The Trap (The Hunt Trilogy)

by Fukuda, Andrew

  David’s lips open and move, with emphasis. He’s mouthing words to me.

  Run. Run.

  I shake my head at him.

  “… especially the earlobes, so filled with succulent fat…”

  It’s okay.

  I choke back tears as I turn away.

  “… if you can avoid the tangy areas of the arms or the gamy texture of the biceps, I have found that…”

  “Enough,” I say, my voice hard and gritty. “Enough.”

  The Ruler’s mouth freezes mid-speech.

  I walk over to the enclave, step inside.

  “Transport me, already,” I say through clenched teeth.

  19

  THE ENCLAVE IS transported directly to the Palace wall. A narrow slit widens and that’s all I see before I’m scorched with piercing sunlight. I throw an arm over my eyes. There’s an electronic beep, and I hear the glass lid of the enclave sliding open. Blinded by light, but afraid the lid might close on me, I step out.

  My feet meet nothing but air and I fall a short distance, a meter or so, to the hard, baked desert ground. The fresh sting of sunlight on my skin, after so long underground, feels like life itself.

  Gradually, my eyes get used to the brightness. I see skies saturated with the purest blue, the endless stretch of the desert plains. A breeze blows past me, refreshing despite the grains of sand picked up and thrown into my sweaty face. I’ve changed; now I crave all those things I once avoided: sunlight on my skin, open space, warm winds blowing through my hair, the feel of sweat pouring down my back. They make me feel alive.

  A horse nickers. Right up against the Palace rampart, tethered to a hitching post. I walk over, clouds of sand kicking up at my feet. The horse perks up at my approach, nervous, and I slow my pace and move directly into its line of vision. I stroke the side of its neck, clucking softly. Next to its front hoofs are two upturned bowls of food and water. Some of the water has spilled on a backpack.

  The backpack is filled with weapons. Lots of weapons. Four handguns, a couple of daggers, Moonlight Visors, a handful of pre-loaded magazines. Several boxes of ammunition. And a small metallic briefcase that I don’t open. Not yet. Now it suddenly feels real. These are weapons of death, of Ashley June’s death. These are the triggers I must pull; these are the cold bullets that must pummel through her body.

  I think about the deal struck with the Ruler. How forcefully I’d insisted that Sissy come with me. Of course, it had to be Sissy. I wanted to be with her. But it never occurred to me—until now—that my choice might have been more calculated than emotional. That there might have been an ulterior motive. My lungs go cold.

  The sound of screeching metal disrupts my thoughts. Next to my enclave still jutting out of the rampart, another enclave suddenly protrudes out of an opening. It’s Sissy, arms spread against the glass walls of her enclave, trying to stabilize herself. A hiss, then the side facing the outside slides open. Her arms are thrown in front of her eyes.

  “Who’s there?” she demands, her voice filled with both fear and warning. Trying to see, but blinded by the light.

  “Sissy.”

  Her head snaps toward me. “Gene?” She steps out of the enclave and, like me, mishandles the short drop. She falls awkwardly, sprawling on the ground.

  I go to her, and the heat of her skin singes me with guilt.

  She tries to open her eyes but can’t. “Where are we? What’s going on?”

  “We’re outside. It’s okay.”

  “What? Why did they let us go? One moment I’m in the catacombs locked in the enclave, the next moment I’m transported outside.” She slants her head to the side. “David? Epap? Are you guys here?”

  “No, Sissy, it’s just you and me.”

  She grips my forearm harder. “What’s wrong, Gene?”

  I shake my head.

  “Tell me what’s happening! None of this makes any sense!”

  I tell her. I don’t hold back—you don’t hold back from Sissy, she’ll insist everything out of you anyway—so I tell her everything, everything, the Ruler’s Suite, the aquarium tanks, the hours passed since Epap last sent a TT message. You give her everything and more, hoping the flood of information, the deluge of words, will conceal the secret agenda. You stand with the sun on your back and the light piercing into her eyes, hoping your face is obscured by shadow. And when she hugs you back, tightly and fiercely, and speaks words of corded steel that the two of you together will find Epap, together kill Ashley June, and together return to save David, you return her embrace with your own, only tighter, harder, to mask the self-hatred and self-loathing inside.

  And minutes later, galloping away, you are only too glad she is sitting behind you and unable to see your face. And though her arms clasp around your waist and her inner thighs press against the outside of your legs—their intimacy a torture—you are at least relieved she does not see your face, that you do not have to look her in the eye. Because then she might see right through you, and realize why she is with you at all. Then she might discover your hidden motive.

  That you are going not to kill Ashley June.

  But to save her. To re-turn her back to human.

  And in order to do that, you cannot do it alone, for you are insufficient. By half.

  You need someone else. You need Sis.

  20

  WE RIDE HARD across the desert land that is blazing copper and blasted with heat. I push the horse at full gallop for the first thirty minutes, relishing the hard, jaunty bounce, the impossibility of coherent thought in my rattling skull. I try to ignore the feel of Sissy’s arms and legs around me, the soft press of her on my back whenever we take a hard bounce. The wind in my ears, the harsh glare of sunlight in my eyes, it is all a welcome distraction.

  When the Palace has shrunk to a distant dot behind us, we stop by a pile of large boulders. We disembark, lead the hard-breathing horse to the shade by the boulders. Its eyes are wild with exhaustion, it muscles bunched with fatigue.

  “You’re pushing the horse too hard,” Sissy says, concern on her face. “It’ll keel over and die before we reach the metropolis. Go slower, Gene.”

  I don’t reply. She’s right, but I’m not in the mood to admit it.

  She stares hard at me. “Something’s different about you. What’s going on?”

  I ignore her, and busy myself tending to the horse. She sighs with frustration, then scrambles up one boulder, then another.

  The horse side-gazes me with large, accusatory eyes as if it knows my true motives. It snorts, spraying me. I return a hard stare, then climb up the boulders to join Sissy. The granite is blistering to the touch, almost singeing my hands. Sissy is staring into the horizon, through wavy bands of heat undulating off the boulders.

  “You don’t have to worry about the Originators chasing us down,” I tell her. “The chief advisor can’t leave the Ruler’s side. Not at a time like this. And the other Originators won’t leave without him.”

  But she’s not looking in that direction. Instead, she’s staring toward the metropolis, her hands placed over her eyes like an awning.

  “I can see buildings. The metropolis isn’t too far,” she says. “Maybe an hour away.”

  “An hour and a half,” I say. “I’ll slow down. You’re right.”

  She doesn’t reply, but her expression softens a touch. “What’s that sparkle over there?” she asks. “That glimmer in the distance.”

  I follow the trajectory of her pointing arm. There. “That’s the Domain Building. The tallest skyscraper in the metropolis.”

  “Where your father worked.”

  I nod.

  Sissy whistles. “Look at all those skyscrapers. The metropolis is so much bigger than I imagined, Gene.” She looks at me with awe. And deep pity. “How did you ever survive? Living right in the midst of them? For all these years?”

  “You just learn. Adapt. Survive.”

  “It’s so massive,” Sissy says in a quieter, subdued voice. “How are we
ever going to find Ashley June in there? It’ll be like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

  “We don’t have to search. We have a time and place certain where she’ll be. The Convention Center. At dusk. We go there and let her come to us. Then we take her down.”

  She doesn’t say anything, but I can see the idea taking hold. “And how do we find Epap?”

  I reach into my pocket, take out the TextTrans. “We keep trying to reach out to him,” I say. I quickly explain how the TextTrans functions as I type out a brief message.

  It’s Gene and Sissy. Where are you?

  “Let him know we’re heading for the metropolis,” Sissy says. “Tell him we’ll be there in about an hour and a half.”

  I pause. “I don’t know. Maybe we should leave out the details. Just in case his TextTrans has fallen into the wrong hands. It’d be better not to give away too much.”

  She looks away. She knows what I’m insinuating about Epap, that he might not be alive. She gives a quick, almost imperceptible nod.

  I hit SEND. “We do this every few hours,” I say. “Maybe we’ll get a reply.”

  Her jawline juts out. “He’s probably dead, isn’t he?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “He is, isn’t he?”

  “I won’t lie to you, Sissy.” My voice is softer now. “He probably is. But we can’t let that get to us. We need to think of David, okay? Even if we can’t find Epap, we still have David to rescue. Which means we still need to get to Ashley June. For David’s sake.”

  Sissy stares hard at me. A wind gusts then, blowing the hot air rising off the boulders through our hair.

  “I keep thinking of David,” she says. A vertical line creases down the middle of her forehead. “That right now while we’re free under blue skies, the sun on our faces, able to talk, able to breathe fresh air, he’s confined in a tank. He’s submerged in liquid, alone, in almost pitch-darkness.” She clamps her jaw, her teeth grinding. “It’s more than I can bear.”

  Sissy gazes back at the Palace. Muscle juts out of her arms, tinseled with sweat. “I feel like I’m deserting him. I’d do just about anything to take his place; I’d be willing to die a thousand deaths. I should go back for him.”

  “You can’t,” I say, almost too quickly.

  She pulls her hair behind her ear. “You go to the metropolis, get Epap. I return to the Palace, get David.”

  “No, Sissy,” I say urgently. “We stay together.” I can’t let us separate; I need her; I need her blood. How I get it—how I’ll explain why to her—that I haven’t figured out yet. But I can’t rush things, not without a proper container to store her blood, not with so many hours for her blood to spoil in the heat. Not while she still has a chance to walk away.

  She squares her body with mine, and her look is surprisingly tender. Sweat droplets bead her forehead, dot her upper lip. She sees the desperation in my face, and something in her relents. She presses her forehead against my collarbone. I wrap my arms around her damp back.

  “We stay together, okay, Sissy?”

  She nods against my chest.

  I close my eyes, swallow hard. Hoping she’ll forgive me when this is all over.

  * * *

  We test out the weapons. Better to practice firing the weapons here at the boulders than in the metropolis where the loud bangs would attract attention.

  Sissy is a quick study when it comes to the handgun. She figures out how to load it and, after only a few minutes, is able to do so with eyes closed, her fingers snapping in cartridge after cartridge, all in under five seconds. She picks out a rock as a target, and after only a few practice rounds she’s nailing the target each time.

  My weapon of choice is the sniper rifle, which I find only after opening the silver briefcase. Also embedded in the case are two tube-like cylinders.

  “Silencers,” Sissy says with awe, taking one. “I read about them in the dome.” She stares down at the handgun. “I think this silencer is compatible with both the sniper rifle and this handgun!” she exclaims, screwing it in. “I always wanted to try one of these.” When she shoots, instead of an explosive report a whistled zip is all that sounds. She nods approvingly.

  “You keep that one,” I tell her.

  Turns out, I’m a crackerjack at the sniper. From the moment I place my eye on the eyepiece and stare down the scope, the stock pressed snugly into my shoulder, it feels right. I’m overeager at first, too hungry to feel the sniper’s power, and end up pulling the trigger too hastily. But after the first few shots, I steady my breathing, slow my finger on the trigger. My shots are still a bit off, a touch to my left each time. I make some minor tweaks on the scope, and from that point on I bull’s-eye every one of my shots.

  “Hotshot, you are,” Sissy says, smiling. Her face turns serious. “This is good. In terms of strategy. When we take out Ashley June, we’ll position ourselves both close and far from her. You get the first shot, from afar. I’ll be up close with a short-range weapon, in case you miss. Two chances at the same target.”

  I nod in fake agreement, glancing up at the sun. “Let’s get going,” I say. I break down the sniper and pack the parts back into the case.

  “Check the TextTrans,” she says.

  But there’s nothing.

  Silently we slide down the boulder, untether the horse. But despite Epap’s TT silence, I can tell that Sissy’s mood has lifted. Her skin glows; her body seems more vibrant. The weapons, the shooting, the sense of working toward a goal—these have all buoyed her spirits.

  I secure the backpack to the saddle and am about to mount the horse when she puts her hand on my shoulder. “This time,” she says with a grin, “I’ll ride in front. It’s your turn to sit behind and be the useless seat belt wrapped all around me.”

  21

  IT IS ALREADY late afternoon when we trot into the business sector of the metropolis. Heat lies oppressive in the empty asphalt streets. Skyscrapers tower over us, and their slanted shadows cut diagonally across the street, offering us spurts of reprieve from the scorching sun that has unremittingly pounded us the whole journey here. These buildings, looming tombstones of sun-blasted concrete and shuttered metal grates, are silent spectators to our slow, cautious progress.

  The horse’s clip-clops echo back at us, an eerie sound. And though I used to walk these same empty daytime streets many times when I was younger, they spook me in a way they never used to. More than once, I glance back, half-expecting to see a figure silently chasing us down, bounding on all fours.

  “Turn left at the next intersection,” I tell Sissy, and she guides the horse with a gentle pull on the reins. We pull up in front of a large circular building. A wide driveway loops up an elevated bank to the entrance. In front of the building is a deep, wide body of water larger than the municipal pool. Not that anyone would ever swim here, not with the water at a depth of almost six meters. A dangerous depth—duskers easily drown in much shallower water—but necessary for the majestic water shows at night. I’d seen a few shows before, on school field trips and on television. An awesome spectacle of high arching coordinated jets of water, colored lighting, sprays and splashes everywhere.

  We dismount, lead the horse to the water. It sticks in its snout, drinks in messy gulps.

  “Is this the hospital?”

  “No. The Convention Center.”

  “A little early, don’t you think?”

  “The horse needs to drink. As do we.” I cup water into my hands, take in large swallows. It’s warm and metallic tasting but a salve to my thirst. I douse my head underwater, then flick my head back up, letting the water stream down my neck and under my shirt.

  Sissy’s done the same, and water drips off the tips of her bangs, dampening her shirt. She squints at the Convention Center. “Look there. At the roof. It’s shining like glass.”

  I nod. “People rave about that glass roof. On rainy nights, it sets the perfect ambience. The raindrops hitting the roof, just the right amount of filt
ered light. If there’s a full moon, they’ll darken the tint of the glass. Push of the button.” I douse more water over my head.

  Sissy cups another handful of water, combs her bangs to the side. “It’s hours before dawn. Find a place to hide out here?”

  “We can’t stay here.”

  “Then should we head to the hospital? Find Ashley June’s room, take her out there?”

  I shake my head. “The hospital’s likely to be packed. With journalists. Doctors, nurses. We won’t get far before being recognized.”

  “We can put on the Visors. They’ll shield our faces.”

  I take another gulp of water. “Won’t work. People don’t wear them indoors. And besides, look at us. We stick out in other ways. Our hair’s disheveled, we’re caked in sand and dirt, we’ve got streaks of dried sweat along our faces and necks. I’m badly in need of a shave—not just the facial hair, but I’ve got hair on my arms and legs, too. And then there’s our odor. When’s the last time we bathed? Trust me, they’ll smell us a block or two away. A Visor isn’t going to conceal our smell.”

  Sissy’s eyes scan over my face, my body, as if for the first time noticing the dirt and hair. “We could use a wash, I suppose. But honestly, I don’t smell any odor.”

  “We’ve gotten used to each other’s smell. We reek.”

  “So we wash ourselves with this water?”

  I shake my head. “It’s not enough. Our odor is too deeply recessed into our pores. We need soap, scruffy pads, detergent. Paling cream for our sun-darkened skin. Whitening agents for our teeth. And I need razors.”

  “And something tells me we’re not going to be able to walk into a neighborhood store and find these things. Where do we go?”

  I rub the horse’s neck. “We go back home. My home.”

  22

  IT’S STRANGE TO be walking in my neighborhood again. We’d tethered the horse to a road sign as we entered the suburban district, worried that its loud clip-clops might wake the light sleepers in curbside homes. We’re glad to be walking, anyway, the first time in days it feels like we can stretch our legs, get the muscles working again.