Free The Hunt by Andrew Fukuda Page A

top fl oor, the fi fth. The Control Center spans the ful length and width of this fl oor. The hubbub here is markedly different from the deadness of the lower fl oors.

    here is markedly different from the deadness of the lower fl oors.
    Clearly, this is the nerve center to the whole operation. Numerous computers and TV monitors glow from one end to the other.
    Staffers are up and about, clipboards in hand, walking briskly between desks and cubicles and computer terminals. They’re al men, dressed in navy blue single- breasted jackets with peaked lapels and double vents, but slim to the fi t and streamlined. Three buttons run down the front of their jackets, emitting a dim mercurial light. They’re curious about us, and I catch them stealing furtive glances. We’re the heper hunters, after al. We’re the ones who get to eat and drink heper fl esh and blood.
    Instead of concrete wals, large panel windows stretch from ceiling to fl oor, giving us an almost uninterrupted 360- degree view of 60
    ANDREW FUKUDA
    the outside. From up here, it feels as if we’re hovering above the moonlit plains spread below us.
    The group moves over to the windows facing east. The Dome.
    They al want to see the Dome.
    It sits smal in the distance, a marble sliced in half, glimmering slightly under the stars.
    “There’s nothing to see,” an escort says. “Al they do is sleep at night.”

    night.”
    “They never come out?”
    “Hardly ever at night.”
    “They don’t like the stars?”
    “People. They don’t like people watching them.”
    We stare in silence.
    “It’s almost like they know we’re watching,” one of the hunters whispers.
    “Bet there’s a bunch of them staring back at us. From inside one of those huts. Right now, as we speak.”
    “They’re just sleeping now,” says an escort.
    We’re al straining forward, hoping to catch some movement.
    But al is stil.
    “I heard the Dome opens at sunrise.”
    The escorts glance at one another, not sure if they’re alowed to respond.

    “Yes,” says an escort. “There are sunlight sensors that trigger the Dome. The Dome rises out of the ground two hours before dusk and retracts into the ground one hour after dawn.”
    “So there’s no way to manualy open the Dome?” asks Ashley June. “From in here? A button to press or lever to pul that would open it?” There’s a protracted, intense silence.
    “No. Everything is automated,” says an escort. “It’s al been THE
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    taken out of our hands.” He has more to say, but he’s biting his tongue.
    “Do you have any binoculars?”
    “Yes. But there’s nothing to see. The hepers are al asleep.”
    Everyone is so caught up with the Dome, nobody observes Ashley June slide away.
    Except me.
    I folow her from the corners of my eyes, turning my head when she slips altogether from my vision.
    She drifts toward the back of the room where three rows of security monitors line the wal. Under the monitors sits a staffer, his head swiveling slowly from side to side and up and down as he head swiveling slowly from side to side and up and down as he scans the monitors above him. She stands very close behind him, edging closer, slowly, until a few strands of hair graze the side of his forehead.
    He moves quickly, a slide to his right. She scratches her wrist, apologizing, scratching harder, making sure the moment becomes light and accidental. On his chair, he swivels around to face her, then stands. He’s baby- faced and inexperienced, and his bleary eyes take a while to take in what’s before him. A young lady, and a beautiful one at that. This man, his world fi led with an endless onslaught of digital screens, is taken aback by this sudden intrusion of fl esh.
    Ashley June scratches her wrist more, trying to set him at ease. A moment passes, and he begins to scratch his wrist in return, cautiously at fi rst, then faster and surer. His eyes begin to gain focus and brighten.
    She says something, but I’m too far away to