The Hunt (The Hunt 1)

If you’re reading this, you made it. Don’t be mad at me. Or yourself. It was the only way.

I’ll be fine. You’ve given me something to remember; no matter how dark or lonely it gets down here, I’ll always have the memories we share. Those few hours when we

There’s still time. Bring the hepers back. When you return, as everyone’s rushing out at them, use that as cover to come get me.

I’m @ Intro. Will wait 4 U.

Be quick, stable

Never forget

And there the letter ends, seemingly in midsentence. She was rushed towards the end, her words screeching across the page, forfeiting grammar, scratches of her panic.

I read the letter over and over until the words are carved indelibly into my memory, until the impossibility of what she’s asking sinks in.

Bring the hepers back. Those words speak to me, in Ashley June’s voice, with a haunting realness. I hear the hushed, urgent inflections of her voice. But there’s nothing I can do – she must know this. I can’t bring them back. The hepers are gone, and I have no idea where they are. And I can’t randomly set off into the Vast, hoping to run into them. That’s tantamount to randomly plunging my hand into the desert sand in the wild hope of coming up with a long-lost coin. And when night falls and I’m still out there, it’s over for me. They’ll sniff me out, hunt me down, as surely as they will the hepers.

I open my eyes, let the sun rip into my eyeballs, hoping the bright glare will erase her words from my mind. I walk to the training ground, looking for something to vent my frustration on, a spear to snap in two or a dagger to thrust at the side of a mud hut. But I can’t find anything. I kick at rocks on the ground, throw stones as far into the Vast as I can. And all the while, I have the gnawing sense that I’m missing something, not reading her letter right.

Bring the hepers back.

I ignore those words, pick up more stones and rocks. I’ll head over to the apple tree to see if—

Bring the hepers back.

“How am I supposed to do that?” I shout into the air. “When I don’t even know where they are!”

Be quick, stable.

I crumple the paper in both hands, fling it as far as possible.

Be quick, stable. Her voice is audible in my head.

After a few moments, I walk over and pick up the balled paper, put out by my own histrionics.

The paper is now more crinkled than a smashed mirror, the words and phrases hung up in it like insects caught in a spider’s web. A crease runs from top to bottom, right between “be quick” and “stable”.

My head shoots up, suddenly seeing, understanding.

Be quick, stable

Be quick, stable

Be stable.

Be stable

stable

The stable is attached to the southern wing of the Institute. I stand outside the chrome-reinforced stable doors and listen carefully. Silence. No snarling, mewling, or hissing. My fingers drum against my legs, indecision halting me. I reach for the door handle, give it a pull. It doesn’t budge. Solidly locked and fastened.

Then I hear it: the sound of a horse nickering. Oddly, it’s coming from the outside, on the other side. I walk around: there’s a parked brougham carriage, the jet black Arabian horse still harnessed to the frame. Probably belonging to a late guest who arrived after the stable hands had already retired and simply rushed off to join the festivities. Leaving behind the perfect gift.

I know better than to startle the horse by approaching from behind. I come at it on a diagonal, treading loudly on the ground. Its head perks up immediately as it swings its muzzle in my direction.

“Atta boy, nice and easy,” I say as soothingly as possible.

It snorts, agitated, a spew of spit shooting out. Its large nostrils flare wet and wide, almost as if blinking in surprise. A heper? it seems to be asking.

That’s a good thing. A horse that can sniff out hepers – exactly what I’m looking for.

I hold out my hand for it to sniff. Its whiskers brush against my fingers, prickly because they’ve been trimmed short. I stroke its neck, back and forth, not too light that I’m tickling it, but firm enough to be comforting and sure. The horse is well groomed and, with its high-carried tail, arched neck, and powerfully muscled hindquarters, clearly of good stock. And likely well trained.

Agitated at first, it calms quickly. When I sense it is ready, I unhook the rein from the hitching post and lead the horse away. Its hooves clip-clop noisily on the gravel, not that I care. Nobody’s rushing out in the daylight after me.

“Good boy, you’re a good boy, aren’t you?” It turns to look at me with large, intelligent eyes.

The carriage is also in tiptop shape. Well oiled, the wheels turn smoothly and noiselessly. The horse snorts disagreeably. It thought I was taking it inside the stable to rest.

“Not yet, my boy. We still have some running to do today.”

It snorts again, in protest. But when I stroke its muzzle along its star and strip, it quiets. I pull it forward, and it follows with only a little urging. A good horse. I’ve lucked out.

I climb into the carriage, place the Scientist’s journal next to me, and grab the reins in the driver’s seat. The horse should get some nourishment before we take off, but its food is probably in the locked stable. I can’t take that risk. Or time.

“Ha!” I yell out, flicking the reins.

The horse doesn’t move.

“Ha! Ha!” I yell louder. It stands stationary, unimpressed.

I’m not sure what to do. I’ve always ridden on horseback, never in a carriage. “Please,” I say softly, “let’s go.”

And with a neigh, the horse trots out. Head held up high, confident and proud.

I could love this horse.

I stop by the Dome, letting the horse drink from the pond as I retrieve clothes – the hepers’ – from the mud huts. When I get back, the horse is still drinking, its muzzle half-submerged in the water. It lifts his head, snorting in appreciation. Sensing it’s in a cooperative mood, I lift up the clothes to its muzzle. It seems to understand; its nostrils press into the shirts and shorts, one at a time, sniffing deep and hard until sure of the scent. A pause; it snorts one more time, a mist of water and mucus spraying out. Then, like a wise sage, it gazes with its large, sad eyes at the horizon. Blinks once, twice. Then trots forward without further beckoning, not even waiting for me to hop back into the carriage. I grab hold of the rail, hoist myself up and onto the driver’s bench.

Bring the hepers back.

Ashley June’s handwritten words flash before me again. I’m trying, I want to tell her, fast as I can. There are so many things I wish I could tell her. That I’m alive. That her sacrifice wasn’t in vain. That I got her letter. And that I’m now doing my best to save her. I want to send her my thoughts, across the stretch of land between us, through the cement and metal and trapdoors, right into her mind.

Be quick.

I don’t know, I want to tell her. I don’t know if there’s time. I don’t know if I’ll ever find the hepers or convince them to come back with me. Don’t know if they’ll see right through my act, know that I’m just gaming them. That I mean to use them as bait, to bring them back here, into the hornets’ nest, where they’ll be so tantalisingly near that nobody – not the hunters, the guests, the staffers, the stable hands, sentries, escorts, kitchen help, the tailors, the reporters, the camera crew – will be able to resist. Certainly not once the blood of heper begins to flow and seep into the ground, the odour lifting and spreading into the air. And in that moment when not just dozens but hundreds of the disallowed and unauthorised join the feasting, that is when . . .

Even then, Ashley June, I don’t know if I’ll have time to slip in and rescue you.

Be quick.

“Tah!” I shout, snapping the reins harshly, more than the horse deserves. “Tah!” And the horse picks up speed – the ground becoming a blur beneath us – as ribbons of muscle ripple out of its haunches. The sudden pickup in speed is exhilarating, takes me out of myself; it whooshes my breath away, making it hard to fill my lungs. And as the Institute falls away behind us, diminishing into a dot, as we begin to delve deeper into the unexplored Vast, something about the moment catches me. Perhaps it is the feel of wind in my hair, the sun splashing down on my face, the eastern mountains drifting ever so slowly closer, the brilliant black sheen of the horse, its mane flowing so freely behind. But it’s more than just the beauty. It’s the contradiction that does me in: how in this moment of unspeakable horror, I can be graced with this unexpected beauty. Of this place, of a horse. I tear up uncontrollably. I don’t know how to handle this contradiction.