tongue with an acidic burn THE HUNT 81
that leaves a foul after taste. I’m realy worried now. Away from my supplies stashed at home, from al my instruments of subter-fuge— my shavers, bottles of water, odor suppressors, teeth whiteners, nail fi lers— things are deteriorating quickly. The lack of water is causing my head to spin. I can’t concentrate. On things.
Al my thoughts are jagged. Short thrusts. A pounding headache.
I lift up my arm, take a sniff of my armpit. There. Even I can smel it now. And if I can smel it, they can. No wonder Gaunt Man and Beefy were so distracted at dinner.
I don’t know if anyone suspects me yet. Gaunt Man and Beefy might have smeled something at dinner, but I don’t think they’ve connected the dots to me yet. But by tomorrow, I’l be reeking.
I head over to the leather couch and plop down. My head: stil pounding, spinning. Outside, a hint of dawn presses against the windows. The shutters wil close soon.
I throw my elbow over my eyes, not wanting to think but knowing I need to face reality. Plan A seemed perfect not so long ago: Fly under the radar during training period, break a leg right before the Hunt. But now, things have changed. With my body sending out eatme smels and my tongue as dry and coarse as sandpaper, I won’t make it to the Hunt four nights away. I’l either die of thirst or be savagely devoured. Probably the latter.
or be savagely devoured. Probably the latter.
Lying on the couch, a numbed alarm pressing down on me, I begin to drift. Actualy, it’s more like a plummet into a deep canyon of sleep.
Thirst awakens me. I cough: a thousand splinters pierce my parched throat.
Slowly, I peel my draped arm away from my face. The library is dark: the shutters have closed. But something is odd. I can stil 82
ANDREW FUKUDA
see, with a dim clarity, the interior of the library. As if a candle is burning.
Impossible. I spin around, drowsiness quickly shaken off. I see the light source.
It’s right there. A single, thin beam of sunlight shooting from a hole in the shutter behind me. The beam shoots past my ear, reaching to the far wal of the library. It is a piercing line of light, laser-like, seeming to carry a physical heft. I hadn’t noticed it yesterday.
But then again, I was on the other side of the library, fast asleep during the day hours.
I walk over to the shutter. Tentatively, I reach toward the hole. I half expect the light to sear my skin. But there’s just a pinprick half expect the light to sear my skin. But there’s just a pinprick warmth where the beam hits my skin. The hole in the shutter is a perfect circle, smooth along the edges. Very strange. This is no accident, no result of the building’s aging pro cess. This hole was intentionaly made— drilled —through a two-inch steel-reinforced
shutter. But for what purpose? And by whom?
The kooky Scientist. That part is not diffi cult to fi gure out; no one else has ever lived here. But why would he do it? A beam of sunlight like this would not only keep a person from sleeping, but cause permanent ret i nal and intestinal damage. None of this makes sense.
Or perhaps the Scientist had nothing to do with this. Perhaps the hole was driled by the staffers later, after he’d disappeared.
But why? And if they knew they were going to house me in the library, surely they would have patched it up before I moved in.
Again, none of this makes any sense.
And then a thought blizzards into my mind, chiling me.
I shake my head, as if to banish the thought. But it’s latched on to my brain, irrevocably now. And the more I think about it, the more likely it seems.
THE HUNT 83
Somebody driled this hole. To night.
To test me. To fl ush me out.
To fi nd out if I’m a heper.
It makes sense. To night, with my unwashed body giving off an odor, suspicion is aroused. But more proof is needed before I can be accused. Sending a surreptitious sunbeam into the library during the day is perfect. Subtle
that leaves a foul after taste. I’m realy worried now. Away from my supplies stashed at home, from al my instruments of subter-fuge— my shavers, bottles of water, odor suppressors, teeth whiteners, nail fi lers— things are deteriorating quickly. The lack of water is causing my head to spin. I can’t concentrate. On things.
Al my thoughts are jagged. Short thrusts. A pounding headache.
I lift up my arm, take a sniff of my armpit. There. Even I can smel it now. And if I can smel it, they can. No wonder Gaunt Man and Beefy were so distracted at dinner.
I don’t know if anyone suspects me yet. Gaunt Man and Beefy might have smeled something at dinner, but I don’t think they’ve connected the dots to me yet. But by tomorrow, I’l be reeking.
I head over to the leather couch and plop down. My head: stil pounding, spinning. Outside, a hint of dawn presses against the windows. The shutters wil close soon.
I throw my elbow over my eyes, not wanting to think but knowing I need to face reality. Plan A seemed perfect not so long ago: Fly under the radar during training period, break a leg right before the Hunt. But now, things have changed. With my body sending out eatme smels and my tongue as dry and coarse as sandpaper, I won’t make it to the Hunt four nights away. I’l either die of thirst or be savagely devoured. Probably the latter.
or be savagely devoured. Probably the latter.
Lying on the couch, a numbed alarm pressing down on me, I begin to drift. Actualy, it’s more like a plummet into a deep canyon of sleep.
Thirst awakens me. I cough: a thousand splinters pierce my parched throat.
Slowly, I peel my draped arm away from my face. The library is dark: the shutters have closed. But something is odd. I can stil 82
ANDREW FUKUDA
see, with a dim clarity, the interior of the library. As if a candle is burning.
Impossible. I spin around, drowsiness quickly shaken off. I see the light source.
It’s right there. A single, thin beam of sunlight shooting from a hole in the shutter behind me. The beam shoots past my ear, reaching to the far wal of the library. It is a piercing line of light, laser-like, seeming to carry a physical heft. I hadn’t noticed it yesterday.
But then again, I was on the other side of the library, fast asleep during the day hours.
I walk over to the shutter. Tentatively, I reach toward the hole. I half expect the light to sear my skin. But there’s just a pinprick half expect the light to sear my skin. But there’s just a pinprick warmth where the beam hits my skin. The hole in the shutter is a perfect circle, smooth along the edges. Very strange. This is no accident, no result of the building’s aging pro cess. This hole was intentionaly made— drilled —through a two-inch steel-reinforced
shutter. But for what purpose? And by whom?
The kooky Scientist. That part is not diffi cult to fi gure out; no one else has ever lived here. But why would he do it? A beam of sunlight like this would not only keep a person from sleeping, but cause permanent ret i nal and intestinal damage. None of this makes sense.
Or perhaps the Scientist had nothing to do with this. Perhaps the hole was driled by the staffers later, after he’d disappeared.
But why? And if they knew they were going to house me in the library, surely they would have patched it up before I moved in.
Again, none of this makes any sense.
And then a thought blizzards into my mind, chiling me.
I shake my head, as if to banish the thought. But it’s latched on to my brain, irrevocably now. And the more I think about it, the more likely it seems.
THE HUNT 83
Somebody driled this hole. To night.
To test me. To fl ush me out.
To fi nd out if I’m a heper.
It makes sense. To night, with my unwashed body giving off an odor, suspicion is aroused. But more proof is needed before I can be accused. Sending a surreptitious sunbeam into the library during the day is perfect. Subtle
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