The Hunt

Notebooks and journals fi l ed with absolute dreck.”



Dessert arrives, ice cream. This is one of the few foods for which I don't have to fake an appetite. I scarf it down, slowing down only when a sharp pain pinches my forehead.



The other hunters continue to stuff their faces, especial y the two sitting on my left.



They're in their twenties, both students at the Col ege. He's a phys ed major, she's undeclared. Physical specimens, both of them, to say the least. He's rippling in muscles, although he doesn't fl aunt it. She's more of an exhibitionist, wearing daring cutoffs that show off her abdominal muscles. Lookers, too, with crystal ine skin, high- bridged noses, and doorknobs for cheekbones. Both Phys Ed and Abs have a natural bounce to their step that speaks of effortless strength and agility. But dumb as doorknobs. One thing's instantly clear: They're the top contenders. One of them is going to win the Hunt. The other is going to fi nish what ever hepers are left over. No wonder Gaunt Man is unhappy.



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



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



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



A few necks twitch around the table.



“So, shal we? Make our way now?”



And like that, we're all standing, waiting for our escorts.



And then, away we go.



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



As if by tacit agreement, no one speaks. We are silent, our shoes fi rst padding the hard marble fl oors and then, once outside, lilting on the softer give of the brick path. Even as we walk past the library, nobody says anything. Only Gaunt Man peers inside, curiously, then at me, perhaps wondering why I, of all of them, have been housed in there.



When the brick path comes to an end and our shoes hit the hard, dusty gravel of the Vast, it is as if nobody dares even breathe, we are so wordless.



“It never gets old,” an escort fi nal y says. And at that, the pace quickens even more.



I worry that the col ective excitement will spring everyone into running. It wouldn't take much to set them off. If that happens, I'l be exposed. Because I can't run, at least not as fast as everyone else.



Not by half, in speed or stamina. I still remember in fi rst grade how all my classmates used to zoom past me, and all I could do was plod along as if I were in a vat of mercury.



Always fall, my father would say, always pretend to trip and sprain your ankle. Then you can sit out.



“Hey,” I say to no one in par tic u lar, to everyone in par tic u lar, “there's no way we can get inside the Dome, right?”



“Nope,” answers my escort.



“Probably won't even see any hepers, right?”



“Nope. They're all sleeping this time of night.”



“So we'l see exactly what we're seeing now, but closer up?”



“What?”



“Wel , just mud huts, a pond, laundry lines. That's all , right?”



“Yup.”



“Boring,” I say daringly.



But the group buys it, at least enough to dampen their excitement. The pace slows.



Fifteen minutes later, we're nearing the Dome. Its scale as we approach takes me by surprise: it towers above us and cups over much more acreage than I previously thought.



Crimson Lips starts twitching as she walks in front of me.



Abs' shoulders hike up, stiffening with excitement. Phys Ed, walking next to her, is elevating his nose into the air, sniffi ng.



“I smel them. I smel heper,” Gaunt Man shouts, his gnarled voice exploding into the night's quiet. Other heads snap up with a crack, noses pointed upward and around, sniffi ng.



About fi fty yards out, they crash through the tipping point and break into a stampede. I plod behind them, running as fast as I can.



They are blurs, a haphazard menagerie of black oscil ations and gray smudges, legs springing and pumping, arms swinging upward and out. There is no grace or order about their movements, just a random assortment of cuts, springs, leaps.



By the time I catch up with them, they're pressed up against the glass, too fi xated by the Dome to notice my late arrival.



Inside the Dome are about ten mud huts. They're dotted evenly around the compound, about half of them clustered near a pond. And the pond is remarkable: fi rst, for its very existence smack bang in the middle of the desert; but also for the perfectly symmetrical circle it makes. Man- made, without a doubt.



Next to the technological wizardry of the pond and Dome, the mud huts look like prehistoric relics. The wal s are cratered and rough, punctured by smal , unframed windows. Each hut sits on two encircling rows of rectangular stones, coarsely fi tted together.



“Can't see a thing inside,” Beefy says.



“Probably all just sleeping, anyway,” an escort says.



“But take a whiff, I can smel them. Stronger than usual,”



says my escort, standing next to me.



“Just a bit,” another escort says, at the other end of the group.



“More than just a bit,” my escort says. “It's pretty strong to night.



They must have been running around a lot, sweating earlier.” But a frown crosses his face. He turns in my direction, takes another sniff.



“Very strong to night. Odd, that.”



I force myself to remain calm. It's me who's giving off the smel , I know that, but I can't move or do anything too drastic. So I try to distract. With a question: “How deep is that pond?”



“Not sure,” he says. “Deep enough to drown in, I suppose.



But no heper has ever drowned. They're like fi sh, those things.”



“No way that pond's natural,” I say.



“Genius in the midst of us,” Gaunt Man says, then spits in the dusty, hard ground.



“Is this glass Dome porous?” Abs suddenly asks. She's been so quiet, it takes me a second to realize the pretty voice belongs to her.



“Because I can smel heper. So much better than the artifi cial smel s they sel .”



“It does seem to have gotten stronger over the past few minutes,”



Phys Ed says.



“Must be porous. I can really smel them!” Abs says excitedly.



“Didn't think so, but the air really is thick with their odor . . .,”



my escort says distractedly. “Daylight was hours ago.



Almost eight hours ago. Shouldn't be this much odor lingering.” His nostrils are working faster now, fl aring with alarming wetness. Those nostrils start turning toward me, like eyes widening with realization.



I shift away from the group. “I'm going to walk around the Dome, see if I can see anything on the other side.”



Thankful y, no one fol ows me. On the other side, hidden by the mud huts, I spit into my hands, then vigorously rub my armpits. Pretty disgusting, but so is the alternative, which is armpits. Pretty disgusting, but so is the alternative, which is being ripped apart into a hundred pieces.



When I return to the group, they're ready to head back.



“Smel 's gone,” Gaunt Man says with a hangdog expression, “and nothing to see. Hepers are all asleep.”



We start to head back, despondency dragging our feet. No one says a word. I take the back of the line, downwind.



“Starry night,” someone says to me.



It's Ashley June, peering back at me.



“A bit too bright for my liking,” I say.



She scratches her wrist ambiguously with a glance upward.



“Those hepers are just like zoo animals,” she says, “sleeping all the time.”



“The escorts say they're natural y shy.”



“Stupid animals,” she spits. “It's their loss.”



“How so?”



She surprises me by slowing down until we're side by side.



“Think about it,” she says, her voice congenial. “The more the prey knows about the hunter, the more of a strategic advantage it gains.



If those things were awake, they'd know how many of us there are, how many men, how many women, our ages—”



“You're assuming they know about the Hunt.”



“They must. They've been given weapons.”



“Doesn't mean anything. Besides, a ‘strategic advantage' isn't going to help them one bit. No matter what, this Hunt's over in two hours tops.”



“One hour, if I have anything to do with it,” she whispers. It's clearly meant for only me to hear. I steal a sideways glance at her.



Since we've arrived at the Heper Institute, she's been less brash, less front and center, than the starlet I know at school, hardly a blip on the radar, in fact. She stil commands attention, of course, on account of her attractiveness, but she hasn't fl aunted it the way she does at school.



A breeze sifts across the Vast, blowing strands of hair across her pale cheekbones. Her eyes, hardened under the stony night light, seem restless. She suddenly bends down to tie her laces. I stop with her. She takes her time, untying and then retying the laces on her other shoe as wel .



By the time she stands up, the group has moved on ahead.



“You know, I'm so glad you're here,” she says softly. “It's just so good to have a . . . friend.”