The Prey (5 page)

Sissy doesn’t move. They’re twenty seconds away, and she’s biding her time, trying to find the best angle to fling daggers. But she doesn’t understand them the way I do. I know their tactics.

“Sissy,” I say, running to her. “Take them out now.”

“No,” she whispers. “Too far.”

“They’re going to split soon. One left, one right, they’ll come at us from opposite ends. To disorient you. To blindside you. You’ll be aiming for one while the other is leaping on your back. Now, Sissy!”

She believes me. In a blur, she flings out the dagger, east of the incoming hunters. As they continue sprinting, their heads turn to watch the rotating, blinking blade. They follow its slow, languorous arc over the river then back toward them.

And in the last moment, as it curls around at them, they leap over the flying dagger.

They turn back to face us again, a victorious yowl screeching out of them. They know. They’ve been told about Sissy’s daggers.

But there’s something they don’t know.

That’s not the only dagger in the air.

While their eyes had followed the first dagger’s trajectory, she’d flung out the second.

One of the hunters is viciously flung to the side, as by an invisible leash quickly pulled taut. The second dagger has impaled its neck: the hunter’s melted, cheesy skin offers little resistance, and the blade penetrates until almost the whole hilt is embedded. The hunter lies on its back, legs and arms scrabbling the air like an upside-down turtle. It struggles to get up, can’t. The blade has punctured its windpipe.

The other hunter screams into the air. Not with fear. Not with sorrow over its downed compatriot. But with glee. It will now have a larger share of the hepers. It comes at Sissy with a manic salivary giddiness.

Sissy reaches down to her belt. Only three daggers left. She flings the first to her right. All eyes—including the hunter’s—swivel to follow it. But she’s faked us out. The blade is still in her hand. And then it is not. She’s flung it in a boomerang arc, in the other direction of her fake throw.

But she’s not pausing to watch her handiwork. She’s flinging the other dagger straight ahead right between the eyes of the hunter. Two daggers now, both slashing through the night air toward the hunter whose head is turned away, still trying to locate the arc of the dagger never thrown. It doesn’t have a clue. It’s going to be a double direct hit.

But this time, there’s something
we
don’t know.

The hunter knows. It’s always known the first throw was feigned.

In the last second, it drops its body to the ground, skidding on its side. The two blades clash together, right above its head. There’s an explosion of sparks. The hunter squeals from the flash of light. But that’s the only pain it feels. And even now it is standing up, eyes fixing on us. It brings up its wrist, rakes it with long, deep gashes. Its eyes dance with mirth and glee.

There’s only one dagger left.

The hunter charges at us. It is only seconds away.

Sissy thrusts her arm back, readying to throw the last dagger in hand. But she makes a rare mistake. A fatal mistake. As she pulls her arm back, the dagger slips out of her grasp. It flies behind us, soaring up into the sky.

The hunter screams with delight. It is the closest sound to laughter I’ve ever heard one of them make. It is an obscene, perverse sound.

Sissy turns around as the dagger sails into the sky. Her movement is deliberate, purposeful, as if every microsecond that has passed and that is about to pass is part of a coordinated plan. The dagger is easy to spot. It’s perfectly silhouetted within the circumference of the bright full moon.

I’m not the only one watching the dagger. The hunter is keenly tracking the dagger’s upward path, its head rising. The full glare of moonlight catches the hunter by surprise, hitting it flush in the face. The hunter squints, then clenches its eyes with a yelp. It’s momentarily blinded.

And now I understand.

The dagger reaches its apex then suddenly boomerangs diagonally back down toward us. Right at my face.

Sissy leaps in the air, snatches the blade out of the air. In the same movement, while still airborne, she flings the dagger at the hunter. The blade flashes past me, an inch from my head. The hunter’s eyes are still rammed shut; it never sees it coming.

The dagger bludgeons into the side of its head, right through the soft depression of the temple. The blade pierces true and deep, inflicting unseen but necessary damage within the skull and eye sockets. Eyeball juice squirts out from between the clenched eyelids. The hunter drops to the ground, wracked with spasms. It tries to dislodge the dagger but, in its pain-fueled panic, ends up only inflicting further damage. Its arms slash wildly, legs kicking at blades of grass.

Sissy is in a semicrouch after landing from her throw. I place my hands on her upper arms. They’re quivering with minute tremors along her slender but toned triceps. They feel like the most lonesome, bravest arms I’ve ever touched.

“Come, I’ll help you,” I say.

“There’s still one more out there.” She straightens her back, her body at first leaning against mine, then she starts running.

“Sissy! Where are you going?”

She runs fifty meters out, bends to pick up two daggers. She quickly sheathes them, and sprints back, glancing at the downed, groaning hunters. At the daggers protruding from them. She wants her daggers back. But she knows better than to tempt fate.

A single baleful howl sounds from a boulder to our left. The third hunter, crouching in the moonlight. It has been silently observing us this whole time, studying us, learning our tactics.

Sissy backpedals until she’s beside me. “This one’s different. More dangerous.”

It climbs down, sleek and feline, its paws padding around the rocky, dimpled surface. I recognize it. Her. It’s Crimson Lips. One of the lottery hunters. Her face is distorted now, as if viewed behind a glazed window, her usually rouged lips pulled back and melded into her cheeks. Yet even now with a body that has the constitution of porridge and melted plastic, her movement is graced with a fluidity that is savage and sexual.

“Get behind me,” Sissy whispers. “I’ll take it out with the daggers.”

“Daggers won’t work. Not with this one. She’s been observing and studying; she knows all your tricks now.”

Sissy grips and regrips the daggers.

“Keep walking backward,” I whisper. “I have a plan.”

Crimson Lips jumps off the boulder, starts moving toward us in a crouched-down, slow-motion crawl. Her legs and arms move in parallel tandem, left leg with left arm, right leg with right arm, the legs stepping on the very spot on the ground just vacated by the arms.

“What’s the plan?” Sissy asks.

“The harpoon.”

Sissy shakes her head. “It’s too heavy.”

“Not if we both lift it. Now!” I say, spinning and running for the pile of equipment I’d seen earlier. Sissy matches me stride for stride. We slide on each side of the pile, the dewy grass allowing us to skid easily. Crimson Lips bounds toward us.

“Help me!” Sissy is hoisting her side of the harpoon. I grab the other and together we lift it. It’s the weight of three large men. I place two fingers on the trigger; Sissy’s fingers are already there, and I lay mine atop hers.

Crimson Lips, on seeing the harpoon, skids to a stop.

“That’s right, back off!” Sissy shouts.

Crimson Lips’s head cocks to the side. She darts to the side, then torpedoes right at us, an ear-splitting scream issuing out.

Sissy and I squeeze the trigger.

It takes every ounce of strength in our combined four fingers. The harpoon tenses, then violently snaps, spasming as the projectile explodes out. Our aim isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough. Crimson Lips lifts her hand—a useless blocking reflex—and the sharp spearhead slices through her fingers. I see two stumps—the index and middle fingers?—flung in the air as the spearhead impales her left shoulder. Crimson Lips is spun around, collapses to the ground. Her pain-torched scream is horrific.

“C’mon, let’s go!” Sissy shouts, and she’s grabbing my hand, pulling me along. We make a wide arc around Crimson Lips as she squirms on her side, trying to pull out the spearhead. Without success. Weighed down and weakening, she grimaces with pain. Our eyes meet.

“Your designation is
Gene
?” Crimson Lips says.

I freeze in my tracks. The sound of my name on her lips chills me to the core.

“That’s the word she kept uttering,” Crimson Lips says.

“Who?” I say, stepping back toward her. And already, I know.

“Closer,” Crimson Lips says, her voice lower, huskier. “Come closer, Gene.”

Sissy pulls at my arm. “No, Gene! It’s just trying to delay us. There might be others on their way.”

Crimson Lips’s eyes fasten on mine. “The girl you left behind at the Heper Institute,” she says, her head slanting lopsidedly. “When it was finally over, she kept murmuring
Gene, Gene, Gene
.”

Blood drains from my face.
When it was finally over
. I blink hard, the earth reels on its axis—

Sissy smacks me in the face. “We have to leave. Now!” And she is pulling me along by the arm, forcing me to run with her.

Crimson Lips’s screams follow us all the way to the boat. The boys have flung off all three grappling hooks but the boat is still being held up by the harpoon rope. We follow the line and locate the harpoon gun, anchored between two boulders.

“Help me, Gene,” she says. “Hey, snap out of it, what’s the matter with you?” She starts kicking the harpoon gun on one side, hoping to upend it slantways between the boulders.

From the deck of the boat, David is yelling at us. “The hunter’s coming back!”

That’s all the incentive she needs. She delivers a powerful kick, dislodging the harpoon from horizontal to vertical. It disappears between the crack.

We leap into the river, swim after the boat. The sting of the cold water snaps me out of my daze, and I swim hard, stroking and kicking with fury. The boys pull us up, and we flop onto the deck, unable to do more than gaze at the stars above; they are so stationary, it hardly seems like we’re moving at all. Only by the fading screams of the hunter do I know we are once more on the move.

Epap comes to, groaning aloud. The boys rush over to him, but I’m already up on my feet, pushing them aside.

“Stay away from him, don’t touch him!” I say.

“What’s the matter?” Sissy says.

“He might be infected. He might be turning.”

By their blank stares, I know they have no idea what I’m talking about. “He got hit on the head by one of the grappling hooks. Those hooks were covered with their saliva.” I lean Epap gently back down to the deck, start carefully checking his vitals. “One measly droplet of their saliva gets into you, and you’ll turn. Transform. You’ll become one of them.”

Their eyes swing nervously over to Epap. He’s staring at me, eyes agog with fear and bewilderment.

“You haven’t heard of it because turnings are very rare. Most of the time, we don’t survive attacks, we just get devoured.”

“How long is this … turning process?” Sissy asks, worry etched into her face.

“It’s quick. Ranging anywhere from a couple of minutes to several hours. It depends on how much saliva was passed. If you’re infected by the saliva of more than one person, the whole process is exponentially speeded up.” I examine Epap’s skin, looking for any cuts or gashes. “I think you’re okay, Epap. You’re not showing any symptoms. They always appear immediately.”

“Like?” he asks nervously.

“Cold skin, shivering, profuse sweating, rapid heartbeats. But you’re fine. You lucked out.”

Ben throws himself at Epap, hugging him.

“Stay away from me,” Epap says, sitting up. “We don’t know for sure if I’m safe.”

“You’re fine,” I say. And the boys rush him, knocking him back down. In the midst of their tangle of arms, I see Epap’s face break into a smile. An arm shoots out from the pile—Jacob’s arm?—and grabs my hand. Before I know it, I’m pulled in, my body flung into the tent of their sobs of relief.

*   *   *

The boat pitches forward, gaining speed in the fast current. In front of us, the hulking silhouette of the eastern mountains looms ever closer.

5

H
OURS LATER,
I’M
still awake. I move to the stern, away from their loud snores in the cabin and from Sissy steering at the bow. I need to be alone. Nothing moves in the moonlit plains; it is as still as a black-and-white photograph. The river is all sinewy muscles now, tendons rippling along its length, flowing quickly. It seethes forward, eager and angry in equal turns.

I am thinking of Ashley June.

Crimson Lips’s words reverberate in my head, even hours later.
When it was finally over …

The last I time I saw Ashley June, she was on a monitor screen at the Heper Institute, hunched over the kitchen workstation, furiously writing a note. I still have that note in my pocket, damp and sodden, fraying at the edges. She had risked her life, fled into the bowels of the Institute, for the smallest possibility that I’d return and rescue her.

I’ve studied that note countless times. I know the shape of every letter, every curl and dot. I take it out now, the paper damp, her handwriting blurred with moisture.

I’m @ Intro. Will wait 4 U.

Never Forget

One last time, I run my finger over her handwriting. A wind blows, cold and harsh, and I already know what I will do next. I close my eyes, unable to look as I rip off a small piece from the corner of the paper. I release the ripped piece into the wind. It whips away, fluttering like a tiny moth as it disappears into the night. I rip off another piece; and another; and another. And as the moon rises higher, I release a hundred million of these pieces into the wind, the paper in my hand diminishing. Until there remains only a piece the size of a small fingernail clipping, so small I cannot tear it any further. For a long time I hold on to this piece. Then with a silent shout of grief, I release it, and it is gone, and there is nothing left in my hand.