The Hunt (22 page)

“But how do we know he’s
for
us? He might be one of us, but that doesn’t necessarily make him
for
us! I agree that he’s a survivor.

But it’s
his
survival he’s good at, not ours.”

But it’s
his
survival he’s good at, not ours.”

Instead of disagreeing with him, Sissy looks at me. Her eyes betray wariness and suspicion. She knows. That I’m holding something back. But she has no idea just how much. Otherwise she’d never have said what she says next.

“I think we can trust him. I think he has goodness in him.”

“Excuse me while I barf in my mouth,” Epap says.

“Epap,” she says with less patience now, “Gene’s brought us more information than we’ve been able to cul together in years. In two minutes, he’s told us two lifetimes’ worth of info. That says something.”

“Useless information,” Epap spat out. “Even if it’s true— about the colony beyond the mountains— it’s useless. There’s no way we 160 ANDREW FUKUDA

can get to it, not even close. For us, the mountains are a two-week trek away. We’d be hunted down and kiled within hours.

Even if we leave as soon as the Dome opens at dawn and get an eight- hour jump on them, as soon as dusk hits, they’l be fl ying across the Vast and be on us within two hours. No, that kind of information is worse than useless: it’s dangerous. It puts sily notions in our heads, a fanciful pipe dream that some of us might try to bring to fruition. Think of David, Jacob. Those two were never born to be encased. They’ve wanted out since they were never born to be encased. They’ve wanted out since they were born. Think you can restrain them if they set their minds on it?”

As Epap speaks, Sissy does something slightly odd with her lower lip. Nothing I’ve ever seen before, but I can’t quite take my eyes off it. She’s sinking her upper teeth (no fangs, so strange to see) into her ful lower lip, taking a half bite so that her lips turn whit-ish.

She’s quiet for a long time. Then, as the sound of footsteps approach, she says, “Do me a favor? Let’s not talk about this in front of the others again, okay?”

“Sure,” I answer, and then David and Jacob walk in with more bread and fruit. I eat and drink to my fi l, the conversation now turned lighter, the younger hepers happy to have a new face with whom to chatter. They tel me of their lives, the routine, the passing seasons, their love- hate relationship with the Dome: how it stifl es air circulation and traps the musty heat on hot summer nights; but how it also traps warmth and keeps out cold rain and snow in the winter months. On those winter nights, they tel me, they like to watch snowfl akes drift downward from the night sky, melting into dewy streaks upon landing on the Dome. Sometimes, when it is especialy cold, they build a campfi re, smal enough that the smoke can escape through the pores at the top of the Dome. On those nights, gathered around the fi re, snow faling harmlessly about them outside the THE HUNT 161

Dome, they can almost imagine that the normal orbit of the world occurs inside the Dome and that it is the vaster outside world that occurs inside the Dome and that it is the vaster outside world that is falen, dysfunctional, afraid.

Later in the day, they grant me privacy for the wash I need. And more: a towel, something caled “soap,” and a promise not to peek.

This time when I strip off my clothes next to the pond, I feel a thousand times more self- conscious alone than when I threw off my briefs yesterday in front of Sissy. The very memory makes me cringe.

I wade into the pond and scrub myself. The soap thing produces miniature bubbles where it rubs against my body. It’s scentless but removes body odor, they tel me. Perfect for my needs. Once in a while, I steal a furtive look at the mud hut they’re al in. The doors and windows, as they’ve promised, remain closed. I listen in that direction, expecting to catch some derisive laughter. But it’s quiet.

I’m scrubbing my hair underwater when I hear something pe-culiar.

At fi rst, I think it’s just my submerged ears playing tricks on me, but when I surface the sound is clearer. A melody of voices, warbling out of the mud hut.

The sound is eerie yet beautiful. I stand captivated, water dripping off my hair into the pond, ripples breaking out in circular emanations around me. I wade out of the pond, toweling off even as I grab my clothes.

At fi rst, they don’t notice me. I peer through the front door, my damp hair dripping onto my hastily fl ung- on clothes. They are seated in a circle, Ben and Jacob partialy facing me, their eyes closed as if in rapture. The warbling brings back memories of my mother. Times when she would sit on the edge of my bedding and 162 ANDREW FUKUDA

stroke my hair, her face barely discernible in the gray darkness of the house. It’s her voice I remember, more so than her face, lilted and unaffected by the sadness or despair that later hunched my father’s shoulders down.

Stil unseen, I move away from the entrance and sit outside, out of sight but with the front door cracked open so I can hear. With my back against the scrabbled wal of the mud hut, I let their voices wash over me, even as the warm rays of the descending sun fl ood over me. Everything about me feels warm and soft, as though the world has gone buttery.

The song ends and there is a short discussion about what next to sing. At least fi ve suggestions— they must have dozens in their repertoire— are quickly made before they settle on a song titled

“Up High.” It begins slowly. At fi rst, it’s only Sissy’s voice, undulating with the peaks and boughs of the melody.

The ground beneath your feet

The ground beneath your feet

hums with the heat of the day’s sun
all alone, the heat trapped
within your heartbeat
until the night falls and the sun is done.

The other voices join in the chorus, harmonizing perfectly.

They’re so fl uid and fl awless, it’s evident they’ve sung this song hundreds of times before. Imprisoned by glass and distance, they probably have nothing else to do to while away the endless days but sing. Singing gives them what they most need: an ilusion of hope, a transportation to other places.

Sailing through the bluest sky

Above the hawks that sigh

above the clouds that cry.

THE HUNT 163

The song, though haunting in places, has an undeniable catchiness about it. At fi rst, I just mouth the words. Then, almost unwittingly, I fi nd myself pushing air through my larynx, formu-lating sounds.

But it’s not easy. It’s al croaks coming out of my mouth.

Then something happens: it’s as if a giant bal of phlegm in my throat is dislodged. For one verse, I hit the notes. For just those few moments, I’m completely lost in the rhythm of the song. I ride few moments, I’m completely lost in the rhythm of the song. I ride it, a kite fl ung in the air, catching the sweetest of winds.

The song ends, and there is laughter coming from inside. They burst out seconds later, Ben leading.

“I thought I heard an asthmatic dog wheezing to death out here,”

Jacob says, friendly laughter dancing in his eyes.

“Dog, what ever,” David says, smiling. “That was more like an elephant.”

“More like a herd of elephants,” Ben says, so beside himself, he’s hopping from one foot to the next. They’re al laughing now, the sun playing off their hair, adding dots of light to their eyes.

Sunshine glimmers off the hairs on their arms, little puffs of dust kick up at their feet, their carefree voices ring into the bright air.

“C’mon, it’s funny, you have to admit it,” Sissy says to me. Her face is al abandon and nakedness as she looks at me. There is a smile in her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her cheekbones, her forehead, al of it spiling so infectiously outward to me, past me, fi ling the world like the sun. She busts out with sweet laughter, her eyes closing in sheer delight.

And just like that, something trickles out of me I thought was long ago irretrievably lost. A laugh shakes out, guttural and coarse through disuse, bursting through my constricted vocal cords. And through disuse, bursting through my constricted vocal cords. And my face— there’s no other way to describe this— rips apart like a cracked hard- boiled eggshel. A smile crinkles across my mouth, 164 ANDREW FUKUDA

spreading along my face. I feel pieces of the mask faling off, like crusts of dried paint fl aking off a wal. I laugh louder.

“What the heck was that?” Jacob says. “Did a gorila just fart through its mouth?”

And they crack up even more, their laughter lifting into the air, joined only moments later by the sound of my own laughter, guttural and coarse, free and thoughtless.

I leave the Dome not because I want to but because I have to. Not that the Dome wil be closing anytime soon— after yesterday’s close cal, I’m not taking any chances and I have at least fi fteen minutes to spare. I have to get back for some serious shut- eye. Al two hours of what’s left of the day, anyway. I’ve been running on fumes the last few nights, and there’s a real danger, not so much of dozing off during to night’s Gala, but of getting careless in front of al the guests and cameras: a yawn, a frown, an unsuppressed cough.

I can’t get sloppy at such a crucial time. Just a couple more nights to hang on; then, as long as I can pul off my broken- leg stunt, I’l be home free.

With food and water in me, the walk back to the library seems so much shorter. What before was a signifi cant hike is now nothing more than a short strol. Even with the added weight of three ful bottles of water, I’m halfway there before—

Hello, what’s this?

In the distance, a dot, moving. Directly in front of the Institute building— no, not a dot, but a dark smear running. Toward me.

I freeze. There’s nowhere to hide. Not a boulder to crouch behind, not even a depression in the ground into which to slink. It’s got to be an animal lost out in the Vast. But then again, it’s rare to see wildlife out here; most animals have learned not to stray too close.

THE HUNT 165

A horse,
I think to myself,
it’s got to be a horse, escaped out of
the stable.
Then I remember what my escort previously told me: There are no horses at the Institute out of fear the hepers might use them to escape. On rare occasions, like to night’s Gala event, when guests arrive by horse back and carriages, the horses are kept under tight lock in the stable.

It runs closer, and I realize what it is. Not wildlife, not a horse.

This is a person.

This is a person.

I don’t think I’ve been spotted. Yet. I quickly prostrate myself, my chin jutting into the crusty desert soil.

It’s one of the hunters, it has to be, testing out one of the accessories. Donning the SunCloak or the SunBlock Lotion.

Judging from the bulbous hooded shape around the head, probably the SunCloak.

And then I realize its intent.

The hepers. It’s making a break for the hepers, trying to get at them before the protective Dome emerges. And now, just minutes from the Dome’s closing and with the sun rays less potent, is its chance.

Just then, a door on the ground fl oor of the Institute building swings open. And something— someone—shoots out like a racing horse out of the blocks. It moves with wicked speed, a blur.

Moving straight toward the heper vilage. Or me. I’m lying in a direct line.

The cloaked fi gure is at a ful sprint now— I can see arms pumping hard, legs pounding the ground. But it’s the second fi gure that’s just emerged that is far quicker. Already, it’s covered half the distance between them. Within no more than ten seconds, both are close enough for me to recognize.

The cloaked fi gure is Ashley June, her pointed chin unmistakable under the hood. There’s something off about her. But my attention is quickly diverted to the sprinting fi gure almost caught up 166

ANDREW FUKUDA

to her now— Beefy. His appearance is bizarre and frightening.

He’s smeared over completely with the SunBlock Lotion, the rich yelow white cream lathered thickly over his torso like icing on cake. He’s completely naked (for speed?) except for a pair of black goggles puled tight over his eyes.

I leap up, dropping the bottles of water, and sprint. Not to the library— it’s too far away. But to the Dome. I’l pretend to be joining the Hunt, make them think I’m running with the pack.

That’s the only way I can explain being outside. True, I have neither SunCloak nor SunBlock Lotion, but I’m hoping that detail wil be forgotten in the excitement.

It works. Ashley June runs past me, laboring— the SunCloak is not working, the sunlight is getting to her. Seconds later, Beefy fl ashes by, the smel of the lotion overpowering. Nobody says anything: we’re competition to one another; it’s survival of the fi ttest, not friendliest.

Just then, the sun emerges from behind a cloud. Shafts of light blaze across the Vast, bringing a hazy quality to the air. But it’s not haze to Ashley June and Beefy. It’s a shower of concentrated acid.

Ashley June fals to her knees, crumpling in a pile of clothes. Beefy seizes up, stumbling. In the dusk light, the cream on his body glows with an eerie yelow luminescence, jaundice on radiation ste roids.

Stil he pushes on.

I give chase. I smel something else, the raw burn of fl esh. The SunBlock Lotion is useless; the sun is penetrating right through it.

Beefy’s energy fl ags, I’m catching up, he’s not going to make it. I glance back: Ashley June is nothing but a pile of clothes, the SunCloak useless.