be in the forefront of everything. A natural- born leader.
Today, she is without question the leader of the pack. They look to her for . . . wel, everything. Where she goes, they folow. What she commands, they obey. During the Hunt, if you want to cut off the head from the body, you take her out fi rst. With her out of the the head from the body, you take her out fi rst. With her out of the picture, the group wil quickly disintegrate. Easy pickings, thereafter.”
He licks his lips.
“This girl. Al of you have seen her, in fact. On TV— she was the one who picked the last number. That wasn’t supposed to happen, of course. We would never have put a female on the airwaves, especialy one so young. We know the effect a young female heper has on people. It was supposed to be a little boy heper. But she . .
.
wel, before we knew it, she took control of the situation and put herself in front of the camera. That girl . . .” His words grow slithery with saliva. Spittle colects at the corners of his mouth.
His eyes grow distant; he is lost in some dreamland. When he 56
ANDREW FUKUDA
speaks, his voice is soft with desire. “She would be delicious, so . .
.”
He snaps out of it with a quick fl ick of his head. “I digress. My apologies. The offi cial who let that happen is no longer with us.”
He scratches his wrist, once, twice.
“There are other myths,” he continues, “and other discoveries we
“There are other myths,” he continues, “and other discoveries we wil disclose to you over the next few days. But for now, absorb what we’ve just told you. Use this new knowledge to aid you in the Hunt: First, hepers are afraid to fl ee into the unknown; and second, they can be trained to be aggressive. And they do not mind having a woman lead them. Not this one, anyway.”
He slips away deeper into his dark corner; blackness swalows him. Nothing happens for the next few minutes. Nobody moves, nobody speaks. We sit, blasé faces and glazed stares. Waiting for someone, something, to break the silence.
Then I sense it. A prick at the back of my neck: someone from behind is staring intently at me. The last thing to do— I hear my father’s voice instructing me— is turn around. Moving so drasticaly while everyone else is stationary wil only draw attention.
Unwanted attention, as if there were any other kind.
But the prick sharpens until I can take it no longer. I let a pen in my hand fal to the ground; as I slowly swivel around to pick it up, I shoot a quick glance back.
It’s Ashley June, her eyes death green in the mercurial light.
She’s sitting right behind me. I almost startle in my seat—“startle”
is this refl ex where we jump a little in fright— but tamp it down is this refl ex where we jump a little in fright— but tamp it down just in time. I close my eyelids halfway— a trick my father taught me to make sure my eyes don’t widen too much— and turn around.
Did she see me startle? Did she see me startle?
Somebody is at the lectern. Frily Dress from yesterday. “How are we al to night? Having fun?” She takes out a note pad, scans it, THE HUNT 57
then looks up, smiling. “We have a busy schedule to night. First, we’l tour the facilities— should take most of the night. Then, time and darkness permitting, we’l cap it off with a visit to the heper vilage just shy of two miles from the main building. If we’re running late and it gets too close to sunrise, then we’l have to push it off til tomorrow.” She looks at each of us, reading our expressions.
“Somehow I don’t think you’re going to alow that to happen. Shal we move on, then?”
What folows for the next few hours is a mind- numbingly tedious tour of the facilities. It’s nothing more than an amble along dark, endless halways. And emptiness. That’s what strikes me the most: how stil and empty everything is— the rooms, the halways, the very dank air we inhale, mere remnants and echoes of a busier, fuler,
Today, she is without question the leader of the pack. They look to her for . . . wel, everything. Where she goes, they folow. What she commands, they obey. During the Hunt, if you want to cut off the head from the body, you take her out fi rst. With her out of the the head from the body, you take her out fi rst. With her out of the picture, the group wil quickly disintegrate. Easy pickings, thereafter.”
He licks his lips.
“This girl. Al of you have seen her, in fact. On TV— she was the one who picked the last number. That wasn’t supposed to happen, of course. We would never have put a female on the airwaves, especialy one so young. We know the effect a young female heper has on people. It was supposed to be a little boy heper. But she . .
.
wel, before we knew it, she took control of the situation and put herself in front of the camera. That girl . . .” His words grow slithery with saliva. Spittle colects at the corners of his mouth.
His eyes grow distant; he is lost in some dreamland. When he 56
ANDREW FUKUDA
speaks, his voice is soft with desire. “She would be delicious, so . .
.”
He snaps out of it with a quick fl ick of his head. “I digress. My apologies. The offi cial who let that happen is no longer with us.”
He scratches his wrist, once, twice.
“There are other myths,” he continues, “and other discoveries we
“There are other myths,” he continues, “and other discoveries we wil disclose to you over the next few days. But for now, absorb what we’ve just told you. Use this new knowledge to aid you in the Hunt: First, hepers are afraid to fl ee into the unknown; and second, they can be trained to be aggressive. And they do not mind having a woman lead them. Not this one, anyway.”
He slips away deeper into his dark corner; blackness swalows him. Nothing happens for the next few minutes. Nobody moves, nobody speaks. We sit, blasé faces and glazed stares. Waiting for someone, something, to break the silence.
Then I sense it. A prick at the back of my neck: someone from behind is staring intently at me. The last thing to do— I hear my father’s voice instructing me— is turn around. Moving so drasticaly while everyone else is stationary wil only draw attention.
Unwanted attention, as if there were any other kind.
But the prick sharpens until I can take it no longer. I let a pen in my hand fal to the ground; as I slowly swivel around to pick it up, I shoot a quick glance back.
It’s Ashley June, her eyes death green in the mercurial light.
She’s sitting right behind me. I almost startle in my seat—“startle”
is this refl ex where we jump a little in fright— but tamp it down is this refl ex where we jump a little in fright— but tamp it down just in time. I close my eyelids halfway— a trick my father taught me to make sure my eyes don’t widen too much— and turn around.
Did she see me startle? Did she see me startle?
Somebody is at the lectern. Frily Dress from yesterday. “How are we al to night? Having fun?” She takes out a note pad, scans it, THE HUNT 57
then looks up, smiling. “We have a busy schedule to night. First, we’l tour the facilities— should take most of the night. Then, time and darkness permitting, we’l cap it off with a visit to the heper vilage just shy of two miles from the main building. If we’re running late and it gets too close to sunrise, then we’l have to push it off til tomorrow.” She looks at each of us, reading our expressions.
“Somehow I don’t think you’re going to alow that to happen. Shal we move on, then?”
What folows for the next few hours is a mind- numbingly tedious tour of the facilities. It’s nothing more than an amble along dark, endless halways. And emptiness. That’s what strikes me the most: how stil and empty everything is— the rooms, the halways, the very dank air we inhale, mere remnants and echoes of a busier, fuler,
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