Man Hunt (10 page)

"Come in, Josie. Sit down. How are you doing today?" The question was rhetorical or in the very least polite, but coming from the island counselor, it would always sound suspicious.

Monica's thin, airy voice somehow belied her dark, brown skin. It was still strange hearing such a small sound coming from someone of her considerable size, but it was stranger still when she became excited and the warble that sometimes eked through distorted it even further.

"I'm O.K." Josie said, trying to ignore her curiosity and focus on the problem she knew was about to confront her. "I twisted my ankle on the treadmill and it's a bit sore, but it'll be fine in a few hours."

"My goodness!" Monica fussed, her voice nearly piercing the air. "Do you need an ice pack?"

She sounds like an anxious grandmother,
Josie thought. Monica was already getting up to retrieve a first aid kit. Aside from being an unlicensed psychiatrist, Monica also functioned as the island's unlicensed doctor.

"No, thanks. I'm fine, really." Josie appreciated one thing about Monica and the other headwomen on the island: the health and safety of any girl was always a first priority, even above killing a man. Even above killing a man in the black sector.

Monica settled back into her chair and soon continued the formalities with more small talk. "I don't suppose you heard that gunshot a little while ago?"

Josie perked up. Perhaps Monica had heard something of the gunshot's origin. "Yes," she said, trying not to sound too eager, "I did. Do you know who fired it or where it happened?"

Monica frowned. "No, I don't. Lucy was here when it happened and she didn't know anything either. I was hoping you might have heard something. I don't want to say it sounded like an
omen
or anything, but it certainly can't be good news. You don't know anything about it, then?" Josie shook her head, for the moment on exactly the same plane as Monica. "Well, we'll just have to worry about that later then, won't we?"

Josie nodded and adjusted her position in the wooden chair. Sitting as Monica's captive audience, there was no such thing as a short session.

After a few moments of intolerable silence, Monica put her elbows on the table, as she always did, placed her hands together at her fingertips, as she always did, and looked directly into Josie's eyes. She wouldn't begin speaking until eye contact was made and held for several seconds.

Those few moments could be worse than a half-hour of listening to her "counsel." Josie felt a twinge settle into her upper back as she watched Monica's dark eyes. She wanted to sit up straighter to crack a spot in her spine, but she didn't want to appear weak or intimidated for any reason.

Everyone knew a session with Monica was designed to keep things running smoothly on the island, regardless of the effects it had on the girl who sat through it. Still, that did not prevent the headwomen and Monica from trying to disguise them as emotional healing. The truth was that the more time a girl spent with Monica, the more emotionally drained she became. But that girl would certainly be efficient and "by the books" when she was done. 

Finally, Monica spoke, and as it always did in session, her voice changed. Josie still didn't know how, but when she wanted to, Monica's voice could be as full and sonorous as an operatic chorus. The
why
of the change, however, was obvious. The effect, especially in the drastic contrast to its normally thin sound, was hypnotizing.

"Gertrude tells me you've been slacking off lately," she said. The voice was low and slow, just as Josie and the other trainers used on the men when they were being broken. "I want you to discuss why you think that is."

It was horrible how Monica's first move was always put a girl on the spot. Josie didn't like talking about her deepest feelings with anybody. Even her trust in Steph had grown slowly and with much trepidation. So once again she sat in Monica's office on the uncomfortable wooden chair and mused about how obvious the truth of the situation was. Monica was concerned only with Josie's work, and not at all with Josie. Women were a machine, and Josie was a gear that had been squeaking lately.

Sitting there locked to Monica's eyes, Josie knew for certain only one thing: that if she told Monica the truth, or even
parts
of the truth, that she'd be in serious trouble. This was the third time she'd sat in the wooden chair with her secret implanted and growing within her. Three times she had managed to deceive the island counselor. But how long could she continue to do so? Her secret was no longer a wispy sprout of green just breaking the ground. It was larger now, recognizable for the true plant it was. And her secret was no simple head of lettuce or pumpkin vine. It was a whole tree. Solid and full of strength and potential. How long could she hide a growing sycamore from Monica's investigative eyes? Her opening statement would be critical. Monica was notorious for perceiving lies.

"Well, I
have
been tired lately," Josie began, "but I think it goes deeper than that." She knew Monica would never believe a simple explanation. She would need reasons for everything. Josie had already prepared a story, something that stemmed from and twisted the truth, and was therefore dangerous. But the only alternative would risk hiding everything, which Monica was unlikely to believe. To be caught in such a lie would be devastating.

"Tell me about it," Monica said in her sonorous tone. Her eyebrows furrowed. "What deeper issues are causing this?" Josie took a deep breath and went on. So far, Monica was listening and believing. She pretended to think about it for a while. She allowed herself to move her eyes around, careful to look up and to her left so as to indicate recall rather than to the right and therefore creativity.

"You know how in grade school you can have a kid who doesn't quite fit in with the others?" Josie began. Monica nodded and Josie tried not to hold her breath. "And you know how sometimes the reason that kid doesn't fit in is because she's smarter than the others, and she should really be in a higher grade?" Again a nod from Monica.

Josie could feel her heart picking up. She couldn't believe she was really telling this lie. In the back of her mind, she realized suddenly how
much
time she'd devoted to preparing it, and she recognized that her secret tree was already larger than she had acknowledged. Already it was casting a shade.

"Well, I'm not suggesting I'm better than the other girls around here," Josie continued, "but sometimes I feel… sort of out of place. Like I should be doing something more… I don't know… beneficial. Something bigger." Here she paused for effect, hoping to convince the counselor she was now contrite.

Monica didn't move, and Josie was forced to wait further still, trying to time her last line perfectly. Finally, she sighed deeply and tried to make her voice quiver a little, though it wouldn't quite appease her needs. "You probably think I'm a total bitch," she finished. "I know I
sound
like one." Then she looked downward, trying to see through the desk and into the floorboards.

So there it was. The fabulous lie was on the table. Though not completely a lie, it wasn't completely the truth either. Everything Josie had said
had
been true… she was merely suggesting it was the reason for her change in behavior. There was so much more hidden under the shade of that tree. Deep down, under the earth, the roots ran thick and long and tangled. She kept as still as possible while staring through the floor and anxiously awaited Monica's response.

"What more would you like to do, Josie?" Monica said with her fingertips still touching. "You're already our top recruiter.  What do you feel is missing?"

Yes, I feed the machine,
Josie thought.
I bring them in so they can be spit right back out.

This was a test. Monica wouldn't buy any story that easily. And so Josie plowed on, laying it thicker and higher, feeling herself doubling down.

Josie let a brief moment of calculated silence pass. "It's not that I want
more
to do. It's difficult enough keeping up as it is. I think that it's just…" another pause, a brief flicker of eye contact, and then she pushed all of her chips into the center of the table. "I don't get to see the fruits of my labor. I help Rhonda to train every day, and after we release them, I never see them again. When we go on recruiting missions, I can pick out the next asshole so easily. There's no challenge in it anymore. Then they get here and I help train them, and
that
I enjoy, but… even though some are difficult to break, most are easy. It's all getting so old. All I ever hear are the
reports
of transferals and kills. I want to
see
them die, Monica. I want to drive them down myself. It just feels like I'm… missing out on my whole reason for being here."

She let another moment pass. Monica didn't breathe. "The truth is," she went on, and now she was worried she was talking too much but felt the only choice was to finish what she had started, "I don't know if even
that
would satisfy me. How long would it be before hunting felt like training does now? Forgive me, but I feel like the whole
process
is old for me."

She stopped. If Monica saw the lie, she was dead. If she believed, the risk was still substantial. The last thing Josie wanted was to become a hunter.

As she waited for Monica to speak, she was somewhat surprised to realize her heart was rapid and strong. It confirmed how real the danger was and how deeply she felt about her secret, how far from the trunk those roots grew.

Monica then pulled one of her classic moves. One of her best. Without articulating a single word, she
humphed
softly and continued to stare into Josie's eyes.

Josie's heart broke at that quiet, little sound. But she could only stare back at Monica with all the courage she could muster.

When Monica spoke again, her voice was sweet and lustrous, just like she used on the men whenever she wanted to break their spirits. She had always imagined the air from her lungs floating across space like a poisonous wind, and that was exactly how she felt Monica's breath was now.

"That's a wonderful story, Josie," Monica said, "but I don't believe you."

CHAPTER 6

Silence filled the alley. No man moved and every head faced where the car had been. Obe allowed himself to pant out his held breath. His feet were a screaming blaze of agony, but he was still laced with enough adrenaline and triumph to hold it at bay. Finally, a voice broke the silence.

"Well,
that
was different."

Obe turned and looked at the speaker. He was a little shorter than Obe, yet so incredibly thin that it was mildly shocking. As his vision took on the sea of men before him, Obe realized all of the men were exceptionally thin.

'Your second test will be food,'
Obe remembered. This was what Rhonda had told them all the day they'd been released from the fortress.
'Your first test will be survival, and your second test will be food,'
she had explained.
'If you survive them both, you'll have to learn the third test on your own. But if you pass that one, we will send you home.'

The man who had spoken had hard eyes and he stood with an air of confidence which was emphasized by the mass of men behind him who had drawn back allowing him to speak. The man's beard had flakes of gray, and Obe now realized that all of the men before him also seemed to have full, masculine beards. Greens weren't permitted to grow facial hair. Every grocery day the women shaved all the Greens with a straight razor. The lines would begin forming just after daybreak and only men who had a freshly-shaven face would be given food. While some men had thick shadows by that time, Obe had never grown much facial hair. Even now, five days since his last shave, he had but a few dozen sparse hairs on his cheeks and chin. In this group of men, it was embarrassing.

Obe nodded to the speaker. "Yeah. I guess," he said.

"Never seen 'em not know what to do before." The man lifted his chin as if studying Obe. "Damned funny if you ask me. What's your name, son?"

"Obe. O.B.E," he said aloud even as his mind told him it was something else entirely. Something with the sound of 'C'. Something like Calvin or Conroy or Connor.

"I'm Doov," and Obe clearly heard the conspicuous blank space that came after. Women's rules dictated a spelling of your name when first introducing yourself. "I'm the head elder of the Family of Blue– that's what we call ourselves here– and we're glad to have you."

"Thanks," Obe said.

"When was your transfer? Less than a week?" Obe nodded. "That's good." There was a pause that Obe did not understand. "Very good. Some guys take ten or twenty days to make contact with us. Some die because they never do."

"Thanks," Obe said again, now feeling horribly childish.

"So," Doov said, "would you care to enlighten us about your visitors there?"

Obe looked around and saw dozens of eyes staring at him, and a lump suddenly formed in his throat. "I… saw them kill a green just a couple minutes ago." Doov nodded, and others nearby did the same. Men all around were climbing back to street level and inching in.                

"They had been chasing him all day," Obe continued. "I saw the start of it this morning. I wished him luck, but then forgot about him. He stumbled past me just a few minutes ago, and the blue car was still on his heels."

At this many men nodded understanding. "I saw it run over him…" and here Obe trailed off a little, mesmerized by his recollection of the gruesome act. "Went
through
him, really. Not over. He went ten feet in the air." He paused and heard more mumbles of understanding. "It backed up and ran over him a second time. Then pulled forward. Third time. Casual. Like they… like they just wanted to enjoy it again."

He was staring at the back wall of the alley, not realizing that every other man was staring at him. "I heard his skull split open under the weight of the car. It sounded like dry firewood." Men throughout the alley winced. "But then it just drove away. Somebody else's job to clean it up. That black one, I guess. Found me at his body. I… I didn't even hear them at first."

"Now wait a second," Doov interrupted. "Are you telling me that you hung around a dead body? It's no wonder they found you, boy." Obe began to shake his head, but Doov continued. "Don't you know they radio each other and clean up within minutes? Wait. Don't tell me. Food, right? You finished your transition supply and thought you'd take a little peek." Here he turned to the crowd behind him and told them, "Classic Greenhorn mistake." The crowd smiled in obvious assent.

"No," Obe said. "It wasn't like that." He saw all their eyes now, and understood in an instant that their little society, their 'Family of Blue', had deep roots and that he was a very new member of their flock.

"Well then," another man said. "Why don't you tell us."

Slowly and deliberately, Obe unzipped the front of his jumpsuit and fished out a single, green sneaker. There was an instant murmur across the blue-clad men in the dead-end alley, and Doov whistled softly before addressing him again in a newer, respectful voice.

"Well… that
is
something," he said slowly. "That's… that's downright beautiful sir. I believe I'd have done the same thing myself. Though if I were you," and here Doov leaned forward and lowered his voice to a near-whisper, "I'd hide that beauty pronto and get your groceries early today."

Obe's growing smiled faltered as he noticed how the many men were staring at his sneaker. There were perhaps forty of them, and he saw only a few wearing sneakers of their own. Each of those were faded, ripped, and worn down to the inner soles by the looks of them. He suddenly became defensive and thrust the sneaker back into his jumpsuit, zipping it up tight. Doov chuckled a bit before raising his voice to the crowd behind him.

"Meeting's over!" he said with that same air of authority. "You can go about your business now." And slowly the crowd of men began to dissipate.

Turning back to the newcomer he said, "Come with me O.B.E. Obe. We've got some talking to do."