The Hunt Read Online Free PDF Page B

voice softer. “When we’re alone, use that word, okay?”
    “Okay,” I said. And after a moment, I asked him, “Why don’t we see other humans?”
    He didn’t answer. But I can stil remember the sound as he bit off large chunks of apple, loud crunches exploding in his mouth as we sat under a tree drooping with ripe fruit.
    And now, years later, there’s even more fruit hanging off the 28
    ANDREW FUKUDA
    trees, an overabundance of color in the verdant green fuzz. So sad, to have colors signify death and extinction. And that’s how I eat now, alone in the green fuzz, a solitary gray dot among splashes of red and orange and yelow and purple.
    Dusk arrives, the night of the lottery. Inside every home, young and old are awake, jittery with excitement. When the night horn sounds, shutters and grates rise, doors and windows fl ing open.
    Everyone is early to work and school to night, to chitchat and tap impatiently on computer screens before them.
    At school, there’s not even an attempt at normalcy. In second At school, there’s not even an attempt at normalcy. In second period, the teacher doesn’t cal the class to order but simply disregards us as she taps away on her deskscreen. Halfway through class, a citywide announcement on the intercom is made: Because work productivity in the city has falen so drasticaly, the announcement of the lottery numbers has been moved up a few hours. In fact, it wil now be broadcast live in a few minutes. “Have your numbers in front of you,” the announcer ends cheerily, as if everyone hasn’t already memorized them.
    Instantly, delirium breaks out in the classroom. Students rush back to their seats, eyes fastened on deskscreens.
    “Are you ready for the lottery yet?” the news anchor says a few minutes later, al aplomb abandoned in his excitement. “I have mine right here,” he says, holding up a sheet of paper with his numbers.
    “To night might just be my night, I woke up with a feeling in me.”
    “As did every citizen of this great city, no doubt,” chimes in his co-host, a slim woman with jet black hair. “We’re al so excited.
    Let’s go now to the Heper Institute, where the numbers are about THE HUNT 29
    to be picked.” She pauses, her fi nger reaching up to her earpiece.
    A feral glint invades her eyes. “We’re getting word now of a surprise.
    This is a whopper, folks, so sit down.”

    This is a whopper, folks, so sit down.”
    In the classroom, heads snap back and then lurch forward. No one says a word.
    “Instead of having the Director pick the numbers, the Palace has decided a captive heper wil pick the numbers.”
    Somebody snorts loudly; several students suddenly leap onto their desks.
    “You heard that right, folks,” she continues, and her voice is wetter now, with a slight lisp. “We’re getting a live feed. . . .” She pauses again. “I’m hearing that it’s coming from a secret location from within the Heper Institute. Take us there now.”
    Instantly, the view of the newsroom switches to that of a bare, cavernous indoor arena. No windows or doors. Placed in the center of the arena is an empty chair. Next to it, a large hemp sack and a glass bowl. But nobody is looking at the sack or the chair or the glass bowl. Al our eyes are fastened on the blurry image of a male heper crouched in the corner.
    It is el der ly and wiry, but its stomach is fat- marbled and protrudes disproportionately to its thin frame. Hair plasters its arms and legs, and the sight of the hair sends a river of lip smacking through the classroom.
    The videocamera zooms in and then out on the heper. But clearly The videocamera zooms in and then out on the heper. But clearly the camera must be running unmanned, on autopi lot. If anyone were in the arena with the heper, the heper would have been devoured within seconds. The newest wave of videocameras—
    weighing a relatively spry two tons— is capable of autozooming, a technological advancement unimaginable just a de cade