The Hunt by Andrew Fukuda Read Free Book Online Page B

impossibly tal ceilings that are outlined by a plaster cornice etched with curled fronds. A labyrinth of halways and staircases crisscrosses in a dizzying disorientation.
    We walk single fi le, a few offi cials in front, a string of them tailing behind us, our boots click- clock ing on the marbled fl oor, fl anked by lines of mercurial lamps. Ashley June walks directly in front of me, an arm’s length away. Her hair is like a torched fi re, leading the way.

    The halway leads to a large set of silver- crested double doors set between two Corinthian columns. But before we reach them, the lead offi cial suddenly turns to a door on the left. The pro cession comes to an awkward halt as he knocks on the door. A moment later, the door swings open.
    The cavernous hal is dark. In the middle is a circle of curved-back velvet chairs dotted about like the numerical digits of a clock; al 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 offi cials take their place a few yards behind us, standing at attention.
    Seven of us sit in the murky grayness, hands laid on kneecaps, staring directly ahead, the tips of our fangs jutting out slightly. The THE HUNT 43
    hunters. We are perfectly stil, as if the molecules in the air have been glued together, fastening everything in place.
    The offi cial, when she appears, catches us al by surprise. Instead of being dressed in military garb, she wears a fl owery dress, the long sleeves adorned with pictures of dandelions and roses. She fl oats gracefuly from the dark periphery to the center of the circle, where a high- backed chair slowly ascends from the fl oor. Her bearing is one of homespun goodness, more matronly than military.

    She seats herself gracefuly on the chair that continues to revolve slowly upward. As it makes a ful circle, she makes eye contact with each person in turn, taking us in, studious yet affable. When her eyes meet mine, friendliness spils out toward me like the rays of a summertime dusk.
    She speaks, and it surprises no one that her voice is soft yet clear.
    “Congratulations to you al. 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 wil be dying to hear about the Hunt afterwards; you’l al be plenty busy afterwards dealing with the media, especialy 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 al.
    You’l have so much to share with the media afterwards. Over the next few nights, your schedule wil be jam- packed with events, from dusk to dawn. You might get restless, your mind on the Hunt in fi ve nights. I understand.” A few heads fl ick back, almost indiscernibly. She pauses, and when she recommences, there is a serious-ness 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 skils, absorb the tidbits of advice we give you. These are not ordinary hepers, the classic advice we give you. These are not ordinary hepers, the classic hepers 44 ANDREW FUKUDA
    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. Over 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 fl esh 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