Unwanted attention, as if there were any other kind.
But the prick sharpens until I can take it no longer. I let a pen in my hand fal to the ground; as I slowly swivel around to pick it up, I shoot a quick glance back.
It's Ashley June, her eyes death green in the mercurial light.
She's sitting right behind me. I almost startle in my seat —“startle”
is this refl ex where we jump a little in fright— but tamp it down just in time. I close my eyelids halfway— a trick my father taught me to make sure my eyes don't widen too much— and turn around.
Did she see me startle? Did she see me startle?
Somebody is at the lectern. Fril y Dress from yesterday.
“How are we all to night? Having fun?” She takes out a note pad, scans it, then looks up, smiling. “We have a busy schedule to night.
First, we'l tour the facilities— should take most of the night.
Then, time and darkness permitting, we'l cap it off with a visit to the heper vil age just shy of two miles from the main building. If we're running late and it gets too close to sunrise, then we'l have to push it off til tomorrow.” She looks at each of us, reading our expressions.
“Somehow I don't think you're going to all ow that to happen.
Shal we move on, then?”
What fol ows for the next few hours is a mind- numbingly tedious tour of the facilities. It's nothing more than an amble along dark, endless hal ways. And emptiness. That's what strikes me the most: how still and empty everything is— the rooms, the hal ways, the very dank air we inhale, mere remnants and echoes of a busier, ful er, livelier era. Our escorts fol ow us, silently. The second fl oor is where the staff and hunters are housed, and we bypass it. The third fl oor is the science fl oor, for obvious reasons: from one end to the other, it's lined with laboratories. A smel of musky formaldehyde permeates the whole fl oor. Although the guide speaks glowingly about each laboratory— this one used to study heper hair, this one to study heper laughter, this one heper singing— it is obvious the laboratories have fal en into disuse.
“This whole thing's a crock, you know that, right?”
“Excuse me?” I turn to the el der ly man next to me. One of the hunters. We are in a lab previously used to study heper hair and fi ngernails. The man is leaning toward me, his gaunt frame tilting like a snapped pencil, his head slanted close to a sample of heper fi ngernails encased in a glass plate. His bald head is as shiny and hairless as the plate, but mottled over with age marks near his forehead. A few wisps of hair are combed across his gleaming head, 58 ANDREW FUKUDA like thin strands of night clouds across the moon. We are alone at the back of a laboratory; everyone else is clustered near the front of the lab, where the (apparently) more exciting samples of heper hair are on display.
“A crock,” he whispers.
“These fi ngernails?”
He shakes his head. “This whole tour. This whole training period.”
I take a sideways glance at him. This is the fi rst time I'm seeing him up close, and he is older than I thought. Hair wispier, wrinkles deeper, the curve of his back more pronounced.
“Why do we need training?” His voice is gravel y. “Just let us have at the hepers, already. We'l devour them in a minute. We don't need training. We have our instinct, we have our hunger. What else do we need?”
“We need to draw this out. Savor the moment. Anticipation is half the enjoyment.”
It's his turn to look at me. A brief look, but one that absorbs.
I feel the suction of his brain taking me in. And then his approval.
I've been watching him a bit since yesternight. He stuck out, and I now know why. He doesn't want to be here. Every other hunter (except me, of course) is ecstatic, has just literal y won the lottery of a lifetime. But his feet drag just so, his eyes fail to shine with the glee the others have, and everything about him seems to spel r-e-l-u- c-t- a-n- c-e. In short, he's everything I'm feeling inside. A thought comes to my mind, but I dismiss it outright: There's no chance he's a heper. A real heper (like me) would be covering up those feelings (as I'm doing), not letting them hang out like dirty underwear for all to observe.
As I study him— his stiff, arthritic gait whittled down by age — it hits me why he's so sul en. He knows he doesn't stand a chance.
Not against the younger hunters, who'l outrun and outgun him.
By the time he gets to the hepers, there won't even be bones left to gnaw on. This Heper Hunt is torture for him, to bones left to gnaw on. This Heper Hunt is torture for him, to be so close yet so far. No wonder he's bitter. He's a starving man at a banquet who knows there won't even be crumbs left on the fl oor for him.
“There's more going on here than meets the eye,” he says, stil bent over the glass plate.
I'm not sure what to say, so I wait for him to continue. But he doesn't; he shuffl es to the front of the lab and joins the others, leaving me standing all alone.
After touring the laboratories on the third fl oor, we are taken to the fourth fl oor. We go through it quickly; it's real y nothing more than a series of unused classrooms, the chairs inside propped upside down on desktops. At the far end is the auditorium. We stick our heads through the door to take a look. I smel a dusty dank-ness. Nobody wants to venture in, and we move on.
Eventual y we wind up on the top fl oor, the fi fth. The Control Center spans the ful length and width of this fl oor.
The hubbub here is markedly different from the deadness of the lower fl oors.
Clearly, this is the nerve center to the whole operation.
Numerous computers and TV monitors glow from one end to the other. Staffers are up and about, clipboards in hand, walking briskly between desks and cubicles and computer terminals. They're all men, dressed in navy blue single- breasted jackets with peaked lapels and double vents, but slim to the fi t and streamlined. Three buttons run down the front of their jackets, emitting a dim mercurial light. They're curious about us, and I catch them stealing furtive glances.
We're the heper hunters, after all . We're the ones who get to eat and drink heper fl esh and blood.
Instead of concrete wal s, large panel windows stretch from ceiling to fl oor, giving us an almost uninterrupted 360- degree view of the outside. From up here, it feels as if we're hovering above the moonlit plains spread below us.
The group moves over to the windows facing east. The Dome.
They all want to see the Dome.
It sits smal in the distance, a marble sliced in half, glimmering slightly under the stars.
“There's nothing to see,” an escort says. “Al they do is sleep at night.”
“They never come out?”
“Hardly ever at night.”
“They don't like the stars?”
“People. They don't like people watching them.”
We stare in silence.
“It's almost like they know we're watching,” one of the hunters whispers.
“Bet there's a bunch of them staring back at us. From inside one of those huts. Right now, as we speak.”
“They're just sleeping now,” says an escort.
We're all straining forward, hoping to catch some movement.
But all is still .
“I heard the Dome opens at sunrise.”
The escorts glance at one another, not sure if they're all owed to respond.
“Yes,” says an escort. “There are sunlight sensors that trigger the Dome. The Dome rises out of the ground two hours before dusk and retracts into the ground one hour after dawn.”
“So there's no way to manual y open the Dome?” asks Ashley June. “From in here? A button to press or lever to pul that would open it?” There's a protracted, intense silence.
“No. Everything is automated,” says an escort. “It's all been taken out of our hands.” He has more to say, but he's biting his tongue.
“Do you have any binoculars?”
“Yes. But there's nothing to see. The hepers are all asleep.”
Everyone is so caught up with the Dome, nobody observes Ashley June slide away.
Except me.
I fol ow her from the corners of my eyes, turning my head when she slips altogether from my vision.
She drifts toward the back of the room where three rows of security monitors line the wal . Under the monitors sits a staffer, his head swiveling slowly from side to side and up and down as he scans the monitors above him. She stands very close behind him, edging closer, slowly, until a few strands of hair graze the side of his forehead.
He moves quickly, a slide to his right. She scratches her wrist, apologizing, scratching harder, making sure the moment becomes light and accidental. On his chair, he swivels around to face her, then stands. He's baby- faced and inexperienced, and his bleary eyes take a while to take in what's before him. A young lady, and a beautiful one at that. This man, his world fi l ed with an endless onslaught of digital screens, is taken aback by this sudden intrusion of fl esh.
Ashley June scratches her wrist more, trying to set him at ease. A moment passes, and he begins to scratch his wrist in return, cautiously at fi rst, then faster and surer. His eyes begin to gain focus and brighten.
She says something, but I'm too far away to hear. He answers, energy now beginning to course through his body, and points at a number of different monitors. She asks another question, her body turning slightly toward the monitors, inching closer to the man.
He notices. And when he answers, his head bobs enthusiastical y on his narrow shoulders.
No doubt about it, she's good at this fl irtation game. And she's up to something.
She raises her long arm, pointing at one of the monitors.
Her arm stretches out effortlessly upward like the exclamation point at the end of a sentence that reads: I'm gorgeous! That arm has always done a number on me, al gorgeous! That arm has always done a number on me, al those years sitting behind her, especial y in the summer months when she wore sleeveless shirts and I could view the whole length of her wonderful, perfectly sculptured arms.
