Read Online The Hunt by Andrew Fukuda - Free Book Online

a mud hut.
    Hunt Minus Four Nights
    I AM CURIOUS about the library they’ve lodged me in and intend to stay up through the day hours to explore. But the night’s activities have worn me out; no sooner have I sat down to read the welcome package than I fi nd myself waking up, hours later.
    Somebody is pounding at the door. Startled, I jump up, my heart hammering. “Give me a minute!” I shout. I hear a mumbled hammering. “Give me a minute!” I shout. I hear a mumbled response.
    Fear douses me awake. I’m realizing now. My face. I’m not ready.
    My fi ngers reach for my chin: a faint stubble just breaking the skin.
    Enough to be noticed. And what of my eyes? Are they bloodshot with fatigue? And do my fake teeth need to be whitened, my body washed?
    Never forget to shave. Get enough sleep to avoid bloodshot eyes. Never forget to whiten your teeth every morning before you leave. And wash every day; body odor is the most dangerous—
    My father’s instructions. I’ve abided by them every single day of my life. But my razor blades and eyedrops and fang whiteners and underarm ointments are stashed miles away at home. Given 52
    ANDREW FUKUDA
    the right mix of other products, I could cobble together what I need. For example, three sheets of aluminum foil dissolved in horse shampoo with a liberal application of baking soda wil, after a fortnight, congeal into a ser viceable bar of underarm deodorant.
    Trouble is, I don’t have these ingredients at hand. Nor do I have a fortnight to spare.
    The door pounding gets louder, more insistent. I do the only thing I can. Grab my penknife and quickly raze my chin, making sure not to chafe my skin. That would be a fatal mistake. Then I grab my to chafe my skin. That would be a fatal mistake. Then I grab my shades and head to the front door. Just in time, I catch myself. My clothes. They’re creased from being slept in, a teltale sign that I didn’t sleep in the sleep- holds. I run to the closet, throw on a new outfi t.
    The escort is not happy. “I’ve been knocking for fi ve minutes.
    What’s the matter with you?”
    “Sorry, overslept. Sleep- holds were comfy.”
    He turns, starts walking. “Come now. The fi rst lecture is about to begin. We have to hurry.” He takes another glance back at me.
    “And lose the shades. It’s cloudy to night.”
    I ignore him.
    The Director of the Heper Institute is as sterile and dry as his surroundings, which is saying a lot. His face has a plastic sheen, and he likes to stand wherever it is dark. He exudes an austere authority that is both quiet and deadly. He can whisper a rat to death with the razor- sharp incisions of his carefuly nuanced words.
    “Hepers are slow, hepers like to hold hands, hepers like to warble their voices, hepers need to drink copious amounts of water.

    They have an expansive range of facial tics, they sleep at night, they THE HUNT 53
    are preternaturaly resistant to sunlight. These are the rudimentary facts about hepers.” The Director speaks with a practiced élan. He pauses dramaticaly in the dark corner, the white glow of his eyes disappearing, then reappearing, as he opens his eyes. “After de cades of intense study, we now know signifi cantly more about them. Much of this information is known to only a few of us here at the Heper Institute of Refi ned Research and Discovery. Because you wil be hunting hepers in four nights, it has been determined that you, too, wil become privy to the latest research. Everything we know about hepers, you wil know. But fi rst, the waivers.”
    We al sign them, of course. The papers are handed out by of-fi cials in gray suits who emerge from the darkness behind us. All information learned over the next few weeks will not be disclosed or disseminated to any person after the Hunt is completed unless the Heper Institute expressly grants permission. I initial next to it.
    You may not sell your story for publication or option said story for a theatrical production unless the Heper