eyes—“the taste of that fi rst 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 usualy only one hunter comes to dominate the Hunt, who devours most, if not al, of the hepers. Out there in the desert, there’s no community spirit, no spreading the wealth. You get to the hepers fi rst, last thing you’l want to do is share the riches. No, inevitably, you’l fi nd 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’l be taken to your rooms momentarily. Rest wel, because tomorrow wil be a real treat.
A sumptuous breakfast, then a tour of this facility. You’l see the training grounds, the artilery room, the Control Center, the medita-tion lounge, the dining area. And fi naly, at the end of the night, we’l take you to . . . the heper vilage.”
Offi cials step forward from outside the circle and stand next to THE HUNT 45
each hunter. The offi cial on my right is a sulen gray statue. In his hand is a package.
“That’s right,” she says, stil seated in the center, slowly revolv-ing,
“take the package. Read it when you get to your room. It has some invaluable information. Your escort wil take you to your rooms now. You’ve al had an exciting and long night. Try to get some rest today. Turn in early.”
She gets up and disappears into the dark. At that, we stand and folow our beckoning escorts. Our circle disintegrates as we disperse, quietly, swiftly. We are taken down different halways, through different doors, until al that remains are the emptied chairs stil positioned like the numbers of a handless, dysfunctional clock.
My escort leads me brusquely down a halway, up a fl ight of stairs, along another halway, and then down another fl ight of stairs without speaking. We walk the length of yet another halway, dimly iluminated by candle, until we stand directly outside a large door.
The escort pauses, turns to me. “I’ve been told to extend to you apologies. On behalf of the Heper Institute. Due to the number of lottery winners and the lack of rooms here, one of you has to be housed in . . . unique accommodations. It came down to the two youngest— you and your felow schoolmate— and chivalry demands the girl be given the last guest room in the main building.
Your room is actualy in a smal building a short distance removed.
Unfortu-nately, the only way to get to it is by walking outside.
Under the open sky.”
Then, before I can respond, he pushes open the door and steps out. The expanse of the night sky— the desert plains spread underneath—
catches me a little. Stars, pinpricks of silver, are 46 ANDREW
FUKUDA
scattered about like spilt salt. My escort mutters a curse and slips on a pair of shades. The moon hangs just above the mountains to the east; it is crescented, its lopsided smile refl ective of my own plea sure at being outside. Truth is, I’m glad to be separated from the main building, from everyone else.
We’re on a brick path that leads to a distant smal slab building, single story. “What did you say this place is?”
“It’s a conversion,” he answers without looking at me. “Used to be a smal library. But we’ve spruced it up into a comfortable living quarter for you. It’s up to snuff with everyone else’s.”
I take a quick glance back at the main building. Isolated patches of mercurial light are dotted about its face. Otherwise, the building is completely dark. “Look,” my escort says, observing me, “I know you’re wondering why we couldn’t put you in the main building.
It’s got more unused
Her face then breaks into rainbows. “You’l be taken to your rooms momentarily. Rest wel, because tomorrow wil be a real treat.
A sumptuous breakfast, then a tour of this facility. You’l see the training grounds, the artilery room, the Control Center, the medita-tion lounge, the dining area. And fi naly, at the end of the night, we’l take you to . . . the heper vilage.”
Offi cials step forward from outside the circle and stand next to THE HUNT 45
each hunter. The offi cial on my right is a sulen gray statue. In his hand is a package.
“That’s right,” she says, stil seated in the center, slowly revolv-ing,
“take the package. Read it when you get to your room. It has some invaluable information. Your escort wil take you to your rooms now. You’ve al had an exciting and long night. Try to get some rest today. Turn in early.”
She gets up and disappears into the dark. At that, we stand and folow our beckoning escorts. Our circle disintegrates as we disperse, quietly, swiftly. We are taken down different halways, through different doors, until al that remains are the emptied chairs stil positioned like the numbers of a handless, dysfunctional clock.
My escort leads me brusquely down a halway, up a fl ight of stairs, along another halway, and then down another fl ight of stairs without speaking. We walk the length of yet another halway, dimly iluminated by candle, until we stand directly outside a large door.
The escort pauses, turns to me. “I’ve been told to extend to you apologies. On behalf of the Heper Institute. Due to the number of lottery winners and the lack of rooms here, one of you has to be housed in . . . unique accommodations. It came down to the two youngest— you and your felow schoolmate— and chivalry demands the girl be given the last guest room in the main building.
Your room is actualy in a smal building a short distance removed.
Unfortu-nately, the only way to get to it is by walking outside.
Under the open sky.”
Then, before I can respond, he pushes open the door and steps out. The expanse of the night sky— the desert plains spread underneath—
catches me a little. Stars, pinpricks of silver, are 46 ANDREW
FUKUDA
scattered about like spilt salt. My escort mutters a curse and slips on a pair of shades. The moon hangs just above the mountains to the east; it is crescented, its lopsided smile refl ective of my own plea sure at being outside. Truth is, I’m glad to be separated from the main building, from everyone else.
We’re on a brick path that leads to a distant smal slab building, single story. “What did you say this place is?”
“It’s a conversion,” he answers without looking at me. “Used to be a smal library. But we’ve spruced it up into a comfortable living quarter for you. It’s up to snuff with everyone else’s.”
I take a quick glance back at the main building. Isolated patches of mercurial light are dotted about its face. Otherwise, the building is completely dark. “Look,” my escort says, observing me, “I know you’re wondering why we couldn’t put you in the main building.
It’s got more unused
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