting for her eyes to fi nal y come to a rest on mine. Sunrise orange lights a fi re in her auburn hair. And fi nal y, her green eyes, sparkling with diamond intensity behind the screen of tears, fi nd mine.

That is all it takes, apparently. To ful y convert me, to slay me.

The warm glow of dawn's light, the most beautiful girl I've ever known, the possibility of joining her in a life I've never even dared wish for.

“Okay,” I whisper. I open the slot door and place the letter back into the Umbilical. The slot door clangs shut with fi nality.

We leave quickly after that, not wanting to be seen by any early-rising heper. Despite our longing to be together, we decide it's best if we separate to our respective abodes.

The Director's order that we sleep separately— or, technical y, awaken separately— seems pretty charged; and even though no one's awake to notice, it's probably best not to risk drawing his negative attention at this point.

Plus, we need to have our wits about us to night when the Heper Hunt starts, and some shut- eye—which we're not likely to get much of if together— will only help.

“We're doing the right thing,” she says reassuringly outside the doors to the Institute.

“I know,” I tel her, I tel myself, “I know.”

“You don't have to take me up to my room. I can make it from here. Sun's out now, we shouldn't open and close these doors more than we have to.”

“Okay.”

“I'l see you in a few hours. We'l join up with the hunters for the start of the Hunt. By that time, people will start realizing that the lockdown failed. The mass stampede will begin.

We'l fi nd a place to hide.”

“Okay.” I frown.

“What is it?”

“Just wondering where all the hunters are. The staffers should have let us know where we need to be gathering for the start of the Hunt by now.”

“Don't worry. I'm sure they'l let us know.”

“Okay.”

“Oh,” she says, “if you come to my room and I'm not there, check the Control Center. I'l be there, disengaging the lockdown.

And I want to check out the monitors, fi nd the best place to hide out during the stampede.”

We embrace, long and tight, our bodies tired but hearts afl ame. She opens the door a sliver, slips in. The door closes quickly, quietly.

Minutes later, I'm back in the library. The door clicks shut behind me. Darkness inside broods, saturates everything; I need to give my eyes time to adjust. I walk slowly into the heart of the library, the darkness no different were my eyes closed, until I see a distant dot of light in the main section of the library. It's the dril ed hole in the shutter. No beam of light yet; it will be hours before the sun swings into position on that side of the library. For now, it's merely a faint dot of light, like an eye staring at me.

Fatigue hits me like a waterfal . I lurch toward a nearby sofa chair.

It doesn't take long to fal asleep. Even as my body plummets into the sofa cushioning, even as my eyelids col apse down like velvet theater curtains, I'm already tumbling headlong into sleep. And in that last moment...

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I make my way toward it, arms stretched forward, drowsiness still lingering despite the fear.

And then.

Long strands of hair brush against my face, a sickeningly intimate caress. A smal , involuntary shriek slips out of my mouth. Like walking into a spiderweb, but so much worse; strands of hair that don't dissipate on contact but drag upward along my face, across my cheekbones, along the sides of my nose, intertwining with my eyelashes and eyebrows, wispy fi ngers feeling my face like a blind person reading Brail e.

It takes everything in me not to fl ail away at the hair. I drop to the fl oor and look up. Someone is asleep at the sleep- holds. Abs.

Her long black hair fl ows down like a waterfal of disease, her white face looming above it like a sickened moon. The rest of her body is hidden over in the ceiling shadows, creating the il usion of a hovering, decapitated head.

I shut my eyes, count the seconds, will ing her not to stir. I listen. Nothing but a faint, short creak of wood from across the room. I open my eyes, see the books on the fl oor, hundreds of them shoved roughly off the shelves, piled up at the bottom of the bookshelves like the canted slope of snow after an avalanche.

Phys Ed is dangling upside down on a bookshelf, asleep.

His legs are tucked into the top shelf, his shoes wedged into a smal opening *****pport him. He has found sleep in this shelf- turned- cot.

And not just him. As the room brightens, I see Crimson Lips a few shelves down, also hanging off the top shelf. And there is Gaunt Man, his belt looped around an air duct, dangling from the ceiling.

Fril y Dress is tied to the center chandelier; she rotates in a slow spin, the chandelier pul ed askew by her weight. all the hunters.

They came here last night. I'm not sure why.

I was sleeping this whole time in the hornets' nest.

Trying not to panic, I survey the room. The room is turning from black to gray by the second, the columned light concentrating into a sharper, longer beam. And then I see the pile of equipment by the circulation desk, SunCloaks, pairs of shoes, packs of SunBlock Lotion, and syringes fi l ed with adrenaline boosters. Equipment and accessories for the Hunt.

They're here for the Hunt. To sleep during the day. To be safely away from the Institute as it goes into lockdown. The library is the starting point.

But of course it is. How could I not have realized this before?

The sunbeam intensifi es and lengthens; a dread sense of inevi-tability encloses around me like a noose tightening around my neck. And then, just like that, I realize what wil happen in the next few moments.

First, the slumbering hunters will feel a slight burn, an irritation that will intensify as the light begins to singe their eyelids.

Perhaps the effects of the light is already upon them, a nausea taking over their insides, a burn on their skin. They wil awaken and fl ee from the light, frothing at the mouth.

They will run screaming and hissing to the other end of the library, far from that light.

And there they will remain, cowering from the stil bothersome sunbeam. They will wonder— for they will have hours to talk among themselves before nightfal — about the young male hunter who lodged in here, how he was able *****rvive. The young hunter who never complained about his lodging, about any problems with the lighting, who always seemed to carry about him the odor of the hepers, come to think of it.

I shake my head, snapping myself out of my morbid thoughts.

Because there's still time for action. I just need to plug up the hole.

And quickly. I step careful y away from Abs' dangling body, walk down the length of the room.

“Ah, there you are.”

I spin around. The Director is gazing at me, dangling upside down, halfway down an aisle. “We were looking for you earlier.

Couldn't fi nd you. Or the lovely girl. Needed to let you know that the hunters were assembling in the library for the Hunt.

Anyway, looks like someone was able to tel you.”

“We were—”

“No, no, no need to explain to me. Just glad you were able to get in here before dawn.” He stares at me, then behind me, gazing around. Bemusement creeps into his eyes. “Did you leave the door open? Awful y bright in here.”

“No, I—”

“You seem ner vous. What's the matter?”

“No, no. It's not ner vous ness. I'm just excited, is all . It's the Hunt, after all . Starts in just a few hours. Five, six hours? Not sure what time it is.”

“More like four hours. Heard that a vicious storm's coming.

Wil be darkening earlier than usual.” He looks at me. “Don't lose your head. Keep your wits about you.”

“I know. But it's hard not to get excited. People would kil to be in my spot.”

“Would they now?”

“Yes. I suppose they would.”

“Good,” he says, nodding. “That's the mind- set you need.”

His eyes fl ick downward to my left. “The FLUNs are under me. Thought it best to keep them away from the others.”

“Of course.” The attaché cases sit a couple of feet away.

Next to them, the Scientist's journal.

“Couldn't sleep earlier. So I started to read that journal I found on a table.” His eyes pour into mine. “Tel me, one thing I don't understand—”

Right at that moment, a feline howl shatters the quiet. It's Abs.

The beam has suddenly sharpened with a violent purity, striking her dangling hand and gouging a hole in her palm.

The smel of burning fl esh, then an eruption of ful - throated screams and howls around me as the others awaken.

Abs's eyes are snapped open in raw pain. I turn around.

The Director is still dangling, his eyes looking right at me.

His eyes fl ick to the side; he sees the beam shooting straight and pure behind me, and me standing right in front of it, unfazed. Something else enters his eyes besides searing pain: a suspicion, a realization, an accusation.

I've been found out, by this beam of light. Of all the things I imagined would be my undoing, never would I have thought it'd be a light beam. I always felt it would be a sneeze or a yawn or a cough that would inevitably expose me.

Something beyond my control, a bodily betrayal.

But not this: not something so simple, so pure, beautiful even.

Funny how that is, how it's the beautiful things in life that betray you in the end.

I pedal backward; my feet hit up against the FLUNs, and I trip over them, sending them careening across the fl oor. I glance up. The Director is gone. More screams, the heavy thumps of bodies landing, furniture scraped roughly aside, the scrabbling of nails and claws on the wooden fl oor. Then silence.

I pause, waiting for some noise. Then I hear it: a long, meandering howl. From the east wing. They've all fl ed there, away from the beam. Then the sound of whispers, col ective and intense, accusa-tory. A single pitched wail, now brimming not with fear but with craving, fused with a charged desire. It's quickly joined by a chorus of others.

Panic grips my heart, even as I start sprinting. They're regrouping; they're realizing. I have to move.

I leap to my feet. The beam is now ful strength, a tightrope stretching to the far wal .

Something moves toward me— a fl ash of movement— leap-frogging over furniture and shelves. Just a blur, then it pounces from the top of a shelf with shocking speed. Abs, fl ying through the air with hideous speed. At me.

I close my eyes. I am dead.

Then a dreadful scream explodes out, fol owed by the sound of sizzling, the singe of smoke. The sunbeam. She landed right on top of it, and it's burned a deep canyon across her chest. She's on the fl oor, on the other side of the beam, arm pressed against her eyes, her mouth torqued in a twisted cry of agony, her upper lip writhing atop her lower lip.

I scurry to my feet, scrambling across the fl oor. An upended table trips me; even as I fal , I catch from the corner of my eye the hazy shapes of others running down the hal way toward me, arms clamped over their eyes, their speed almost obscene. Their yelping, hissing screams stroke against my ear drums like razor- sharp fi ngernails.

I hit the fl oor, my head knocking against something hard and metal ic. Blood pours out; instantly the snarls ratchet up to the level of the insane.

They leap at me, strangely synchronized, left arms splayed across their faces, right arms pointing at me, razor nails fi rst. And still synchronized together, their snarls turn to screams as they fal into the beam. As one, they are propel ed backward.

An awful, fetid smel of rotting fl esh and burned skin hits my senses. I think to move, but I'm blinded by the blood pouring into my right eye from the cut above my eyebrow. I swipe away the blood with my sleeve; and as I do, I see the hunters getting back to their feet, their actions herky- jerky with desire. My blood; they're driven mad by the fresh, overpowering scent of my blood. They come at me again, but wiser now. Instead of trying to punch through the beam, they're scaling up the wal s and crossing the room by way of the ceiling.

That gets me moving, adrenaline surging through me so fast, I almost miss it. A FLUN attaché case. It's what I banged my head on. And under the case, the Scientist's journal. Without a thought, I grab it by its twine, the feel...

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“Gah!” I scream, hardly conscious that I'm unlocking the safety switch.

He yanks me toward him, has my leg pul ed up to his face, his mouth opening, fangs bared.

I pul the trigger and the light beam hits me right in the foot.

It's enough, though, for him to drop me. He cowers back momentarily, then fl ings himself at me.

This time, I hit him square between the eyes. He fal s back as if sledgehammered in the face.

Behind him, the others are sprinting toward me.

Phys Ed, screaming in pain, leaps back on his feet.

Creamy pus gushes out of his forehead. The FLUN needs to be turned up to its highest setting. But there's no time to fi dget with the settings now: the moment I do, they'l be on me.

Crimson Lips, screaming like a hyena, fl ies at me.

I fi re off the last round, hitting her in the chest. She fal s back, clutching her chest, yelping in pain. But then she's back on her feet, her face twisted awful y in pain and lust.

“Who wants more?!” I yel . “Who wants more?!”

They stop in their tracks, their fangs connecting to the ground by a waterfal of drool. Uncertainty in their eyes, mixed with keen lust. Their heads fl ick sharply back and forth, their teeth snapping and grinding.

“Who wants more?!” It's all empty bravado. I've fi red off the third and last round already. all that is left is to bluff.

“You?” I yel , pointing the FLUN at Gaunt Man inching toward me. “How ‘bout you?!” I shout as I swing the gun around to the other side at Fril y Dress. I'm stepping backward, toward the front doors.

For every foot I retreat, they advance a yard. Their chortling grows louder, more slippery, individual desire beginning to trump their col ective fear. Phys Ed in the front crouches low, readying to pounce. They're not going to let me retreat much farther.

“You're the animals! You're the hepers!” I yel as I spin around, throwing the discharged FLUN at them.

They scream as one, members of an insane choir.

In the end, what saves me is the very thing that threatens to kil me: their insatiable lust for my blood. As Phys Ed in the front leaps up for me, he is pul ed down by the ones behind.

They surge forward, tripping over him. It gives me a two- second head start, and that is all I need.

I sprint toward the exit doors, and fi ve yards out— even as I feel their hands grasping my back, their nails brushing the back of my neck— I leap for the handlebars on the door. The feel of the cool metal in my hand is something I will never forget.

My momentum pushes the handlebar down, the door fl ies open, and a blinding whiteness fi l s my vision. The sting in my eyes is a beautiful pain.

Their screams, once charged with desire, are now suffused with pain and agony. I hear them beat a hasty retreat.

But I'm not done with them. Not by half. I reopen the door— I see a mad skittering away from the light like rats scampering— and prop it open with the attaché case.

Enough light fl oods into the library, even to the far wings, to make the remainder of the day sleepless and painful for the hunters inside.

“Sweet dreams, you animals!” I shout as I begin to walk away.

But then I hear a voice, hoarse and brittle with rage, echoing down the foyer like rancid spit racing up a throat.

Gaunt Man.

“You think you're getting away?!” he yel s from the darkness inside.

“You think you've got us beat, you stupid heper? You think you're so smart? Hey, you sweaty, smel y, singing heper!

We're only getting started! You better run! You hear me?

Because come dusk, the Hunt starts. And we'l be pouring out of here to hunt you down, to rip into you, to shred you to pieces. You hear me? You came here for a Hunt?! Wel , a Hunt is what you're going to get! You get me?

You're going to get a Hunt! ”

Everyone is still slumbering in the main building. My footsteps echo down the dark, empty hal ways. I pass by the banquet hal . It's like a bat **** inside. Scores of people hang asleep off the main chandelier, their dark, dangling silhouettes like a putrid clump of clogged hair. Off to the side, hanging off some air ducts, is a group of 228 to the side, hanging off some air ducts, is a group of 228 ANDREW FUKUDA reporters, their cameras still slung over their necks, almost touching the fl oor.

Ashley June doesn't answer when I knock. I push her door open. Her room is empty.

She's upstairs in the Control Center, as she said she'd be, in front of the monitors, her head swiveling around.

“Hey,” I say as I walk in, gently, not wanting to startle her.

Sunshine pours inside in slanted beams, fl ooding the center with brightness. I walk to her.

“Hey back. You're supposed to be sleeping.” She turns around.

“I think I found the ideal place to hide—”

“Ashley June.”

“What's the matter?” She sees the look on my face.

I shake my head.

“Gene, what is it?!”

“I'm sorry.”

She peers deeply into my eyes, studying me. “Tel me what's going on, Gene.”

“Something really terrible.”

She sits up, places a hand on my arm. “What happened?”

“It's over for me.”

“What do you mean?”

I explain to her. The hunters in the library, the sunbeam, their discovery of what I am. Alarm ripples across her face.

“It's over,” I say. “They're on to me. Once the sun goes down, they'l hunt me down.”

She stands up, walks a few paces away. Her arms stay rigid by her side, her head bent down, deep in thought.

“We've got the FLUNs.

We can go back to the library, take them down.”

“Ashley—”

“No, listen, we can do this. Nobody else knows about you, it's only the hunters in the library.”

“Ash—”

“If we take them out, no one will be any the wiser, your secret's still safe.”

“It's a suicide mission—”

“We've got the FLUNs—”

“There's one FLUN left, I used the other up. And it's buried somewhere in the library, I don't know where it is. They outnumber us, they've got speed, power, fangs, claws—”

“We'l fi nd it, then, put it at the highest setting, it's fatal—”

“We won't fi nd it!”

“We can—”

“Ash—”

“What!” she screams, her voice suddenly catching. “What do you expect me to say, what other choice do we have?”

She starts to sob uncontrol ably.

I reach for her, gather her in my arms. Her body is cold; she's shivering. “We've got to try, we've got to keep coming up with answers,” she urges.

“It's over. We tried our best. But there's nothing more that can be done.”

“No! I refuse to believe that!” She pul s away with a cry. Her hands whiten into tight fi sts. Then her breathing steadies, her body reaches perfect still ness. The still ness of a person who's reached a decision.

“We can make a life for ourselves in the Dome,” she says softly, still facing the windows, her back to me.

“What?”

“The Dome. We'l survive, just like the hepers have, for years.”

“No way. I can't believe—”

“It'l work. The Dome runs on continuous autopi lot. It comes up at dusk, descends at dawn. It'l always protect us.”

I stare at her back. I can't take it anymore, seeing that back.

I walk over, grab her arm, spin her around.

Her face betrays the steadiness of her voice and gait.

Tears run down her cheeks.

“Ashley . . .”

“It's the only option left for us.” She stares into my eyes.

“And you know that, don't you?”

Us. The word resonates in my ears.

“I won't let you . . . it's just me they want right now,” I tel her.

“You can go on with your life.”

“I hate that life! More than you do.”

“No, you're good at it. I've seen you, you could go on—”

“No! I hate it with every fi ber of my being. I could never go back to it alone. The fakery, the burying of desire.” Her eyes take on a fl ash of raw emotion that at fi rst I think is anger.

But then her words: “You've done this thing to me, Gene.

And now I can't go back to that, not alone, not without you.”

She sniffs. “The Dome.

That's the only way we can be together now.”

“The Dome's a prison. Out here, at least you'l be free.”

“Out here, I'm a prisoner in my own skin. The restrained desires, the repressed smiles, the fake scratches, the fake fangs— these are the bars of a deeper prison.”

My thoughts race in me, spiraling in a mad tailspin. But her eyes slow everything down, anchor me. And I move toward her, helpless to do otherwise, cupping her face. My hands on her cheeks, my fi ngers on her jawline, her cheekbones, wiping at her smal mole, wet with tears.

“Okay,” I say, smiling despite the situation, “okay,...