The Hunt Read Online Free PDF Page A

one’s around. I sniff the air, wondering if I imagined it.
    Somebody was just here. A few moments before I arrived.
    I live alone. I have never invited anyone here. Other than me, nobody has even stood at the front door before. Until today.

    nobody has even stood at the front door before. Until today.
    Cautiously, I make my way around the perimeter of the house, looking for signs of disturbance. Everything looks fi ne. The stockpile of cash left by my father and secreted in the fl oor boards, though slowly diminishing, is untouched.
    Closing the front door, I stand listening in the darkness of my home. No one else in here. Whoever was standing outside never came in. Only then do I light the candles. Colors break out.
    This is my favorite time of day. When I feel like a prisoner taking his fi rst steps of freedom or a diver rising from the depths of the 24 ANDREW FUKUDA
    mythical sea, drawing in his fi rst gasps of air. This is the moment, after the endless gray black hours of night, I see color again. Under the fl ickering light of the candle, colors burst into being, fl ooding the room with pools of melted rainbows.
    I put dinner in the micro wave. I have to cook it twenty times, because the timer only goes up to fi fteen seconds. Hot, slightly charred, is my preference, not the tepid, soppy mess I’m forced to eat outside. I remove my fangs, place them in my pocket. Then I bite into the burger, relishing the heat as it attacks my teeth, savor-ing the solid feel of charred crispiness. I close my eyes in enjoyment.

    And feel dirty, ashamed.
    After my shower— showering is this thing you do where you rub gobs of hand sanitizer and pour water over your body to get rid of odor— I lie on the sofa, my head propped up on folded sweatshirts.
    Only one candle is alight; it casts fl ickering shadows on the ceiling.
    Sleep- holds dangle above me, placed there years ago merely for show on the off chance a visitor might drop by. The radio is on, the volume set low. “Many experts are speculating that the number of hepers wil be in the range of three to fi ve,” the radio analyst says.
    “But because the Director was silent on this issue, there realy is no way of knowing.”
    The radio program continues, with a few calers chiming in, including a crotchety woman who speculates that the whole thing is rigged: the “winner” wil end up being someone with deep pockets and close friends in high places. Her cal is suddenly cut off. Other calers weigh in about the number of hepers in the Hunt this time.
    Only one thing is for certain: it has to be at least two, because the Director— in a voice loop that has been played over and over—
    used the plural tense: heper s.
    I listen to a few more calers, then get up and switch off the raTHE

    I listen to a few more calers, then get up and switch off the raTHE
    HUNT 25
    dio. In the quiet that folows, I hear the gentle pit- pat of rain on the shutters.
    My father sometimes took me out in the daytime. Except for the times he took me swimming, I hated going outside. Even with sunglasses, the brightness was overwhelming. The burning sun was like an unblinking eye, spiling light like acid out of a beaker, turning the city into an endless fl ash. Nothing moved out there.
    He would take me to empty sports stadiums and vacant shop-ping mals. Nothing was locked, because sunlight provided the best security. We’d have the whole Core Park to fl y kites or the empty public pool to swim in. He told me this ability to withstand sun rays was a strength, made us superpowerful. We can withstand what kills them . But to me, it was only something that made us different, not stronger. I wanted to be like everyone else, cocooned in the dome of darkness that was home. Blackness comforted me. It hurt my father to hear that, but he didn’t say anything. Gradualy, we stopped going out.
    Except when a certain awful need hit us.
    Like right now. I open the door. The rain has stopped.
    I venture out.

    The city