The Hunt (The Hunt 1)

“Ha!” I yell out at the top of my voice. The dust kicked up by the horse makes my voice craggy and hoarse. “Hah!”

Bring the hepers back.

I’m coming, Ashley June. Coming.

The Heper Hunt

THE SAPPHIRE SKY spans high above as we ride deeper into the Vast. Isolated clouds blotch the sky like the untouched white spaces of a canvas otherwise painted deep blue. As the terrain gives way to a hard, shallow crust, the horse picks up speed, ploughing ahead with a relentless fury. So fast that when we hit larger bumps, I get bounced off my seat; for a few exhilarating seconds, I’m flying.

I scan the land as best I can. Other than the rare sighting of a Joshua tree, there is little that interrupts the barren monotony of coarse grass and coarser terrain. No wildlife at all, not a single hyena or wild dog. Only vultures circling in the sky, disconcertingly over me.

And after half an hour of hard riding, not a heper in sight.

“Whoa, boy, whoa,” I shout, pulling hard on the reins. It slows to a trot, then stops. A sheen of sweat glistens on its black body, streaming down its barrel chest and haunches. “Gonna give you a little break, OK, horsey?”

I undo the twines of the journal and open to the blank page. In the sunlight, the colours and lines of the map bleed out onto the page. A fierce wind has picked up, and I have to clamp down the pages with my hands to stop them from fluttering. I find my location on the map, using a pile of large boulders on my right as a reference point. The detail of the map impresses me again, right down to not only the colour of the boulders (washed grey), but also the exact number (four).

Where are the hepers? They can’t have walked this far out. Even if they’d run, I should have come upon them by now.

I grab the heper clothes out of the carriage and lift them to the horse to sniff. But it’s having none of that. Globs of saliva stretch between its lips as hot air huffs out of its mouth. Not in the mood to smell, thank you very much.

“It’s OK, boy, you’ve done well. We’ll rest a bit more, OK?”

It stares at me with those intelligent eyes again, blinks, then stares off vacantly into the distance.

I climb back into the carriage and stand on the driver’s seat, scanning the endless expanse. Rising in front, looming larger than I’ve ever seen them, the eastern mountains, snow-capped at the peak; to my left and right, nothing but the barren plains, the horizon bereft of any movement. I look down at the horse. Is it possible it’s been taking me for a ride all this time? Perhaps it has no idea where it’s been maniacally running, and I’ve mistaken the glint of insanity for the shine of sagacity.

As if overhearing my thoughts, it suddenly cocks its head, turning its left ear towards me. Then it points its muzzle into the air, sniffing. The wind is gusting about us now, kicking up sand. I see the horse’s whiskers fluttering in the crosswinds. It nickers, and just like that, we’re off again. I barely have time to jump off the seat and grab the reins before we’re flying across the plains, in a more southerly direction this time. In a much more southerly direction, as in a ninety-degree turn.

Now I’m really questioning if this horse knows what it’s doing. It’s not running with conviction anymore, and every so often it’ll slow down to a trot, muzzle in the air. Then, changing direction, it will charge off again. Maybe it’s the wind that has really picked up, blowing every which way: one second blowing easterly, then shifting north, before heading south. That might explain why the horse is having a tough time following the scent.

The first time I see the black dot in the sky, I mistake it for a distant flock of vultures. Then it grows in size and darkness, and I realise that it’s a dark cloud growing like an inkblot. A tide of clouds follows it, black as the horse.

Be quick.

Wind lashes at me; the pages of the journal whip to and fro, almost dog-eared by the sheer force and fickle direction of the wind.

“Hah!” I yell, snapping the reins. The horse understands; it pounds its legs harder, as if my growing panic has somehow been absorbed into its body. Drifts of sand blow across the plains with astonishing speed, yellow brown apparitions spiralling swiftly across the land.

Be quick.

More intensely than ever, I search the plains, hoping to find movement in the diminishing light. But there is nothing. It doesn’t seem to matter how far we ride into the Vast, the blank slate of land is never-changing.

“Keep going, boy!” I shout. But it grows more frustrated, derailing, its breathing laboured, its gallop less fluid. It slows to a stop. I jump off the bench, grab the clothes. This time, it’s even less receptive, pushing the clothes out of my hands with its muzzle. It stomps its hind hooves into the compacted earth, frustrated. The skies darken. Before too long, the clouds will cover the sun and the land will be plunged into darkness. It’ll be even more difficult to spot the hepers.

“We’ve got to keep tryin—”

The horse lifts its head. A sudden movement; it’s caught something. Its nostrils, strings of saliva hanging across them, are like dark eyes suddenly seeing. The horse lurches forward. Just in time, I grab a rail and swing back into the carriage, the heper clothes dropping to the ground.

Not that the horse needs them anymore. It gallops hard and straight, not a doubt left in its direction. Resolve and urgency thump in the pounding of its hooves, as if to make up for lost time, as if knowing thickening bands threaten to darken the skies.

Ten minutes later, I see them. A tiny line of dots, like ants. “Over there, horsey! Over there!” But its needs no encouragement or direction.

By the time we reach the hepers, they’ve clumped together defensively. I slow the horse, then get off some distance away. I don’t want to come on them too hard or fast.

They look worn and fatigued, and their faces are lined with angst.

When they speak, it is to one another, not to me.

“I told you we should have checked the stable. A carriage would have helped, oh, I don’t know, maybe about six hours ago,” Epap says snidely.

“I did,” Sissy says. “While you were busy gathering up all your precious drawings. The stable was locked. Like it always is.”

“Well, he found a horse and carriage.”

They are all staring at me now, Epap and Sissy with suspicion. Each of them is carrying a heavy knapsack, sheathed knives and spears tied to the side, water bottles slung over their shoulders. And attaché cases, five in all. Dust and sand cake their hair and faces and clothes.

“You must come with me,” I say. My voice is high-pitched with the deceit that lies in my heart.

They stare wordlessly at me.

“Now,” I urge. “There’s little time to waste.”

Epap steps forward. “Where?” he says, his voice barbed.

“Back. Back to the Dome.”

Epap’s mouth drops, then curls into a sneer. “This letter,” he says, reaching into his back pocket, “we got it through the Umbilical this morning. It says that the Dome’s malfunctioned. The light sensor’s damaged. The Dome won’t close at dusk.”

“So they told you about a shelter. Gave you a map and told you to make haste. That it’s about six hours away.” I pause. “What if I tell you that’s all a lie? The Dome’s not broken. There is no sanctuary.” It’s easy to speak with conviction – everything I’ve said so far is true. And they sense it, too. Panic floods their eyes, tightens their shoulders. I see little Ben look with worry into the distance. No shelter in sight, although by now they should be on top of it. They all know it.

Sissy, who’s been quiet up until now, speaks. “Why are they doing this?”

“Get in the carriage. I can tell you as we ride back. But we have to hurry.”

“I’m not getting into that carriage – which might very well become a coffin – until you tell us what’s going on,” Epap snarls at me.

So I tell them. All about the Heper Hunt. Why they’ve been given weapons. The reason there’s been so much activity over the past few

days at the Institute.

“Bollocks,” Epap says. “Would you listen to the nonsense this guy’s spewing?”

Sissy, staring intently at me, says, “Go on.”

“We have to go back to the Dome. It’s not broken.” And now begins the lie. “You’ll be safe there. We get there before sundown, the walls will come up. Imagine the surprise on their faces when they rush out for the Heper Hunt and you’re all right there roasting marshmallows, safely cocooned inside the Dome.”

Epap spins around at the others, looks at Sissy. “We can’t believe him. If he’s lying and we go back, then we’re dead. The sun goes down, the Dome doesn’t come up, we’re toast.”

“And if I’m telling the truth, and you don’t go back, then you’re dead out here.”

“We can’t trust him!”

“How do you think your parents died?” I explode. “It wasn’t on a fruit expedition. It was the Heper Hunt, they were sent out to be hunted! Just like you’re being sent out right now! Can’t you see? Isn’t it obvious? The very same thing is happening again. A letter sending you out into the Vast, out of the safety of the Dome. How can you be so gullible?”

Sissy’s face is torn with conflict.

“Sissy, don’t listen to him!” Epap cries. “He could have told us about this supposed Heper Hunt yesterday, but he didn’t, did he? Why should we believe anything he’s told us? I bet he’s not even the Scientist’s replacement!”

At the mention of the Scientist, an idea springs into my head. “Wait here.” I run back to the carriage and fetch the journal. “This journal was written by the Scientist. It’s all about the Heper Hunt. Now you tell me if I’m lying.” I hand the journal to Sissy, who turns it over in her hands, shoots me a suspicious look, then opens to the first page. The others huddle around her.

They are quiet as they read, their bodies tensing as the minutes go by. Sissy’s expression turns from horror to disbelief to anger.

“Now do you believe me?” I ask softly.

None of them speaks. Finally, David steps forward. “I don’t know who to believe: you or this letter. But according to the map on the letter, the shelter is within reach; and now that we have a carriage, we’ll be able to cover a lot more distance quickly. If we can’t find it, then we’ll head back to the Dome.”

“That map’s a crock. There is no shelter.”

It darkens, suddenly. I spin around, look at the sun. A thin cloud, like intestinal entrails, drags across it.

Be quick.

“C’mon, let’s go!” I say, my voice rising.

“No!” Epap says.

“Look at my map, then! In the journal. There’s no sanctuary in there. It’s got every flora and fauna and stone and rock, but doesn’t it strike you as odd that he’d miss something as obvious as a shelter? You go if you want, I’m done arguing with you, that shelter is nothing more than a mirage.” It’s a total bluff – I need them to return with me – but I’m out of options at this point.