I watch as it stands up, takes a sip of water from cupped hands.
Its back is to me, its head staring east at the mountains.
For a long time, it does not move. Then it bends down, cups its hands, takes another sip. Its movement, even for so simple an act, is graceful and sure. Its head suddenly swings in my direction; I fl inch back.
Perhaps it has caught a refl ection off the binoculars' lens.
But it is looking past me, at the Institute. I zoom in on the face. Those eyes: I remember them from earlier this eve ning, on my deskscreen, their brown tone like the trunk of a wrongly fel ed tree.
After a few moments, it turns around and disappears into a mud hut.
Hunt Minus Four Nights I AM CURIOUS about the library they've lodged me in and intend to stay up through the day hours to explore. But the night's activities have worn me out; no sooner have I sat down to read the welcome package than I fi nd myself waking up, hours later.
Somebody is pounding at the door. Startled, I jump up, my heart hammering. “Give me a minute!” I shout. I hear a mumbled response.
Fear douses me awake. I'm realizing now. My face. I'm not ready. My fi ngers reach for my chin: a faint stubble just breaking the skin. Enough to be noticed. And what of my eyes? Are they bloodshot with fatigue? And do my fake teeth need to be whitened, my body washed?
Never forget to shave. Get enough sleep to avoid bloodshot eyes. Never forget to whiten your teeth every morning before you leave. And wash every day; body odor is the most dangerous— My father's instructions. I've abided by them every single day of my life. But my razor blades and eyedrops and fang whiteners and underarm ointments are stashed miles away at home. Given the right mix of other products, I could cobble together what I need. For example, three sheets of aluminum foil dissolved in horse shampoo with a liberal application of baking soda will , after a fortnight, congeal into a ser viceable bar of underarm deodorant. Trouble is, I don't have these ingredients at hand. Nor do I have a fortnight to spare.
The door pounding gets louder, more insistent. I do the only thing I can. Grab my penknife and quickly raze my chin, making sure not to chafe my skin. That would be a fatal mistake. Then I grab my shades and head to the front door.
Just in time, I catch myself. My clothes. They're creased from being slept in, a tel tale sign that I didn't sleep in the sleep- holds. I run to the closet, throw on a new outfi t.
The escort is not happy. “I've been knocking for fi ve minutes.
What's the matter with you?”
“Sorry, overslept. Sleep- holds were comfy.”
He turns, starts walking. “Come now. The fi rst lecture is about to begin. We have to hurry.” He takes another glance back at me.
“And lose the shades. It's cloudy to night.”
I ignore him.
The Director of the Heper Institute is as sterile and dry as his surroundings, which is saying a lot. His face has a plastic sheen, and he likes to stand wherever it is dark. He exudes an austere authority that is both quiet and deadly.
He can whisper a rat to death with the razor- sharp incisions of his careful y nuanced words.
“Hepers are slow, hepers like to hold hands, hepers like to warble their voices, hepers need to drink copious amounts of water.
They have an expansive range of facial tics, they sleep at night, they are preternatural y resistant to sunlight. These are the rudimentary facts about hepers.” The Director speaks with a practiced élan. He pauses dramatical y in the dark corner, the white glow of his eyes disappearing, then reappearing, as he opens his eyes. “After de cades of intense study, we now know signifi cantly more about them.
Much of this information is known to only a few of us here at the Heper Institute of Refi ned Research and Discovery.
Because you will be hunting hepers in four nights, it has been determined that you, too, will become privy to the latest research. Everything we know about hepers, you wil know. But fi rst, the waivers.”
We all sign them, of course. The papers are handed out by of-fi cials in gray suits who emerge from the darkness behind us. All information learned over the next few weeks will not be disclosed or disseminated to any person after the Hunt is completed unless the Heper Institute expressly grants permission. I initial next to it.
You may not sell your story for publication or option said story for a theatrical production unless the Heper Institute expressly grants permission. I initial next to it. Compliance is total and irrevocable.
I initial next to it. Upon punishment of death. I sign and date it.
The Director has been watching us careful y as we sign, each hunter in turn. His eyes are black holes, sucking in observations with a slippery, keen acuity. He never misses a thing, never guesses wrong. As I hand over my waiver papers, I feel his eyes clamp down on me like a suddenly jammed stapler. Just before the papers are taken from me, they dangle off my hand, shaking ever so slightly.
His eyes fl ip to the papers, to the way they are quivering. I know this without looking, from the piercing cold burn on my wrist where his eyes settle. I grip the papers tighter to stil them.
Then I feel his stare shift away, the cold burn on my wrist evap-orating. He has moved on to the next hunter.
After all the papers have been col ected, he continues without missing a beat. “Much of what is known about hepers is more fi ctional than factual. It's time to debunk these myths.
“Myth one: They are wild beasts at heart and will be continual fl ight risks. Fact: They are easily domesticated and are actual y quite afraid of the unknown. Truth is, during the day while we sleep and the Dome is retracted, they are unsupervised and free to roam.
The whole stretch of the plains, as far as you can see, free for them to escape, far and away. If they choose. But they never have. Of course, it's easy to understand why. Any heper who leaves the safety of the Dome is— come nighttime— free game. Within two hours, it would have been sniffed out, chased down, and devoured. In fact, this has happened. Once or twice.” He does not elaborate.
“Myth two: They are passive and submissive, ready to lie down rather than fi ght back. Ironical y, this myth has been perpetuated by previous Hunts when the hepers showed anything but re sistance. Historical accounts of that Hunt refl ect how useless they were: fi rst, the initial fl ight, where they proved to be slow and disorga nized; and second, their submissive surrender when surrounded by us. Even when we were two miles away, they just gave up. Stopped running. And when we came on them, not a single one fought back, not so much as even a single raised arm.
Practical y lay down and let us have at them.
“What our research has demonstrated, however, is that hepers can be trained to be aggressive. They've demonstrated surprising acumen with the weapons provided. Primitive weapons, mind you, mere spears, knives, daggers, axes. And, quite endearingly, they've even fashioned leather guards that they place around their necks for protection. Those naive darlings.” He starts scratching his wrist, then stops. He jots something down in his notebook. “Not sure how they got the leather. Surprisingly resourceful, they can be.”
We sit still as he fi nishes writing. He snaps the notebook shut, starts speaking again.
“Myth three: They are a male- dominated society. This is another myth perpetuated by previous Heper Hunts. You've all heard about it, how it's always the men who take charge — futilely; the men who make all the decisions— the wrong ones, as we also know.
The women typical y do nothing but fol ow. Fol owers.
Submissive.
We thought this was simply how they were ge ne tical y wired: men dominate, women submit. But our research has produced some startling results. Currently, we have fi ve hepers in captivity, all but one of which is male. Four males, only one female. Want to wager a guess who's the leader?”
His eyes sparkle with excitement.
“This is one of the more surprising discoveries. In fact, it was I who was the fi rst to spot the trend. Even early on, when the hepers were mere toddlers, it was I who noted that the sole female heper seemed to be in the forefront of everything. A natural- born leader.
Today, she is without question the leader of the pack. They look to her for . . . wel , everything. Where she goes, they fol ow. What she commands, they obey. During the Hunt, if you want to cut off the head from the body, you take her out fi rst. With her out of the picture, the group will quickly disintegrate. Easy pickings, thereafter.”
He licks his lips.
“This girl. all of you have seen her, in fact. On TV— she was the one who picked the last number. That wasn't supposed to happen, of course. We would never have put a female on the airwaves, especial y one so young. We know the effect a young female heper has on people. It was supposed to be a little boy heper. But she . . .
well , before we knew it, she took control of the situation and put herself in front of the camera. That girl . . .” His words grow slithery with saliva. Spittle col ects at the corners of his mouth.
His eyes grow distant; he is lost in some dreamland. When he speaks, his voice is soft with desire. “She would be delicious, so . . .”
He snaps out of it with a quick fl ick of his head. “I digress.
My apologies. The offi cial who let that happen is no longer with us.”
He scratches his wrist, once, twice.
“There are other myths,” he continues, “and other discoveries we will disclose to you over the next few days.
But for now, absorb what we've just told you. Use this new knowledge to aid you in the Hunt: First, hepers are afraid to fl ee into the unknown; and second, they can be trained to be aggressive. And they do not mind having a woman lead them. Not this one, anyway.”
He slips away deeper into his dark corner; blackness swal ows him. Nothing happens for the next few minutes.
Nobody moves, nobody speaks. We sit, blasé faces and glazed stares. Waiting for someone, something, to break the silence.
Then I sense it. A prick at the back of my neck: someone from behind is staring intently at me. The last thing to do— I hear my father's voice instructing me— is turn around.
Moving so drastical y while everyone else is stationary wil only draw attention.