The Trap (The Hunt Trilogy)

by Fukuda, Andrew

  The one who had performed that awful surgery on her a decade ago. Her body tensed at the memory.

  She moved away from the workbenches and ambled toward the back of the laboratory. In the farthest corner, the almost-Gene odor dropped off and she was about to turn around when she sniffed something curious. Actually, it wasn’t the smell itself that was unusual—it was the same almost-Gene smell—so much as its placement. It was coming from the floor. She sniffed. No, it was coming from under the floor.

  She cocked her head, stared down.

  A second later, she was ramming her arm through the floorboards. Her fingers touched the metal top of a small trunk. She tore out a few more floorboards and lifted the trunk out.

  She ripped open the lid. There were stacks of paper inside. Ancient papers, musty, yellowed, and frayed at the edges, they harkened back to an era not decades but centuries ago.

  It was not the content of these papers that immediately drew her attention—the ancient typeface was utterly indecipherable. Instead, her eyes lit on the insignia of the crescent moon in the top corner of each sheet:

  There were other papers, as well, modern and crisp with relative newness, covered in the almost-Gene scent. She flipped through them, glancing at the handwritten notes. These were apparent transcriptions of the ancient documents. She read hurriedly at first, thinking there would be little to hold her interest. But soon she was taking in every sentence, swallowing every word. Blinking at the truth they revealed. A half hour later, she had read enough. To understand. Everything.

  She took out a sheet of paper, a crumpled letter, from her pocket. She’d been carrying it for many nights since finding it in the Pit, and she now placed it next to the handwritten notes. It was the same handwriting.

  She felt nothing but a deep pity for Gene.

  She gazed through the opened doorway to the outside. The black of night was shading gray now as it had done millions of times before. But it felt as if the world, the universe, had irretrievably changed.

  Sunrise caught everyone by surprise. Dawn light radiated into the streets, breaching the walls like a flood of acid. Many never woke at all—their inebriated bodies melted without so much as a twitch and their liquefied flesh dribbled between the stones of the fortress wall and into the dewed grass of the meadows. Others awoke screaming and scrambled into nearby cottages, seeking a refuge that was to be—like the remainder of their lives—short-lived. Within minutes, the strengthening sunlight slipped into the interior of the cottages through windows, smashed doors, breaks in the walls. It was a slow, agonizing disintegration for those inside, and some soon preferred the quicker death of full-on sunlight exposure. They ran outside into the onslaught of sun rays, dashing along streets and racing down meadows, as far and as fast as their disintegrating legs could take them. Those who had not melted away by the time they reached the ledge of the cliff threw themselves dramatically into the ravine and were seen no more.

  Only Ashley June, ensconced safely in the darkness of the laboratory, survived. When dusk finally arrived, she opened the tightly sealed laboratory door and walked out. She found the village empty, its streets polka-dotted with yellow crusty stains, like vomit baked into the ground. She did not stop to genuflect or to mourn, nor did she even step around the crusty puddles. She walked right through them, the soles of her feet stepping on the sticky, slightly crunchy texture of what was once teeth and eyes and skin and bones.

  She was crossing the bridge when she stopped. The train tracks would indubitably be the straightest path to Gene’s destination, but they were also the riskiest. The mountain foliage would initially offer her partial reprieve from the sun, but once the terrain leveled out and the tracks fell across the spare barren desert of the Vast she’d be fully, and fatally, exposed.

  No, she would use a different route. For she’d already figured out the train’s destination. It had to be the Ruler’s Palace. Rumor had long circulated of a secret stash of hepers kept in underground pens, a rumor now corroborated by what she’d read in the laboratory. She would head to the Palace via a circuitous but safer route: return to the caves beneath the mountain, then backtrack along the Nede River the way she’d come. Several of the sun-proofed dome boats were docked at various points along the river with mechanical issues, and if she timed it right she could run at night and find shelter in these boats during the daytime. And in so doing, skipping like a rock across the surface of a river, she would make it back to the metropolis. And from there, to the Palace.

  To Gene.

  Wherever he was, she would journey there. No matter how far, how many miles and suns and days stood in her way, she would find him. And if she could not go to him, she would somehow lure him to her. For she had something to tell him: a truth that was both a curse and a miracle, the truth of the crimson moons.

  10

  FEAR SPILLS OUT of each enclave, collectively clotting the catacomb corridors. Matthew told us somebody is always taken after the sirens, and I can feel the hundreds of bodies on edge. A terrified pause, as if everyone is holding their breath in their hot and dark enclaves. How long before one of us is taken? Minutes? Hours?

  Time passes unseen, unfelt, unknown. It feels like hours, but it might be mere minutes. It might be whole days.

  A light suddenly shines. From across the corridor. It is bright, spilling into, then fracturing my blackened space.

  It is coming from Sissy’s enclave. From only her enclave.

  Too bright. I see only a firestorm of brilliant white light, a dark shape swimming in it. Sissy, trapped within. She swings around, her arms cutting through the shafts of light.

  Her enclave starts to vibrate ever so minutely. Now my eyes are adjusting to the brightness. Her limbs, pressed against the walls, are racked with fear and tension. Panic ripples across her face. On her back, she spins around, then pistons her legs out, pounding her feet against the glass, slamming it harder and harder. But she makes not a dent, not a crack, not even a sound.

  She shouts, but her muffled voice is swallowed up by harsh, metallic clanks. And then her enclave starts to shift and move. She slides over to the glass wall, her hands splayed against it, eyes swinging wildly, trying to see.

  She’s trying to locate me, needing to see me. Our eyes meet for just a second.

  And then the wall behind her opens up, and her whole enclave starts to retract into the wall. Into the dark void behind.

  I scream out her name. Throw myself against the glass. I won’t let her go. I can’t let her go. I’m done with desertion. I will never do to another what I did to Ashley June. As long as there is breath left in me, I will never abandon Sissy. Ever.

  She starts hitting the glass over and over, but the impact is silent and useless. She is pulled farther into the darkness behind the wall, getting smaller and smaller, until she is recessed so far back, I can see tracks now exposed under her diminishing enclave. One last time our eyes meet, and I try to stare comfort into her eyes. And then the back wall slides down into place and she is gone as if swallowed whole. Only a gutted recess exists where her enclave had been only moments ago. The faint vibrations in the walls come to an end, the metal clanking ceases, and all I can hear is her name being shouted over and over, and only after a minute do I realize it is me who is shouting, the syllables of her name cutting and grating against my throat.

  11

  HOURS LATER, IT’S my turn. The enclave is suddenly seared with blinding white light. The metal-plated walls about me grow warm as the enclave starts to vibrate gently. As if coming to life. None of this comes as a surprise. I lie still, eyes closed and heart racing, not resisting or attempting to escape. Trying to stay calm.

  In fact, this is what I want. What I have been hoping for since Sissy was taken away. I only wish it could have happened hours ago, that wherever they took Sissy I could have joined her sooner. Even if it is in the Palace kitchen.

  Something latches into place under the enclave, and then the whole coffin-like structure starts to
shake, rattling slightly as if on a conveyor belt. My breathing grows faster despite my resolve to stay calm. I flick my eyes open. I’m being pulled into the wall, am now past it, swallowed into a wide-open void of darkness. I draw a sharp breath as my stomach knots.

  Fear, until now tamped down, starts to boil over. I lash against the sides of the enclave, but the walls remain sturdy as ever. The gap in the wall through which I’ve just been pulled narrows into a slit. It closes, sealing me in a completely different universe.

  The enclave lurches over rises and dips, and for a few harrowing seconds I’m actually upside down. Then I’m tossed to the bottom of the enclave, spun dizzyingly around as the enclave careens through the darkness. And as I’m pummeled from side to side, disoriented in the darkness, I now know fully what I’ve been trying to deny. I’m no longer in control. I’m at their mercy. A scream rips out of my throat.

  12

  THE ENCLAVE TRUNDLES to a stop. For several minutes, nothing happens. Then a crack forms in the darkness above, a razor-thin slice of gray light. Not bright, but my eyes—too long in the darkness—blink in surprise. Then I’m suddenly being lifted up toward the widening crack of light.

  Silver light bathes me and I force my eyelids open despite the sharp jab of pain. Dark silhouettes of thin, long-limbed figures hover over me. Their ovoid heads almost touch as they peer down at me. They don’t speak, only stare. I catch my own reflection in the pairs of shades they have donned on their faces. I look so small. So frightened. Their shadows glide over me like dark clouds erasing my reflected image.

  A hiss. Then the glass wall begins to pull away. Fresh air pours into the enclave, and it is a sweet clarity that fills my lungs, clears my head. I shudder in the relief of it.

  Whispery words, quiet and detached. Then they touch me. They push aside my arms, hands pressing against my chest, fingers poking between my ribs. Then they’re hoisting me out of the enclave. Cool air splashes against my skin, chilling me. I try to stand, but my legs are jellified. I collapse to the metallic floor. Immediately I start crawling away from these men, my legs scrabbling over the slippery tiled floor.

  They don’t stop me, don’t utter a word to me. They only pace beside me, their feet mincing along with unnerving calm beside my frantic, crawling body. I bump up against the wall, spin around. The men—three of them, reedy and swaying slightly as if blown by a breeze—surround me. Their pale skin glows with a sour-milk complexion.

  White cubicle curtains hang from tracks on the ceiling, sectioning us off from whatever lies on the other side. I squirm up into a sitting position. In the far corner stands someone tall, broad shouldered, his face blurry.

  “Do not be afraid,” the man immediately in front of me says. Cold, detached, clinical.

  “We mean you no harm.”

  “You’re safe now,” the third man says. His thin upper lip slips up his row of teeth, exposing a pair of sharp incisors.

  Instantly I’m leaping to my feet, my fist connecting with his soft, effeminate cheek. The man collapses to the ground, offering as much resistance as a daffodil. But the other two are on me in an instant, their speed compensating for their lack of strength.

  One of the men is holding a hypodermic needle.

  I smack it away. It shatters, its contents—a dark-green fluid—splattering on the wall. I need to escape through the part in the curtains, but before I can get my legs in motion I feel a sharp prick on the side of my neck. I grab the nearest man by the scruff of his neck, push him against the wall. His shades smack into the wall, crack into two, and fall to the floor.

  I feel something dangling from my neck. I reach for it, pull it out. Another hypodermic needle, the syringe fully depressed, a dark-green droplet hanging off the tip of the needle. The man squirms, trying to escape.

  “Where’s Sissy?” I shout, pressing him against the wall, keeping his fangs away from me. “The girl! What have you done with her?”

  Face smushed against the wall, the man shakes his head vigorously from side to side, stammering.

  “Take me to her!” I shout, my words slurred and thick.

  The man begins to turn. He has found a surge of strength, his arms now able to break out of my hold. A wave of dizziness hits me. The man extricates himself from my grip, faces me. The room tilts, canting at a harsh angle. My legs wobble with sudden weakness. Leering, he shoves me, causing me to stumble and almost completely lose my balance. My vision swims. He hasn’t gotten stronger; I’ve gotten weaker. Whatever he injected into me, it is working quickly and powerfully.

  Then a set of hands clamps down on me from behind. “Do not resist.” This voice is masculine, authoritative. His grip on my shoulders is strong and assured. I turn around, realize it is the man who just a moment ago was standing in the corner. My legs fail me, and I start falling. He catches me, lowers me to the ground. “We are not them. Do not resist. We are not them.” He speaks these words softly now, with tenderness.

  “Father?” I murmur.

  But it is not. It is the burly man I’d seen in the catacombs an hour ago, the one who’d spoken to me in the restroom weeks ago. He looks exactly the same as he did back at the Heper Institute, even wearing the same prissy pair of glasses. Except now he’s dressed not in a tight-fitting tuxedo but in the regal attire of the highly ranked.

  “Do not be afraid,” he says gently. “Nothing is as it seems.”

  And then I fade out.

  13

  “GENE!”

  I fling my mind upward trying to break through a dome of sedated darkness. The room tilts and spins; it takes a second before everything stills.

  I’m in the same sectioned-off cubicle as before. I recognize the same curtains, even see the faint splotch of green on the wall where the hypodermic needle had shattered earlier. I’m in a bed. My ankles and wrists cuffed to the metal bed rails flanking me. How much time has passed it’s impossible to tell.

  “Gene, wake up!” It’s Sissy, right next to me.

  The restraints prevent me from sitting up completely. But Sissy’s cot is pushed up against mine, at an acute angle, the head corners touching. Her fingers reach out for mine through the bars of the railings. I maneuver my hand until my fingers are intertwined with hers.

  That’s when I notice. A thin plastic tube is inserted into the crooks of our arms. The tubes lead into transfusion bags hanging on each side of our beds. They’re filled with blood. Our blood.

  “How did you—”

  “These cots have wheels on them. I was on the other side of that curtain in another area also sectioned off by curtains. It took me some time, but I was able to swing-push it over. Inch by inch.” Sweat beads dot her wan face. She looks exhausted.

  “They’re draining you of your blood. We’ve got to get these tubes off.”

  She shakes her head. “I tried earlier. It sets off an alarm. They came storming in within minutes. Don’t do it. Not yet. We need to talk.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Her fingers clasp mine tighter. “I think so. Do you think David and Epap are okay?”

  “They’re fine,” I say, even though I don’t really know. I try to raise my head, but it feels bloated and heavy. “Who were those men?”

  “They’re human. That much is obvious. Else we’d be eaten by now.” A bead of sweat glides down her face. She wants to wipe at it but can’t; her cuffs clang loudly against the railing. “They know everything about us, Gene. They know we’re the Origin. And they’re going to keep drawing our blood for who knows how long.”

  “How many of them are there?”

  “I think there’s only four of them. They call themselves the Originators. They’ve been working undercover here for years. One of them, the leader, is pretty high ranking, I think.”

  “We need to reason with them, Sissy. If they’re really one of us, we need to tell them we can escape from here. Us, the kids in the catacombs, and them, the Originators. We can take the train back to the Mission, then head east from there.”r />
  She shakes her head. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do for hours? But they wouldn’t listen.”

  “Why not? Did you tell them—”

  “I told them everything, Gene. Detail by detail. I left out nothing. I spoke of your father, his instructions, the hang gliders, the Nede River, everything. They just nodded and stared blankly at me. And continued to draw blood. When I raised my voice and got combative, they … shot me with another injection.”

  I pull on the restraints, but they feel, in my vanquished state, even sturdier than before.

  “You need to know something, Gene.” She turns to me. “When I was telling them everything about the past, the history of the duskers, there were a few things that didn’t add up.”

  “Like what?”

  Her jaw clenches in frustration. “I don’t know. If I wasn’t so exhausted and hungry all the time, if I wasn’t thrown into weirder and weirder environments before I can gather myself, maybe I could put my finger on it. But my head’s spinning, Gene. I can’t collect my thoughts for even a minute.”

  Sissy’s suspicion echoes my own. Even back on the train when we were fleeing the Mission, similar questions had troubled me. “What do you think is going on here?”

  She pauses. “I don’t know.” Her eyes focus on mine. “But I’m not about to simply lie here while David and Epap are still in the catacombs.” She curls to her side and with her teeth rips out the tube from one arm, then the other.

  Two Originators charge in less than a minute later. They rush to Sissy’s side without speaking, attempt to reattach the needles into her arms.

  “Stop moving your arms,” one says in a stern, clinical voice. They try to pin her arms down, but, even restrained, she’s able to break out of the grip of their spindly arms.

  The men stare blankly at her. One of them goes to a phone on the wall. “We need you,” he says. Then he hangs up.