The Hunt Read Free

Palace surprised the public when it announced it had been secretly harboring eight hepers. Eight living, blood- fi led hepers. To lift morale during a time of economic depression, the Ruler decided to release the hepers into the wild. These hepers, kept under confi nement for years, were fattened and slow, bewildered and frightened. Cast out into the wild like lambs to the slaughter, they never had a chance. They were given a twelve-hour head start. Then, a lucky group chosen by lottery were permitted to give chase after them. The Hunt was over in two hours. The event generated a surge in popularity for the Ruler.
    As I walk to the cafeteria for lunch, I hear the buzz of excitement.
    Many are hoping for an announcement of another Heper Hunt.
    There is talk of a lottery for citizens again. Others are skeptical—

    There is talk of a lottery for citizens again. Others are skeptical—
    haven’t hepers become extinct? But even the doubters are drooling at the possibility, lines of saliva dripping down their chins and under their shirts. Nobody has tasted a heper, drunken its blood, feasted on its fl esh, for years now. To think that the government might be harboring some hepers, to think that every citizen THE HUNT 11
    might have a shot at winning the lottery for the Hunt . . . it sends the school into a tizzy.
    I remember the Hunt from ten years ago. How for months afterward I didn’t dare fal asleep because of the nightmares that would invade my mind: hideous images of an imagined Hunt, wet and violent and ful of blood. Horrifi c cries of fear and panic, the sound of fl esh ripped and bones crushed puncturing the night stilness. I’d wake up screaming, inconsolable even as my father wrapped his arms protectively around me in a strong hug. He’d tel me everything was al right, that it was just a dream, that it wasn’t real; but what he didn’t know was that even as he spoke, I’d hear the lingering sounds of my sister’s and mother’s wretched screams echoing in my ears, spiling out of my nightmares and into the darkness of my al- too-real world.
    The cafeteria is packed and boisterous. Even the kitchen staff are discussing the Declaration as they scoop food— synthetic meats—
    onto plates. Lunchtime has always been a chalenge for me because I don’t have any friends. I’m a loner, partly because it’s because I don’t have any friends. I’m a loner, partly because it’s safer— less interaction, less chance of being found out. Mostly, though, it’s the prospect of being eaten alive by your so- caled friend that kils any possibility of shared intimacy. Cal me picky, but imminent death at the hands (or teeth) of a friend who would suckle blood out of you at the drop of a hat . . . that throws a monkey wrench into friend-ship building.
    So I eat lunch alone most of the time. But today, by the time I pay for my food at the cash register, there’s barely a seat left. Then I spot F5 and F19 from math class sitting together, and I join them.
    They’re both idiots, F19 slightly more so. In my mind, I cal them Idiot and Doofus .
    12 ANDREW FUKUDA
    “Guys,” I say.
    “Hey,” Idiot replies, barely looking up.
    “Everyone’s talking about the Declaration,” I say.
    “Yes,” Doofus says, stuffi ng his mouth. We eat silently for a while.
    That’s the way it is with Idiot and Doofus. They are computer geeks, staying up into the wee hours of the day. When I eat with them— maybe once a week— sometimes we don’t say anything at al. That’s when I feel closest to them.

    al. That’s when I feel closest to them.
    “I’ve been noticing something,” Doofus says after a while.
    I glance up at him. “What’s that?”
    “Somebody’s been paying quite a bit of attention to you.” He takes another bite into the meat, raw and bloody. It dribbles down his chin, plopping into his bowl.
    “You mean the math teacher? I know what you mean, the guy won’t leave me alone in trig—”
    “No, I meant somebody