Man Hunt (8 page)

Gertrude was feeling nervous about what else may have happened, but she was sure she already knew the worst of it. "Yes, you are to blame," she said. "As second-in-command you are in charge of that car.
All
decisions are yours. All
mistakes
are yours. I'm very disappointed. That's not like you."

She tried to perceive what else may have happened. Losing a kill to a rule-breaker wasn't the problem. Even being forced to stop the hunt wasn't the problem. It was having done either of these things– scratch that…
both
of these things– in front of a crowd of men. They had shown their imperfection. An incident like that could possibly cause some stirrings in the usually complacent men. It was bad news indeed.

Lucy confirmed the severity of the incident when she told how their only choice was to reverse out of the alley and leave. As the rest of the story unfolded from Lucy's mouth, Gertrude felt the flame of disquiet in her stomach grow to a small, hot fire, and when Lucy finished, the bestial headwoman yelled at her for a full minute in a whirlwind of profanities and an ever-reddening face. It didn't matter that Lucy was the best woman on the island, even above the other headwomen. It didn't matter that her milestone tenth year was just weeks away. When Gertrude lost her temper, she was at her most devastating form.

But Lucy had seen this anger before, and she took her berating like a woman. She didn't cry, didn't look to the floor, didn't even blink. She simply stood and accepted what Gertrude fed her until it was all out and they could talk again. Finally, Gertrude's fire abated to smoldering ash, and she asked Lucy to assess what she could of the situation.

"It was a Mexican standoff. He wasn't coming out, and obviously we couldn't go in. There were just too many of them. I'd never take that chance." She paused, but perhaps spurned by Gertrude's violent outburst, one of her own emotions, frustration, slipped through her lips. "I can't believe how
lucky
he was!"

"How can you be sure he didn't run you there on purpose?" Gertrude asked.

"I thought of that, but I made a note of his tag… GOPHER. I checked with Rhonda just now. He was transferred from green only five days ago. He's too new to know his way around. I was going to get a history report on him for you and Lorraine, since he's technically in her sector, but I didn't get the chance yet. Should I do that?"

Gertrude grumbled at Lorraine's name. She had once been as valuable as Lucy, but she'd been lost years ago when the island had expanded and she'd been given the promotion to blue headwoman.

"Yes," Gertrude said. "Is there anything else then?"

"No."

"Good. Were you going back to the feeding?"

"I was planning on it, yes. I only have so many opportunities left. My time here is running short."

"Yes, it is. Replacing you will be difficult, but only change is constant. Remember that. I want you to visit Monica and deliver a message again before you go."

"Of course. What's the message?"

"Tell her to expect Josie very soon. Today. I sent her for an emergency session as soon as she's finished her routine. Tell Monica no more games."

Gertrude then sent Lucy away, and suddenly she needed her closet and her special moment more than ever. Though any events occurring within the blue sector were technically under Lorraine's control, Gertrude had long enforced her will whenever and wherever she wanted.

This is
my
island,
she thought,
and I won't let any of them forget it.

With Lucy's footsteps fading, Gertrude closed and locked her office door. The
snick!
of the bolt sliding home was one of the most soothing sounds she knew. Then she turned off the lights, leaned her massive arms against the wall, and closed her eyes.

The shuddering sigh that came from her mouth had not been witnessed by any woman, living or dead, and never would be.

3

As Josie walked through the grand foyer on her way to the workout rooms, she stopped and looked around for the first time in months. Her first year she had paused here many times, always in awe at the spectacle of the many pieces of art. But she'd become so busy lately that she'd slipped right through the immense, three-story room every time she'd needed to traverse the fortress' acreage.

All around her were dozens and dozens of giant picture frames. Josie wasn't sure how many. Rhonda would know, of course. She was the one who had framed and hung them all. And Gertrude would probably know not just how many but the exact date each one had been installed.

Bitch
, she allowed herself to think.

Each of the frames was six feet tall and three feet wide.  They hung shoulder to shoulder and head to toe on almost every available wall space. Each had a small gold plaque nailed to its lower edge inscribed with a range of dates and the name of the woman who had claimed its displayed treasure.

Rhonda had been joking for several months now that soon they would have to either expand their art collection to the hallways or build an extension to the already-vast room to accommodate their future trophies.

Neatly folded, pinned, and pressed under the heavy glass of each of these monstrous frames was a colored garment. These were the retired jumpsuits of Monroe's Island. Each had outlived the even hundred prisoners who had worn them and was a testament to the bloodshed, the horror, and the partial education of failed men. Each jumpsuit's breast tag was gleamingly white despite the number of bloodstains that had inevitably accrued onto it over its years of service. The rest of the garment had been unwashed and still bore all the old stains.

The vast majority of the jumpsuits were green, of course.  Green jumpsuits never lasted long. A healthy handful
were
blue, though. These were all displayed on the ground floor for better viewing.  But the black ones– only three– took the place of prominence. The entrance to the grand foyer boasted twin curving staircases that lead to the second floor. Between them and hanging just an arm's reach above any woman who walked under the connecting balcony, the three black jumpsuits were proudly displayed.

Josie stared at those black jumpsuits. The middle one was the oldest and its color had become so faded that it was more gray than black now. She wondered again about the faces of the many men who had worn it. Were they old or young? White, Black, Yellow, or Brown? From rich stock or poor? Of great guilt or small? The answer to all of these questions could only be 'All of the above'. Monroe's Island took all manner of men. The only prerequisite was the one she and the other trainers had spent so many hours and weeks and days learning how to detect. The men's only commonality was having a sexist nature. She sighed heavily at the weight of all those "works of art" and moved on with her scheduled day.

Soon she was in the locker room that adjoined the weight room and found her personal locker. She changed into her favorite sports bra and matching spandex shorts, still mumbling about Gertrude. On the way back to the weight room, she caught herself in the mirror and paused.

She was twenty-two now and looked at her breasts for a moment. She was a 'B' cup and would never get any larger. As a little girl, she had always wanted large breasts. She guessed most little girls did. She wasn't completely satisfied with Mother Nature's gift to her, but she was thankful she wasn't any smaller. She was reminded again of her light exercise routine, especially for her chest exercises. They were less than what every other girl on the island did. Less, in fact, than what Gertrude had been requiring, though she always did the full set if anyone else was there.

Steph was the exception to that rule. Being recruited and trained together, they had arrived on the island just days apart. Their friendship had grown naturally through the shared experiences. Today, Josie had a closer relationship to Steph than any person she'd ever met, including her own mother. They confided, laughed, fought, and forgave each other on a regular basis. They were the closest things to sisters as could be found. They agreed on almost everything, none of which were more important than the details as their jobs as trainers on the island.

The trainers were the ones who broke, tortured, and brainwashed the men in preparation for their life out in the field. There was no doubt that this work was not just important, but critical to The Cause. It required a fine touch, an expert understanding of timing, pressure, the ability to read a man's true feelings– which may or may not be the same as what came drooling or screaming from his mouth– and above all the ability to understand what was in his mind.

The pair was also equally cognizant of the long-term effects of strength training, and when their time on the island was up, they had both agreed they wanted to rejoin the real world with their femininity still intact. So they had made a pact to lighten their upper body exercises whenever possible, and always when together. Usually they did half of what was required.

Looking feminine was something that went slowly by the wayside as women lived on the island. Lucy, for instance, was so solid and chiseled that she looked more like a box-car than a woman. And the headwomen were all lost causes. They had no one left to impress, Josie reasoned. The five permanent residents of Monroe's Island were each larger than most men. Even Rhonda, sweet as she was to her trainers, was insistent on getting her daily dose of iron-pumping. Monica was larger than either Lorraine or Beatrice and was obsessed with her physique. And Gertrude… well, Gertrude was so huge it was grotesque. The first time she'd seen her, standing stiff-armed and unmoving behind that obnoxious desk of hers, Josie had actually mistaken her for a prop in a 1950's monster movie. Over the years Josie gotten used to these deformities in others, but every so often she still saw her immediate superior in that original light and felt her stomach churn with illogic.

Yet there were some, Josie among them, who still preferred to keep their womanly shapes as much as possible. The headwomen allowed this, pacified only through success in their chosen positions. Josie used her femininity on recruiting missions, and with the astonishing number of men she brought back each time– usually twice what each of the others girls could manage– no one, not even Gertrude, could protest. Steph, however, had been getting some looks from the others in recent months and didn't have the recruiting success to defend herself. They both believed it was only a matter of time before she got official warning to shape up or ship out, at which point they both agreed they would cease their little secret rebellion.

In the locker room mirror, Josie saw the effects of her years of training. Her body was harder now. Her arms and legs long, lean, and well-defined… her stomach strong with shadows from the muscles underneath… her waist and trunk slim and taut. But she was still happy that she looked satisfyingly feminine. Her most striking feature was her curves. They were in her breasts, her waist, her hips, her cheeks, even her hair.

She suddenly realized with a blush how she had been admiring herself. Conceit and personal pride had almost become a habit on this contained locale with nineteen other women where competition was constant and sometimes fierce. Strong women were admired. Precise women were admired. Aggressive women were admired. Weak, sloppy, or passive women were frowned upon or even sent home.

Josie walked into the weight room and headed directly for the radio. She chose a CD and turned the volume to its maximum. There were no radio stations to turn to. Only a single, mysterious, and inconsistent Hawaiian station had ever reached its waves far enough for Monroe's Island to hear.

Today Josie chose Alanis Morissette. Again. The selection of music was pitiful. Most of the choices were fine motivators, but there were shockingly few to choose from. These same CDs got old quickly. Occasionally Josie brought some of her own from her meager personal collection, but she didn't always remember or have time to go there first, and even these were old news after six years.

She marveled at the thought process of those in charge sometimes. All around her were thousands of dollars in high-quality exercise equipment. There was even a single, massive machine containing eight different stations sitting like a mountain square in the middle of the room. So much money had been spent in that room alone, and yet no one had ever decided to invest in a simple iPod let alone a better selection of music. They had forever been stuck with someone's old CD player. Every disc on the table had been donated by one girl or another, and by now all of them were at least a little scratched.

She wished, once again, that her job would pay some money, even just a few dollars, so she could at least buy something new when she was out in the real world recruiting more sexist pigs.  Her mind slipped back to the dozens of giant framed jumpsuits and their gold– solid gold, not simply gold-plated– little plaques and their expensive mahogany frames.

As "You Oughta Know" blasted across the room, Josie remembered how surprised she had been when she first learned that music was not a big part of most island women's lives, even in the weight room. Most girls exercised in silence or talked to their few friends while they strengthened their muscles. It drove Josie crazy at first, especially having to complete two two-hour routines every day, but eventually she became accustomed to the repetition of the few good choices and even the silence itself.