Man Hunt

by K. Edwin Fritz

  "What's that?" Jain asked. "What are you saying, freak? Hey! Check this out! The new guy is talkin' to himself again!" Obe stopped the litany in an instant and felt the hot flush of embarrassment cover his face.

  "That's right," Jain went on, even louder now. "I saw you when ole Sta came by this morning. Mumblin' to y'self just the same." Other men nearby were smiling, enjoying the show. "Sumbitch wouldn't even give the crazy old bastard a chunk a' bread. How's that for greedy?"

  "Careful, JACKAL." Leb stood to gain Jain's attention and Obe quickly stood beside him. "You don't know if Obe even had any food." Suddenly Jain's audience grew to a full crowd of onlookers as Leb went on. "And as for talking to himself, well… people all have their behaviors, don't they?" Obe tried not to smile. He couldn't believe how good it felt to have an ally. And even as he understood this, he understood something else. There was a preexisting feud between these two. Its presence was obvious from the instant Leb took to his feet. The crowd knew it too. Obe could feel them all watching like passersby at an auto accident. It might only be another fender-bender, but sometimes it turned out to be a real whopper of a crash. Who could resist looking at all the swirling lights, broken glass, mangled metal, and maybe even a dark pool of glistening blood? Obe backed off a touch, glad to be out of the limelight for a second.

  "Hell," Leb continued, "some people, I hear, hide behind bushes or up in trees and watch the rest of us take our jumpsuits off when they jerk off."

  The crowd exploded with laughter and moans of mock hurt. Jain instantly turned a deep red from the neck up and spasmodically clenched his fists. His mouth was a fierce white line cutting into his dark head like a wide scar.

  "Fuck you, Lebenezer!" Jain said. He tried again but couldn't manage to articulate his fury. "You!… you!–"

  "Yes?" Leb asked. He feigned an exaggerated innocence and Obe could feel the crowd holding their laughter in check, not wanting to miss a single word.

  "You mother fu–"

  A shotgun blasted from the roof above them. Every man in the alley jumped and turned. Some ran for the shadows of the dumpster or took flight from the alley entirely. Obe looked for a downed man. So did everyone else. But it quickly became apparent that no one had actually been shot.

  Of those who had stayed put, all of them– even Jain with his quickly dissipating rage– soon looked upwards towards the roof. A sea of eyes stared and listened. All that could be heard was the echoing explosion slowly fading away into eerie silence. A moment later it was replaced with a smaller explosion, this time a chorus of cackling laughter from above. The women, it seemed, had just been having fun at the men's expense.

  As the commotion died down and men slowly came out of the shadows, a group of three men, Doov among them, quickly formed a huddle near the back corner of the alley.

  Jain looked hard at Leb before mumbling something about luck and bullshit and turning to push his way through the crowd. Somehow, an inevitable fight had been avoided. Obe wondered if the women had been listening. He wondered how often they interfered like this.

  Not like that, he thought. I've never even heard a gunshot before. No, something strange just happened. The corner of the alley, he saw, was a bevy of hand motions. Doov and company were clearly having trouble agreeing on what the gunshot meant.

  Obe sat down and resumed his foot surgery. Leb again sat down next to him. "Don't worry about Jain," he said. "He's an ass. He just did that to establish his rank over you, but it's pathetic really. Everybody here knows he's a bully. He has no real respect. Being mean is the only way he knows how to gain power. He'll do something just like it a few days from now to some other new guy."

  Rein was approaching now, and Leb looked upward to the roof and quickly added some more. "Obe, listen. You're doing fine for now, but trust me, you haven't seen anything yet. You'll need to get tough, and fast. You'll learn our ways soon enough, but until then, just don't take things personally."

  "Everything O.K. over here?" Rein asked.

  "Fine," Leb answered for them both.

  "Good," Rein said. He was happy to be pacified with the oversimplification. He craned his neck upward and continued, more seriously. "You ready for Hell, Obe?" Obe followed Rein's gaze and saw a huge, wooden crate three floors up resting on the edge of the roof.

  Obe tried not to feel nervous, but when he spoke his voice warbled anyway. "Why-y is the food up there?"

  Rein only snickered and continued looking at the crate.

  "We don't get groceries the same way here," Leb offered quietly. "It's a bit more... rugged." Then he leaned back against his wall and didn't speak again. To Obe, it seemed like Leb had managed to blend into the shadows and become all but invisible.

  Rein, meanwhile, tugged at Obe's sleeves. "Here, I'll help you out, newbie. You'll have a better chance from this angle." Obe stood, nodded goodbye to Leb, and quietly followed Rein. He was too busy letting the many elements of this new place sink in to resist. He thought of his brother, that one strong memory that had been his best motivation for survival. He thought of again having the simple freedom to enjoy the sounds of nature or watch a sunset without the fear of a revving engine. Then, more to confirm his fear than expecting good news, he asked Rein a question.

  "Do you guys ever take time out of the day for simple pleasures? Like… looking for pictures in the clouds maybe?"

  Now Rein looked to him, shocked. "You fuckin' kiddin' me? Holy shit, boy, you go around here thinkin' like that and you'll be dead in a week. How the hell did you ever get this far?"

  Obe didn't respond. He had his answer.

  Rein looked back to the crate and pushed his slick, sable hair out of his eyes. "Clouds," he mumbled to himself.

  Obe looked across the alley to Leb, hoping for a moment's eye contact to suggest Rein might be wrong or that Leb himself would understand what Obe was getting at.

  But Leb was gone. He had vanished as quickly and soundlessly as a bird's shadow.

  6

  Obe looked down to the empty ground before him and gently shook his head. If Rein didn't understand, it was doubtful any of the others would. Cloud watching wasn't a naïve waste of time or an immature, desperate grasping of the past. It was an escape from the hell he lived in and the only form of relaxation he had at his disposal.

  He focused on the dry, gray pebble his eyes had been staring at. The little thing seemed so lonely on the vast plain of macadam below his moaning feet. Though he'd thought it countless times before, he hadn't ever truly believed the blue sector would be so different from green, and he didn't welcome change now. He had already gone through the difficulties of learning how to survive. Now he would need to coexist as well.

  Adapt or die, he reminded himself. It was the island's golden rule, and he intended not to forget it.

  Every man on the island had fallen victim to the beautiful eyes and willing bodies of one woman or another, and once their training had begun in full they were taught that barely more than a third made it to the blue milestone. He looked up and surveyed the forty-odd men in blue jumpsuits surrounding him in the alley. Supposedly, only a quarter of these men would make it to the black sector. And, of course, of those lucky octet or so, perhaps two would actually go home one day. Obe exhaled his breath slowly, concentrating again on the pebble. Two out of almost two hundred. He still had a very long way to go.

  Soon he heard stirrings of the men in the alley. Many of this "Family of Blue" had gathered loosely at one wall. There, above them and blocking Obe's view of the only small cloud in the sky, hung the huge wooden crate.

  In green sector the women stood with their double-barreled shotguns in their meaty hands. Here they were hidden on the rooftops. And whereas in green sector a line would form in front of the green garage door on the right side of their grocery alley, here men had fanned out and now stood in small clusters throughout the alley.

  He recalled that line of men in green. It always extended far out into the street because green sector housed closer t
o a hundred men, and only when all were silent would the women climb down from their perch, open the door wide, and begin handing out the tiny satchels of food.

  Sometimes the men would stand there for a half-hour or more with every stomach rumbling until the women finally began passing out groceries. It was terrible to be in the back of the line, wondering if the man in front of you would be given the last bag.

  The newbies, the ones who still hadn't gotten used to the drastic decrease in sustenance, would complain sometimes. This would only extend their wait. No pity was shown by either men or women. There would always be a chorus of gurgling stomachs from the first five or ten men, the ones who had missed out the previous grocery day and hadn't eaten anything but dew drops and grass for a few days.

  Here, however, there were no lines. No organization. With less than half the number of men, it seemed like there would be plenty of satchels to go around, but Obe knew better. A few would always have to suffer. The women were like that. It was all part of their education.

  The men had been milling around, but now that the crate had arrived most were standing in place and gathering. The clusters were breaking down, slowly forming one large mob of hungry men. Obe could feel yet another bout of panic working to take over his heartbeat. He wondered what, exactly, was going to happen here. Would the women just dump the crate upon the mass below and let them duke it out? Was that the latest torture they had created? Hadn't what happened in the fortress been enough?

  All of the men suddenly felt oddly distant. Separated. "Try to get yours early," a voice said to Obe's side. It was Leb, and Obe was glad to see him again.

  "What is all this?" Obe asked. But Leb only cleared the mass of blonde hair from his eyes and pointed to the roof. Obe looked again and suddenly understood everything. Extending out from the roof, held by a strong female hand, was a fishing rod with a giant blunted hook hanging from a line. Dangling from that hook was a single satchel of food. The women meant to encourage the very fistfights that were prohibited in green sector. They would do it one bag of food at a time and probably love every second of it.

  Suddenly, Obe realized he was surrounded by enemies.

  CHAPTER 7

  BREAKDOWN

  1

  "What… what do you mean?" Josie asked. She was completely flustered by Monica's accusation. Deep down, she had never truly thought the island counselor could see through her lies.

  "I said I don't believe your story, and that's exactly what I mean." Monica's fingertips remained resting together. Her gaze was stern, unflinching. Josie stared at her, still too shocked to believe it.

  "I don't appreciate being lied to," Monica continued. "It's disrespectful. You don't disrespect me, do you Josie?"

  "No." She was happy to give Monica something she'd like to hear. It didn't matter if it, too, wasn't the truth.

  "Good. Then all that remains is a proper apology."

  "I'm sor-"

  "Don't tell me that! Don't reduce yourself so easily. You're a woman. Be stronger than that. Give me a real apology. Tell me the truth."

  Josie already knew the danger she was in. Nevertheless, the truth could not, would not be allowed to come to her lips.

  Her eyes stared wide at the floor, but she didn't see the patterns there. What she saw were the men in the training area. Men who screamed. Men who cried. Men who swore and fought and made so many promises and sometimes went a little insane.

  Josie's mouth moved, but nothing that came to her mind could be voiced aloud, so she remained silent and gawking.

  "I can see this is more serious than I thought." Monica's voice broke Josie's little trance. She wanted to say something that would diffuse the situation. Slowly, she began stumbling an excuse.

  "I…" but still nothing came. She tried again immediately and failed just as poorly. "When the…" She lapsed into silence while her jaw worked its hinge.

  "Relax, Josie. You've already said enough."

  "What?"

  "I must say I'm quite disappointed, but if it's one thing I can't stand to watch, it's a struggling woman."

  Monica finally separated her fingers as she spoke. She folded them together and leaned back in her wooden chair. The hinges squeaked a loud protest under her dense weight.

  "I want you to close your eyes now, Josie, and help me to help you."

  Josie settled in for the long haul and did as she was told. Behind her closed lids, she rolled her eyes. Exposed as she was, Monica's idea of help would always be a ridiculous waste of time.

  The quiet that lingered thereafter was standard procedure. Monica was a firm believer in the power of the meditative mind. Silence, she claimed, helped to clear and prepare it.

  They sat that way a long time, Josie's eyes closed and Monica leaned back and watching her closely. Eventually, Josie's mind slipped again to the men in their chains, of them screaming for mercy. She thought she'd go crazy if Monica didn't say something soon.

  "I want you to think about Charles," the counselor said.

  Instantly the men of the island were replaced by another, more powerful, image. A tall, black-haired young man with deep-set eyes and thick eyebrows stood before her. He was tall, strong, and handsome in the way that had once made her weak in the knees. His mouth was smiling at her warmly, but the eyes under the bushy brows were angry. Josie grimaced.

  "I want you to think about what he did to you, Josie." Monica's voice was quieter now. Soothing.

  The image in Josie's mind changed. Now the black-haired man was shirtless. He was in her living room and her parents were already upstairs in bed, just a few seconds away. Charles had quite a bit of chest hair to match his eyebrows. She was playing a little finger game with those short, curly things. In only moments they would forever become dirty places where bugs and vermin would nest.

  "Do you remember what he did to you, Josie?" Fast forward several minutes. The shirtless Charles was above her now. One strand of hair had come unglued from its prison of hairs gel and clung to his forehead. His muscular left arm was swinging down hard as he backhanded her across the face. In Monica's office, Josie's mouth tightened, but she didn't speak.

  "Do you remember what he did to you, Josie?"

  "Yes," she whispered, and the pain of saying that single word brought a tear to her eye. Charles hit her again and again in her mind. Each time it was the same swing of his arm, the same fresh shock of pain on her cheek, the same all-new look in his eyes.

  But attached to each flashed memory was a ghostly echoing image of her own hand hitting a naked man in chains as he screamed and the look of terror on his face. Both were repeated over and over and over.

  "Good," Monica said. Now her voice was smooth and effortless to listen to, like the ease of drinking warm milk. "I want you to talk to me, Josie. Tell me how you allowed him to do it. How did Charles take your control?"

  Josie's mind did a flashback to a few minutes before he had hit her. He was tearing his shirt off eagerly, and she was smiling, enjoying their forbidden passion. She started playing with his chest hairs. And soon she had…

  But no, she wouldn't remember that part.

  "How did it happen, Josie?" The voice was so warm, so comforting. Josie's mouth betrayed her and she answered truthfully.

  "I let him kneel between my legs. I let him think I wanted it. And I did want it, a little. But when I changed my mind… because he wasn't being gentle…" She paused, thinking of how often she had been less than gentle in the training rooms far below. How often she had enjoyed the pain she caused.

  "He wasn't listening to me," she went on. "He only… whispered over and over to ‘Just let me. Just let me. I need it. I need you.’ And then, when I got too loud… That's when he hit me."

  "And what did you do after that?"

  Charles was in her mind again, directly over her. Sweat dripping off his nose, breath huffing loudly. And there was pain. Lots of pain. From everywhere. And the physical pain was only half of it. The emotional pain was so much worse. A hun
dred times worse. Because ultimately the fault was as much her own as it was his.

  "I let him screw me," she said bluntly. "I couldn't stand to have him hit me again, and I couldn't think of anything else to do. I knew it was wrong… but part of me didn't want to disappoint him." She finished the last in an embarrassed whimper that brought forth new tears. She had hated herself for that moment from the instant it began to happen. Sitting in Monica's office a full six years later, she still did.

  But Monica still didn't speak, and soon enough a new image came to Josie's mind, though this one was two months old. A scrawny naked man in chains was breaking her rule and holding his hands up in protection. It was an instinct he hadn't yet learned to control. His eyes were red. His nose ran. His lips blubbered again and again, "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!"

  And she had told him his apologies were pathetic. Told him that she was… disappointed… that he hadn't yet learned. She'd said this exactly the same way a thousand times before. Rhonda had taught them to pause and emphasize that one word because it was the most powerful word to a mother, and how else should they treat these men who act like children but as children?

  However when she'd said the word this time, she suddenly understood she wasn't disappointed in the man at all. It was, after all, only an instinct. The disappointment, she realized with some horror, had been with herself.

  This was the day her secret had begun, though she'd come to understand it had been festering for many months, perhaps even the last couple of years. But, yes, the sudden change in the meaning of that word had been the day she'd come to know she had changed.

  Tears were slowly rolling down Josie's rounded cheeks. She didn't blink them away. They felt good somehow, and she instantly hated Monica all the more for forcing her to confront this ghost and somehow being right in doing it.