The Hunt (The Hunt 1)

“Ah, there you are.”

I spin around. The Director is gazing at me, dangling upside down, halfway down an aisle. “We were looking for you earlier. Couldn’t find you. Or the lovely girl. Needed to let you know that the hunters were assembling in the library for the Hunt. Anyway, looks like someone was able to tell you.”

“We were—”

“No, no, no need to explain to me. Just glad you were able to get in here before dawn.” He stares at me, then behind me, gazing around. Bemusement creeps into his eyes. “Did you leave the door open? Awfully bright in here.”

“No, I—”

“You seem nervous. What’s the matter?”

“No, no. It’s not nervousness. I’m just excited, is all. It’s the Hunt, after all. Starts in just a few hours. Five, six hours? Not sure what time it is.”

“More like four hours. Heard that a vicious storm’s coming. Will be darkening earlier than usual.” He looks at me. “Don’t lose your head. Keep your wits about you.”

“I know. But it’s hard not to get excited. People would kill to be in my spot.”

“Would they now?”

“Yes. I suppose they would.”

“Good,” he says, nodding. “That’s the mind-set you need.” His eyes flick downward to my left. “The FLUNs are under me. Thought it best to keep them away from the others.”

“Of course.” The attaché cases sit a couple of feet away. Next to them, the Scientist’s journal.

“Couldn’t sleep earlier. So I started to read that journal I found on a table.” His eyes pour into mine. “Tell me, one thing I don’t understand—”

Right at that moment, a feline howl shatters the quiet. It’s Abs. The beam has suddenly sharpened with a violent purity, striking her dangling hand and gouging a hole in her palm. The smell of burning flesh, then an eruption of full-throated screams and howls around me as the others awaken. Abs’ eyes are snapped open in raw pain. I turn around. The Director is still dangling, his eyes looking right at me. His eyes flick to the side; he sees the beam shooting straight and pure behind me, and me standing right in front of it, unfazed. Something else enters his eyes besides searing pain: a suspicion, a realisation, an accusation.

I’ve been found out, by this beam of light. Of all the things I imagined would be my undoing, never would I have thought it’d be a light beam. I always felt it would be a sneeze or a yawn or a cough that would inevitably expose me. Something beyond my control, a bodily betrayal.

But not this: not something so simple, so pure, beautiful even. Funny how that is, how it’s the beautiful things in life that betray you in the end.

I pedal backward; my feet hit up against the FLUNs, and I trip over them, sending them careening across the floor. I glance up. The Director is gone. More screams, the heavy thumps of bodies landing, furniture scraped roughly aside, the scrabbling of nails and claws on the wooden floor. Then silence.

I pause, waiting for some noise. Then I hear it: a long, meandering howl. From the east wing. They’ve all fled there, away from the beam. Then the sound of whispers, collective and intense, accusatory. A single pitched wail, now brimming not with fear but with craving, fused with a charged desire. It’s quickly joined by a chorus of others. Panic grips my heart, even as I start sprinting. They’re regrouping; they’re realising. I have to move.

I leap to my feet. The beam is now full strength, a tightrope stretching to the far wall.

Something moves towards me – a flash of movement – leapfrogging over furniture and shelves. Just a blur, then it pounces from the top of a shelf with shocking speed. Abs, flying through the air with hideous speed. At me.

I close my eyes. I am dead.

Then a dreadful scream explodes out, followed by the sound of sizzling, the singe of smoke. The sunbeam. She landed right on top of it, and it’s burned a deep canyon across her chest. She’s on the floor, on the other side of the beam, arm pressed against her eyes, her mouth torqued in a twisted cry of agony, her upper lip writhing atop her lower lip.

I scurry to my feet, scrambling across the floor. An upended table trips me; even as I fall, I catch from the corner of my eye the hazy shapes of others running down the hallway towards me, arms clamped over their eyes, their speed almost obscene. Their yelping, hissing screams stroke against my eardrums like razor-sharp fingernails.

I hit the floor, my head knocking against something hard and metallic. Blood pours out; instantly the snarls ratchet up to the level of the insane.

They leap at me, strangely synchronised, left arms splayed across their faces, right arms pointing at me, razor nails first. And still synchronised together, their snarls turn to screams as they fall into the beam. As one, they are propelled backward.

An awful, fetid smell of rotting flesh and burned skin hits my senses. I think to move, but I’m blinded by the blood pouring into my right eye from the cut above my eyebrow. I swipe away the blood with my sleeve; and as I do, I see the hunters getting back to their feet, their actions herky-jerky with desire. My blood; they’re driven mad by the fresh, overpowering scent of my blood. They come at me again, but wiser now. Instead of trying to punch through the beam, they’re scaling up the walls and crossing the room by way of the ceiling.

That gets me moving, adrenaline surging through me so fast, I almost miss it. A FLUN attaché case. It’s what I banged my head on. And under the case, the Scientist’s journal. Without a thought, I grab it by its twine, the feel of it like the thin tail of an emaciated rat, and stuff it down my shirt. I can feel the wooden spine hubs jutting into my stomach. Then I grab the attaché case and start hauling, the case swinging in my hand. The howls and yips are breaking all around me now, those of pain and those of hot desire. I sprint for the doors, through the narrow corridor leading into the foyer.

And then.

One of them – Phys Ed – drops right in front of me, a fallen icicle of black ice. I pummel through him a millisecond later, catching him by surprise. He reaches for me as I sprint past and brushes my shoulder (did he cut me? did he cut me?), spinning me around. And he comes at me even as I’m still midair, my arms flailing, attaché case still in hand.

The attaché case catches him flush, breaking his face as it snaps open, the FLUN inside flying through the air. The FLUN skitters across the floor.

The impact dazes him momentarily. I dive for the FLUN, grabbing it even as he grabs me by the ankle and starts pulling me in, with enough force to almost wrench my leg out of the hip socket.

I feel his nails puncturing through my jeans, piercing my skin.

“Gah!” I scream, hardly conscious that I’m unlocking the safety switch.

He yanks me towards him, has my leg pulled up to his face, his mouth opening, fangs bared.

I pull the trigger and the light beam hits me right in the foot.

It’s enough, though, for him to drop me. He cowers back momentarily, then flings himself at me.

This time, I hit him square between the eyes. He falls back as if sledgehammered in the face.

Behind him, the others are sprinting towards me.

Phys Ed, screaming in pain, leaps back on his feet. Creamy pus gushes out of his forehead. The FLUN needs to be turned up to its highest setting. But there’s no time to fidget with the settings now: the moment I do, they’ll be on me.

Crimson Lips, screaming like a hyena, flies at me.

I fire off the last round, hitting her in the chest. She falls back, clutching her chest, yelping in pain. But then she’s back on her feet, her face twisted awfully in pain and lust.

“Who wants more?!” I yell. “Who wants more?!”

They stop in their tracks, their fangs connecting to the ground by a waterfall of drool. Uncertainty in their eyes, mixed with keen lust. Their heads flick sharply back and forth, their teeth snapping and grinding.

“Who wants more?!” It’s all empty bravado. I’ve fired off the third and last round already. All that is left is to bluff.

“You?” I yell, pointing the FLUN at Gaunt Man inching towards me. “How ’bout you?!” I shout as I swing the gun around to the other side at Frilly Dress. I’m stepping backward, towards the front doors.

For every foot I retreat, they advance a yard. Their chortling grows louder, more slippery, individual desire beginning to trump their collective fear. Phys Ed in the front crouches low, readying to pounce. They’re not going to let me retreat much farther.

“You’re the animals! You’re the hepers!” I yell as I spin around, throwing the discharged FLUN at them.