The Hunt (The Hunt 1)

We bumbled awkwardly in the confined space as we took off our arm sleeves. I grabbed the zipper, pulled at it, felt it give.

With our sleeves off, we paused. Now was the moment. Was she waiting for me to move first? Then the sound of her neck cracking, a loud bony snap. A low rumbling in her throat, then a snarl, so close, the hiss wetting the walls and ceiling and floor of the blackened closet enclosing me.

I let my mind go blank, an erasure, then a replacement with a primal urge manufactured in the imaginings of my mind. I opened my mouth and a snarl hurled out, its raw savagery and urgency catching me by surprise. My arms flew forward towards her and our forearms collided, nails gashing against skin. For a second, alarm shot through my mind: if blood was spilt, her ardour would quickly – in a microsecond – shift, and she would be at my neck, her fangs sinking razor quick through my skin, and the others o

utside would pour in just seconds later, diving inside in an orgy of blood. But caught up in the moment, I did not stop, we did not stop, but brusquely brushed aside arms, so many impeding us, shoved elbows and shoulders away, jostled for position. We knocked up against the walls confining us on every side, hollow thumps thudding as our elbows and knees hit against the invisible walls.

I got there first. Before she could regain her footing, I shoved my elbow into the socket of her armpit. The way I had read about in books, seen in movies. I had her. Her body tensed in anticipation as my elbow locked into her armpit. And just like that, her body lost all tension and softened. I swivelled my elbow in long, luxurious circles, and her body moved in rhythm. Salivary wetness slivered between and around her snarling teeth. I concentrated hard after that, keeping up with appearances, making sure that the snarls came out in the right fevered pitch, that my body oscillated with enough passion and frenzy.

Afterwards, Ashley June and I bent down to find our arm sleeves. In the dark, our arms bumped into each other; and in one unforgettable second, our hands briefly touched. The skin of her fingers brushed against the open palm of my hand. We both flinched back – I in surprise, Ashley in revulsion. She was quiet, perhaps collecting herself. I was about to push the closet door open when she spoke.

“Wait?”

I paused. “What is it?”

“Can we just . . . stand here for a bit?”

“OK.”

A minute passed. I could not see her in the dark, what she was doing.

“Are you . . .” she began.

I waited for her to continue. But for a long time she did not say anything.

“Do you think it’s still raining hard?” she said finally.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“It’s supposed to rain all night, the forecast said.”

“Did it?”

And again, she was quiet before speaking again. “You always walk to school, don’t you?”

I paused. “Yes.”

“You brought your umbrella tonight?”

“I did.”

“I walked to school tonight,” she said, and we both knew she was lying. “But I left my umbrella at home.”

I did not say anything.

“Do you mind walking me home?” she whispered. “I hate getting wet.”

I told her I did not mind.

“Meet me by the front gates after school, OK?” she said.

“OK.”

She then pushed open the closet door. We did not look at each other as we joined the group. The guys kept looking at me expectantly, and I gave them what they wanted: I mouthed, “Wow!” and bared my fangs. They scratched their wrists.

Later that night, after the last bell rang and the students poured out of school, I sat at my desk. I stayed there even as the din of the hallways subsided, even as the last students and teachers vacated the school, the clip-clop of horse hooves fading into the distance. Rain gushed down in thick columns outside, splattering against the window. Only after the dawn siren rang hours later did I get up and leave. The front gates were empty of people as I walked past, as I knew they would be. It was frigid by then, the rain still pouring down heavily, as if trying to fill the void of the emptied streets. I did not use my umbrella. I let the rain soak my clothes, seep all the way through to my body, the wet cold licking my chest, stinging my skin, freezing my heart.

The Heper Institute

THE RIDE IS long. Even the stretch carriage becomes uncomfortable and jarring after the first couple of hours – it’s not built for long-distance travel. Long travel is very rare: the appearance of the deadly sun every twelve hours restricts travel. But for the sun, travel distances would be much longer, and locomotive technology would probably have supplanted horses long ago. In a world where, as the saying goes, “death casts its eye on us daily”, horses more than sufficiently meet the short-distance travel needs.

Nobody speaks as we travel through the outskirts, along roads that get bumpier by the minute until they yield to the give of desert sand. Finally, some five hours out, we pull up in front of a drab government building. I step out, legs stiff and unsteady. A desert wind blows across the darkened plains, hot but somehow refreshing, sifting through the bangs of my hair.

“Time to go.” We are escorted towards the grey building, the officials’ boots kicking up slight puffs of dust. Several other carriages are parked off to the side, the horses tied but still jaunty from their journey, their noses wet and wide with exertion, heat steaming off their bodies. I quickly count the carriages: including the one I shared with Ashley June, there are five others. That makes seven lottery winners.

Nothing about the spare grey of the building’s exterior prepares me for the opulence of the interior. Marble floors glow with the ebony hue of old world craquelatto. Interior Ionic columns, scrolls curling off top and bottom, stretch high to impossibly tall ceilings that are outlined by a plaster cornice etched with curled fronds. A labyrinth of hallways and staircases criss-crosses in a dizzying disorientation. We walk single file, a few officials in front, a string of them tailing behind us, our boots click-clocking on the marbled floor, flanked by lines of mercurial lamps. Ashley June walks directly in front of me, an arm’s length away. Her hair is like a torched fire, leading the way.

The hallway leads to a large set of silver-crested double doors set between two Corinthian columns. But before we reach them, the lead official suddenly turns to a door on the left. The procession comes to an awkward halt as he knocks on the door. A moment later, the door swings open.

The cavernous hall is dark. In the middle is a circle of curved-back velvet chairs dotted about like the numerical digits of a clock; all but two of the chairs are occupied. Ashley June, in front of me, is escorted to an empty chair. I’m taken to the chair next to hers and sat down. The officials take their place a few yards behind us, standing at attention.

Seven of us sit in the murky greyness, hands laid on kneecaps, staring directly ahead, the tips of our fangs jutting out slightly. The hunters. We are perfectly still, as if the molecules in the air have been glued together, fastening everything in place.

The official, when she appears, catches us all by surprise. Instead of being dressed in military garb, she wears a flowery dress, the long sleeves adorned with pictures of dandelions and roses. She floats gracefully from the dark periphery to the centre of the circle, where a high-backed chair slowly ascends from the floor. Her bearing is one of homespun goodness, more matronly than military. She seats herself gracefully on the chair that continues to revolve slowly upward. As it makes a full circle, she makes eye contact with each person in turn, taking us in, studious yet affable. When her eyes meet mine, friendliness spills out towards me like the rays of a summertime dusk.

She speaks, and her voice is soft yet clear. “Congratulations to you all. Each of you gets to partake in a rare and splendid experience that the rest of the world only dreams of.” She pauses, her ears perching up. “Everyone will be dying to hear about the Hunt afterwards; you’ll all be plenty busy afterwards dealing with the media, especially the one of you who hunts down the most hepers.” She spins slightly on her feet; her dress sashays around her legs.

“To that end, we’ve prepared a potpourri of activity for you all. You’ll have so much to share with the media afterwards. Over the next few nights, your schedule will be jam-packed with events, from dusk to dawn. You might get restless, your mind on the Hunt in five nights. I understand.” A few heads flick back, almost indiscernibly. She pauses, and when she recommences, there is a seriousness lining her words. “But between now and then, I need to stress the importance of maintaining your focus over the next few nights. With the training. Learn your necessary skills, absorb the tidbits of advice we give you. These are not ordinary hepers, the classic hepers you’ve read about or been told about. These hepers are different, special: they’ve been trained in the art of evasion, they know how to be on the run and, when necessary, to strike back. O

ver the past few months, we’ve supplied them with weapons – primitive fare like spears and daggers – but you’d be surprised by how adept they’ve become at using them.

“So keep your focus. If you start daydreaming too much about their blood, about the taste of their warm flesh under you, the feel of their hearts beating swiftly under your nails, the skin of their necks just about to break under the sharp pricks of your fangs” – a glazed look enters her eyes – “the taste of that first squirt of blood in your mouth, gushing into a stream . . .” She shakes her head, clearing her eyes. “That is what you need to avoid. Focus on your training so that you can help yourself be the victor. Because remember: you’re training not only to hunt down the hepers, but also to beat out the other hunters. We’ve found from past Hunts that usually only one hunter comes to dominate the Hunt, who devours most, if not all, of the hepers. Out there in the desert, there’s no community spirit, no spreading the wealth. You get to the hepers first, last thing you’ll want to do is share the riches. No, inevitably, you’ll find yourself gorging on the embarrassment of riches set before you. You want to be that hunter, you want to be the winner. So train hard. Focus. To the swift go the spoils.”

Her face then breaks into rainbows. “You’ll be taken to your rooms momentarily. Rest well, because tomorrow will be a real treat. A sumptuous breakfast, then a tour of this facility. You’ll see the training grounds, the artillery room, the Control Centre, the meditation lounge, the dining area. And finally, at the end of the night, we’ll take you to . . . the heper village.”

Officials step forward from outside the circle and stand next to each hunter. The official on my right is a sullen grey statue. In his hand is a package.

“That’s right,” she says, still seated in the centre slowly revolving, “take the package. Read it when you get to your room. It has some invaluable information. Your escort will take you to your rooms now. You’ve all had an exciting and long night. Try to get some rest today. Turn in early.”