Man Hunt by K. Edwin Fritz Page A

food he'd recently consumed. It was only when his stomach finally settled that he looked up again and saw the sneakers. In a rush he remembered what had been so intriguing about the man in the first place.
    Obe
    like globe and like strobe
    looked in the direction the car had gone, wondering why the body had been left behind. Though kills occurred on a daily basis, it was very rare to actually see a dead man. He stared at the sneakers, wanting desperately to have them for himself.
    It's against the rules, he thought. If I'm ever seen with them, I'm done. And I can't hide them. They're green and I'm in blue sector now.
    He looked again at the dead man on the street and recalled the brutality of his demise. Anger welled within him, and he made a difficult but conscious decision.
    "Fuck the rules," he said aloud, and stepped out of the alley. He advanced, hugging the wall of the building as he tiptoed toward his bounty. His bent toenail groaned in pain, and he wondered when he had earned that particular injury. A large cut on the bottom of his left foot stretched open, splitting the half-healed scab. He ignored them both easily enough, but another panic attack was quickly working its way out of his stomach. His tongue began mouthing the litany.
    He neared the body and cut toward it without hesitation. His straining ears might have heard a low rumbling, but he wasn't sure.
    He reached the body and was instantly kneeling and tugging at the heel of one of the sneakers, but his fumbling hands wouldn't obey. He glanced over his shoulder in the direction the car had gone. There was nothing. He heard only the wind and his own continued rummaging, and he calmed enough to cease the mouthed words of comfort.
    The sneaker came off with a jolt and a blotch of wet blood smeared across his left thigh. The second one came off with a single rude tug, and then he was holding them.
    The sneakers were island gold. More than gold, they were worth a man's whole life. "Silver lining," Obe said.
    He stood to go but was pulled back when he noticed the shade of the dead man's jumpsuit. It wasn't the vibrant green of the new sneakers. It was faded. The thinned knees, the dirt, and the old stains gave it character the sneakers didn't have. The suit had a history. A memory.
    Obe looked at the name patch on the left-hand breast of the jumpsuit and felt his chest seize up in shock. The word OTTER was stitched there, staring up at him. That had been his animal name when he had worn green. The dead man was wearing the very jumpsuit Obe himself had worn for more than three months and had finally given up mere days ago.
    "Hey blue! Put those down!" Obe looked toward the voice. A car idled not thirty feet away, and his terror returned in a flash. He stared it down, not even seeing the women inside. The car was its own entity. Despite the incredible danger, he knew it wouldn't immediately make the first move. No car ever did. He had a few precious moments to think, to plan.
    He had never seen this car so close up before because it was from the one sector of the island he'd never been to. It had been painted flat black and had a single, double-edged, blade protruding from each hub cab.
    No fooling around in black sector , his mind offered. This car doesn't hunt. It just kills. What are my options? I broke a rule, so I can't outrun it. The walkways are my only chance. Lose it on the other side. Must go now. No time.
    Meanwhile the car and the women within watched him, privy to their own plan of attack. Distantly, he knew it was the women he needed to outmaneuver, not the tangible weapon itself. But it was hard, so very hard, to separate the two. His training, after all, had been thorough.
    But the blue car is nearby, he thought. They'll call each other trap me the walkways won't work shit I'm dead. And despite his three months of self-education, he felt the twittering of true heartbreak settle in. He had always run on the premise that the women of blue and green