by Jen Cole
Fitani put a weightless hand on hers and smiled as she jerked back with a shudder.
“Expediency, Jo. Don’t take it personally. This game enables us to achieve a small degree of justice. Though your whole era is to blame, for practical purposes it’s only safe to punish a few carefully selected representatives. I’ve already explained the circumstances that made you a suitable candidate. Now allow me to finish the rules of Play or Die before you run out of time.”
Jo sucked in air. “What do you mean?”
“At 8.00 a.m. when you agreed to hear about the game, we sent the Play signal along with your geospatial coordinates to your Hunter’s phone.”
“My geospatial coordinates?”
“Indeed. The Hunter knows you’re in this area, so it’s lucky you moved out of the open for your briefing.” Fitani winked. “Some Prey in the past have been bagged before their briefing even ended.”
Jo looked round the cafe. The Irish waitress was edging between tables balancing a latte on a saucer in one hand and a plate of scrambled eggs in the other. Customers chatted together or hunched over their reading. Coat-muffled shapes passed by the misty front window. Everything looked normal but her stomach was a knot.
“So.” She kept her voice flat. “The game ends when I’m dead?”
“Oh, not necessarily.” Fitani broke into a radiant game-show smile. “You can never say the people of the future aren’t sporting. Your Hunter, in order to win his or her – let’s use ‘its’ to keep things simple, stupendous prize money, has to bag you within five days. If it hasn’t bagged you in that time the game is over. You go free and we arrange for a professional assassin to kill the Hunter. Hunters aren’t informed of this penalty, so the unsuccessful are quickly dispatched. Do you see the beauty? Whether it’s the Prey or the Hunter who dies, the viewers are always guaranteed a kill.”
Jo found herself asking, “Why don’t you tell Hunters about the penalty?”
“Hunters tend to get emotionally involved in the game and some continue trying to bag their Prey after the five days have elapsed. If they were aware of the penalty clause, they’d take steps to avoid their assassin while still coming after the Prey. They might even succeed in making a kill before they themselves were eliminated – hardly fair to Prey who’d earned their reprieve.”
“So if I can escape the Hunter for five days I get to walk away free?”
“Absolutely! But don’t think those five days will be easy. Every three hours we will send your coordinates to the Hunter. It also has your photograph, so it knows exactly what you look like.”
“What? Do I get to see what the Hunter looks like?”
“No, you don’t.” Fitani chuckled. “Isn’t it fun? But don’t worry, to keep things sporting, you have an advantage it doesn’t. Remember you have a scoreboard. By coming up with inventive ways of avoiding the Hunter, you can win approval points from our viewers. For each thousand points you gain, I will appear and you get to ask me any three questions, except about your Hunter’s identity.
“Some of the Prey in past seasons have thought up quite ingenious questions. One asked whether his Hunter was allergic to anything. The answer was yes – to bee stings, so the Prey found a large commercial apiary to hide in until the time was up. That Prey’s Hunter wasn’t prepared to risk its life going in after him, although it probably would have, had it known the penalty for failure.”
“I don’t suppose my Hunter is allergic to anything?”
Fitani smiled. “No.”
“If I’m only allowed three questions after every thousand points, why are you answering all my questions now?”
“Ah.” Fitani leant back, lacing fingers behind his head. “This is your briefing. It began when you sat down and will finish when you leave. You may ask as many questions as you like during your briefing. But I should mention that two previous Prey have been killed mid-question, perhaps mistakenly imagining my presence would somehow protect them. Still, not all Hunters are smart enough to head straight for the Prey’s coordinates as soon as the start signal is sent. Many waste precious time choosing weapons or employing assistants.”
“Assistants?”
“Hunters may use any means short of professional assassins to bag their Prey, and given the substantial prize on offer, most decide employing help is a worthwhile investment.”
“Can I also get help from others?”
“Certainly, though you may not use a hit man either.”
“But I could try to kill the Hunter myself?”
“You could, although be sure the person you’re trying to kill is actually your Hunter. If either you or your Hunter kills bystanders, whether deliberately or accidentally, the game is cancelled and the one responsible for the bystander’s death has a professional assassin sent after them. Hunters are informed of this during their briefing to prevent them from getting unsporting ideas such as setting off explosives in the area of a Prey’s coordinates.”
Jo didn’t know at what point she’d given up hope this was a joke. She only knew it was taking all her will not to jump up and run. The more information she could get from Fitani, the more hope she had of surviving.
“Can we move this briefing to a restroom?” She recoiled as a waiter swept by.
Fitani shook his head. “The moment you leave the table your briefing is over. You won’t see me again unless you reach a thousand points.”
“How far away is my Hunter right now?”
“About two hundred meters.”
Dear God! “Is the Hunter moving towards or away from this cafe?”
“Good question. That won you a few points. Your Hunter is currently moving away from this cafe, though it could turn around at any moment.”
“Tell me quickly then, is there a back way out of here?”
“Yes.” Fitani’s reply was unhurried. “Through the kitchen.”
“If my Hunter enters this cafe, will you tell me?”
The game show host looked bored. “Only if you happen to ask me at that exact moment.”
A dozen questions raced through her mind, but the words that burst from Jo’s lips were, “What really happened to my father?”
Fitani rolled his eyes. “The viewers don’t care about your father. You’re losing points and wasting valuable time.”
“You said you would answer any question.”
He sighed. “If you insist.” His gaze drifted away and seemed to freeze for a moment. Then he looked at her. “My technicians tell me that a man called Simon Brooks hired another man called Morris Blatman to kill your father. Blatman accomplished this by sabotaging the tree shaker.”
Jo could barely hold onto these facts. Simon Brooks, Morris Blatman – neither name meant anything.
“Why?”
“How should I know? We can see what people of the past are doing, but we can’t read their minds.”
“How close is the Hunter now?”
“Fifty meters.”
“Is it coming towards this cafe?”
“Yes.”
Fifty meters! Jo watched the door. She had time for maybe two more questions – but what to ask?
“Is the Hunter alone?”
Fitani smiled. “Yes it is.”
“Is it carrying a weapon?”
“I don’t see one.”
“Is it carrying anything?”
“An umbrella.”
Jo picked up her shoulder bag, putting it over her head and across her body like a sash to keep it secure. Stay calm, she thought. The tables will slow up anyone trying to get back here. I’ll have time to take a look at whoever comes through the door with an umbrella before I race out the back and merge with the city crowd. It’s cutting it fine, but worth it to know what the Hunter looks like.
She glanced at the game show host and caught an odd expression on his face. The doorway was empty – no customers with umbrellas, but something in Fitani’s look made her skin crawl. The words tumbled from her lips.
“Is the Hunte
r in here now?”
“Yes.”
Shit! Jo pushed her chair back so fast she collided with a passing waiter and both went sprawling. She rolled onto her knees but was off-balance and wobbled backwards, just as a sharp spike poking from the end of an umbrella jabbed past her face. Instinctively, Jo grabbed the umbrella and pulled it in the direction it was already travelling until the stiletto end speared into the wooden floor. She heard a muffled curse as the person holding the umbrella tumbled forward with it.
The waiter she’d collided with had regained his feet and was reaching down to assist her. Jo grabbed his arms and pulled herself up. Then she spun him around and pushed him on top of her assailant, who was rising with the freed umbrella. Waiter and Hunter went down and she raced for the kitchen door.
~~~~
CHAPTER 2
On his back, the real Danny Fitani stretched and added a pillow. The smart mat adjusted to his new position as he checked the time display. He’d been in his tube five hours. Seven more until it opened, allowing him to visit the studio Playroom in person. He could send his avatar in the meantime, but it wasn’t the same as being there in the flesh. Recording, editing and broadcasting an event in the past was hard work. Personal encouragement was vital to keep his best people coming back each Play-Time.
A communication light blinked. With a gesture, he reduced and slid the virtual hunt-screen to one side before opening a second screen onto the smiling face of Angela Karpin, his chief programmer and a partner in the studio Playroom.
“We’ve had a great viewer-response to the start, Danny,” she said. “They do love the way you terrify the Prey with your sleazy Game Show Host persona.”
Fitani waved away her words. “Without the loyalty of our technicians and programmers, we wouldn’t have a show.” His tone became confidential. “I’m kind of glad I don’t get much sleep during a game. Every time I do, the old nightmare rears its head.”
Angela laughed. “The one where you go to the studio Playroom and find none of the crew’s turned up? That’ll never happen. They can’t resist our Playroom. Where else can you operate the tools for dealing out justice to the Ancestors?”
“Speaking of the tools of justice, how’s that new camera software behaving itself?”
“Like a dream, thanks to Mavis and Garal. They’re brilliant programmers.”
Angela blinked out. Against the checklist in his mind, Fitani ticked off Hunt Begun. Later, to hold the audience over the slow bits, his crew would add a separate feed, where people could tune into a commentary on the unfolding events, and watch interviews with viewers, but the chase was too fresh for that yet.
~~~~
CHAPTER 3
Jo hurtled through the archway into the compact kitchen. A boy with a frying pan tottered and his pancake landed on the bench, but she had no breath for apology. The back door was almost in reach. As she stepped towards it a mountain moved to block her.
The not-so-white apron she bounced against was stretched across an enormous stomach. The face above it was purpling. A meaty hand landed on her shoulder. Another lifted to point back the way she’d come.
“Staff only. Out!”
Jo looked back. The hooded figure was coming through the archway, umbrella held low. Her cry was drowned in an eruption from the mountain, who stepped towards the Hunter.
“You again!”
As the chef moved forward, Jo ducked under his hand and slipped past him. She reached the door, heaved it open and leapt through. It closed behind her, shutting off the chaos in the kitchen and she found herself in an alley lined with rubbish bins. With a gulp she ran their putrid gauntlet to a busy pedestrian laneway. Going left would take her down to the street on which the cafe fronted, so she turned right, joining the crowd.
There was little room to move in the narrow laneway. Along the sides low stools and rickety tables rubbed against hole-in-the-wall bars offering coffees, juices, homemade soups and sandwiches. Those not edging towards the offerings, stayed with the slow-moving press in the middle. Jo joined them and eventually reached three steps to a higher level.
Leaping to the top, she turned to look back over the heads. There! The hooded Hunter was just entering the pedestrian way. It must have been forced to leave the cafe through the front. Had it seen her? It looked up and she turned and ran.
This elevated part of the lane had a single row of tables down the middle, forcing people to surge along the sides and dodge waiters heading out towards their customers. Jo surged with the rest, her heart thumping wildly as they all spilled out onto Collins Street. The pedestrian lights were green and across the road the Australia on Collins shopping arcade seemed to open its arms to her. She ran towards it, but at the last minute, baulked. Hardly anyone was going in. She needed the protection of a crowd.
On impulse she turned left but quickly realized the wide walkway of Collins Street was too exposed. Ahead on her right was another shopping arcade – the Block. Desperate to get off the open street, Jo ran into it. Another mistake. This arcade was high-end, its exquisite mosaic-tiled floor whispering, class. Antique orbs hung from the vaulted ceiling, illuminating nineteenth century plasterwork. The store windows displayed expensive jewelry, imported chocolates and crystalware. At the prices they charged they didn’t need many customers, and this early it was empty apart from a strolling Japanese tourist with a bulging plastic bag, and a pair of grandmothers inspecting the cakes on display in the Hopetoun Tea Rooms.
It was too late to turn around. Jo ran, her heels clacking disrespectfully on the tiny mosaic tiles. At the end, the arcade looped sharply. Oh God, she thought. It’s delivering me back to the Hunter. Then she saw the side lane splitting off, and veered into it, sprinting past mahogany sidewalk tables with cane-backed chairs of patrons enjoying breakfasts under heat lamps.
The lane ended at a narrow street. A stitch bent her over, and moaning, she forced herself to straighten and look back the way she’d come. No sign of the Hunter, but it wasn’t safe to rest here. She turned left onto the street and then right into a new arcade – this one light-filled and delicate. Its polished black and white diamond-checked floor flowed under an arched glass ceiling supported by iron lace. As Jo staggered through it, her stitch burning, bright colors flickered at the edges of her vision – a lollipop shop, shelves of Venetian glassware and a window of multi-colored babushka dolls. Finally she burst onto a wide pedestrian boulevard and found what she’d been seeking – a department store. Hope sped her through its wide doors, past the perfumes and cosmetics displays to the escalators. She leapt on, momentum helping her to weave up through the standing shoppers patiently ascending. At the top she peeled off to the restrooms, staggered into a cubicle and locked the door.
Jo collapsed onto the toilet seat, sucking in deep breaths and waiting for her heart to stop its painful pounding. When it did, waves of uncontrollable shaking swept her and turning, she vomited into the bowl. Finally this too passed and she knelt exhausted, her eyes closed and mind and emotions drained.
Gradually she became aware of noises around her. Women were moving in and out of the cubicles, washing their hands and using the electric dryers. Jo flushed the toilet but wasn’t yet ready to leave her haven. She put the lid down and sat, pulling out her phone. The blank screen stared back at her. Should she call the police? What would she say? Someone I don’t know is trying to kill me for a prize offered by people from the future? Even if they bothered asking her to come into the station, they’d have trouble hiding their smiles as they took her statement, and by the time she was through, the Hunter would be waiting outside.
Her phone pinged and she jumped. A text from Tayla. Good luck with the interview. Call when it’s over.
What could she text back? Interview cancelled, running from killer? Tayla would think she was joking… or that she’d had a breakdown. How could Jo convince her when she hardly believed what was happening herself? If Tayla panicked and contacted the authorities, Jo could end up being held by the po
lice or men in white coats until the Hunter picked her off, or worse, Tayla might come rushing down to Melbourne and end up getting killed in the crossfire. Jo’s heart sank as she realized she couldn’t involve her best friend.
She typed, Boring mixup. Interview now Friday. Staying here till then. Fill you in on wknd. She sent the text and checked the time... then checked again. It couldn’t be. Just 9.15 a.m. It felt as though a day had passed since she’d met the game show host on the street, yet it was little more than an hour. That’s good, she realized. It means I have almost two hours before the Hunter gets my new position… and I need every second.
Jo shivered. That Hunter is smart – or maybe I’m just stupid. I knew there was a back door to that cafe. Fitani told me so, but it never occurred to me the Hunter might come in that way. If I hadn’t followed my instincts when I saw Fitani’s expression, I’d be dead right now. The memory of the lethal spike flashing past her face brought a renewed surge of terror but she fought it back. To survive this she needed to keep her wits about her.
What else have I learnt about the Hunter, she thought. It’s bigger than me but not by much. It could be a small man or a large woman. Still, that bold murder attempt in a crowded cafe, feels masculine. Wouldn’t a female be more cautious about her own safety, preferring to set a trap? The average female perhaps, but a sociopath – who knew?
Hell, all she knew for sure was the Hunter was dressed in navy track pants and a hoodie... was dressed that way. If it had changed, she’d never recognize it, and changing was exactly what she should be doing. If the Hunter was wandering this area hoping to spot her... or had employed people to look for her!
Heart racing, she slipped out of the cubicle. Two women were just leaving the wash area and for the moment Jo had it to herself. She was surprised the full-length mirror reflected so little damage from her wild run. Her blonde shoulder-length hair was slightly mussed, her tights had a ladder, and her new high-heeled boots were scuffed, but the rest of her outfit looked fine. Tayla had helped her put it together for the interview: a white shirt and red jacket paired with a pleated charcoal mini.
