The Hunt

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



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



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



In his hand is a package.



“That's right,” she says, still seated in the center, slowly revolv-ing, “take the package. Read it when you get to your room. It has some invaluable information. Your escort wil take you to your rooms now. You've all had an exciting and long night. Try to get some rest today. Turn in early.”



She gets up and disappears into the dark. At that, we stand and fol ow our beckoning escorts. Our circle disintegrates as we disperse, quietly, swiftly. We are taken down different hal ways, through different doors, until all that remains are the emptied chairs still positioned like the numbers of a handless, dysfunctional clock.



My escort leads me brusquely down a hal way, up a fl ight of stairs, along another hal way, and then down another fl ight of stairs without speaking. We walk the length of yet another hal way, dimly il uminated by candle, until we stand directly outside a large door.



The escort pauses, turns to me. “I've been told to extend to you apologies. On behalf of the Heper Institute. Due to the number of lottery winners and the lack of rooms here, one of you has to be housed in . . . unique accommodations. It came down to the two youngest— you and your fel ow schoolmate— and chivalry demands the girl be given the last guest room in the main building. Your room is actual y in a smal building a short distance removed. Unfortu-nately, the only way to get to it is by walking outside. Under the open sky.”



Then, before I can respond, he pushes open the door and steps out. The expanse of the night sky— the desert plains spread underneath— catches me a little. Stars, pinpricks of silver, are 46 ANDREW FUKUDA scattered about like spilt salt. My escort mutters a curse and slips on a pair of shades. The moon hangs just above the mountains to the east; it is crescented, its lopsided smile refl ective of my own plea sure at being outside. Truth is, I'm glad to be separated from the main building, from everyone else.



We're on a brick path that leads to a distant smal slab building, single story. “What did you say this place is?”



“It's a conversion,” he answers without looking at me. “Used to be a smal library. But we've spruced it up into a comfortable living quarter for you. It's up to snuff with everyone else's.”



I take a quick glance back at the main building. Isolated patches of mercurial light are dotted about its face.



Otherwise, the building is completely dark. “Look,” my escort says, observing me, “I know you're wondering why we couldn't put you in the main building. It's got more unused rooms than hairs on a heper. I wondered the same thing myself. But I just do what I'm told. And so should you.



Besides, there's a perk that comes with being housed here.”



I wait for him to continue. But he shakes his head. “When we get there. Not right now. You'l like it, I promise. And you wil want me to demonstrate how to use it, of course, won't you?”



Each brick of the path thrums with a vibrant red, like translu- cent containers of fresh blood. “This path was put down two days ago,” he says, “to make this walk a little more pleasant for you.” He pauses for effect and then says, “You'l never guess who did the job.”



“I have no idea.”



He turns to look at me for the fi rst time. “Hepers.”



I resist the impulse to widen my eyes. “No way,” I say, snapping my head to the side a little. Click.



“Absolutely,” he says. “We set them to work. In the daytime, of course. Our guys worked the night shift; but once it became clear we couldn't get it ready in time, we got the hepers to help out. They worked in the daytime for two days straight. We rewarded them with some extra food. Those things will do anything for food.”



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



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



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



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



“Hepers?”



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



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



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



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



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



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



“Hey,” I say, “give me a look.”



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



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



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



“Hey!” I say, louder.



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



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



This might take a while.”



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



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



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



“Apologies,” he says.



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



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



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



“I think I can give it a try.”



“Perhaps one more demonstration will —”



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



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



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



he whispers.



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



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



The mud huts are as nondescript as the desert.



Then I see something.



Moonlight glimmers above the mud huts in a concave shimmer.



Then I realize: There's a transparent dome covering it. It rises high, about fi fty yards at its highest point above the mud huts. Its cir-cumference encapsulates the entirety of the vil age.



Of course; it all makes sense now.



Without the dome, the hepers would be a free- for- all . What would prevent the people from marauding the mud huts at night when the hepers lay asleep and unprotected? Who could stop themselves from feasting on them unless they were sealed in completely?



They'd never have survived a single night hour without that dome of protection.



I zoom in on the mud huts, searching for some sign of life.



But nothing moves. The hepers are asleep. Not a chance of seeing them to night.



A heper steps out of one of the huts.



Even with binoculars, I make out very little. A thin fi gure, walking toward the pond, female. It appears to be holding a bucket of some kind. When it reaches the edge of the pond, it bends over, fi l s the bucket. I play with the dial until it comes sharper into focus. Then I recognize it: the female heper on TV, the one that picked out the last lottery number.