The Hunt (The Hunt 1)

“I don’t think so,” I reply. There’s too much risk that she’ll spot a stray hair follicle on my body or face or get close enough to smell my body odour.

“It’s the Director’s orders. Sit down now, lean your head back.”

“No. It’s not going to happen, trust me.”

“It’s just a touch-up job. It’ll be barely noticeable.”

“So don’t do it. How can I make myself clearer?”

She glares at me. “You’ll answer to the Director.”

“Fine. Send him down here.”

Anger boils in the staffer’s half-closed eyes. She slams the kit shut and joins the others in the periodical section. There’s not a chance she’ll report this to the Director. She’s all too aware of what happened to the escorts. Punishment will be meted out for indiscretions, but not to the hunters, who apparently have immunity.

From the back of the library, I hear Ashley June objecting to the make-up. But with less success. They are having their way with her.

I barge in, ready to parlay my hunter immunity card. They’re grouped tightly around Ashley June, badgering her with their demands to sit back! pull your hair back! stop scrunching your face! All I can see of Ashley June are her knuckles, pressed white against the armrests of her leather chair.

“Get out.” My voice is steady and quiet.

They spin around, surprise and annoyance written on their faces.

“This is not up to her. Or you.”

“Get out.”

“You’ll answer to—”

“The Director? Sorry, but I’ve already heard this speech. Now get out.” I see the smallest and youngest of them, a girl no older than me, clutching her make-up bag. She’s afraid, and for an instant I feel a stab of sorrow for her. “Look, don’t worry. Leave a make-up kit and a mirror here; we can put it on ourselves. Now get out.”

They offer little resistance after that.

“That was close,” Ashley June says after the front doors close. A look of horror suddenly crosses her face. “Get out!”

“What?”

“Get out!”

I spin around, expecting to see one of the staffers still lurking.

“No, you! Close your eyes. Close them, I said! Now get out!”

“What’s going on?”

“You’re not supposed to see me yet. Not until I’m completely ready. Go, already!”

I blink. Ashley June: such a romantic at heart. Even in the moments after imminent death, apparently.

One hour later, she’s ready. I busy myself during that time taking out the FLUNs and familiarising myself with them. They’re simple to operate: a safety on the underside that’s easy to disengage and a large trigger button on top. I don’t fire off any practice shots. With only three rounds in each gun, I don’t want to waste even a single one.

As I look at the FLUNs, my thoughts drift to the hepers. I quickly try to think of something else, but my mind keeps boomeranging back to them. I see them walking in the middle of the Vast, map in hand, eyes swivelling around, trying frantically to find a shelter that does not exist. A dawning realization, then a sense of inevitability when they see the dust clouds in the distance, the hunters bearing down on them. Then the arrival of claws and nails and fangs flooding over them in a sea of ardent desire.

I wish I’d never met them, never talked to them; that they’d remained crude savages in my mind, incapable of the speech or intelligence or humanity that I’d thought separated me from them.

The appearance of Ashley June in her dress and fully made up quickly banishes these morbid thoughts. She’s – in a word – resplendent. They’ve cut no corners on her dress. A tank-style silk chiffon gown, blazing lava red, fronted with ornate crystals. A tasteful touch of plumage. But it’s her face that’s the true marvel. Soft and graceful, without compromising the fine angles of her jawline. And her eyes. They cast a spell, those hazel green eyes, they really do.

“I wish,” she says a little shyly, “the dress were a little brighter. With some green to match my eyes, and a lighter red to complement my hair.”

“It’s fine.” I shake my head, knowing I can do better. “You look amazing. I really mean that.”

“You’re just saying so,” she says, but I can tell even she doesn’t believe that.

“It’s all over for me now. You know that, don’t you? All night, in front of everyone, I’m going to be ogling you with big eyes, sweaty palms, and a heart hammering, pounding away. You’re the death of me, Ashley June, you really are.”

She gives me a funny look, a frown creasing her smooth forehead.

“Sorry,” I say, “was that overkill with the cheese?”

“No, it’s not that. I liked it. But who’s ‘Ashley June’?”

I stare at her. “You are.”

The day my father and I burned the journals and books, we stole out of our home at noon, carrying heavy burlap sacks. I was just a young boy, and I cried the whole way there. Not loudly; not even sobs escaped me. But a trail of tears fell from the corner of each eye, and though the day was hot and the distance relatively long, those tears never dried.

We found a clearing in the woods. By then, our shoulders hurt from the weight of the sacks and we were glad to unburden ourselves of them. My father told me to gather some wood, small twigs and sticks, nothing too big. When I got back, he was hunched over on his knees, his face almost touching the ground as if in deep, penitent prayer. In his hand was a magnifying glass he was using to direct the sunbeam onto a pile of leaves. He told me not to move, and I stood where I was, absolutely still. Without fanfare, a wisp of smoke rose from the pile of leaves that grew thicker and darker. A flame suddenly burst out, devouring the leaves in its midst.