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He stares at us, then scratches his wrist. “My, my, my, don’t you all look so petrified. You should see your silly, worried faces. I know exactly what your concern is: you’re afraid the hundreds of guests will all rush out after the hepers. You needn’t worry. This building will be locked down three hours before dusk on the night of the Hunt. A total lockdown. No one will be able to leave the building except the hunters.”
Without saying more, the Director, as is his wont, recedes into the shadows; and in his place, as usual, emerges Frilly Dress. This has happened so many times, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s not the same person. If their physiques weren’t so different – his lithe, hers doughy – it really would have given me pause.
With the Director gone, the release of tension is almost palpable. Frilly Dress has a far less imposing presence and usually has so little of substance to say that it takes a moment before we realise she is saying something important.
“. . . so it has fallen on me to give you some specifics about the Hunt. The dawn before the Hunt is to begin, the hepers will be informed by letter that the Dome has suffered a malfunction: the sensor has broken down and there is a good chance that the Dome will fail to arise at dusk. As a precautionary measure, the hepers will need to journey immediately to a temporary shelter as indicated on a map we’ll provide them. The journey should take only eight hours, assuming they don’t dilly-dally, allowing them to reach the shelter before dark. The shelter will provide them with food, water, and shutters. They are to return after a week. Questions?”
Phys Ed raises his arm. “I don’t get it. If they get there before dark, they’ll be safely holed up before we even get to start. This is supposed to be a Hunt, not a siege.”
By the number of head jerks all around, it’s clear that Phys Ed has struck a common nerve.
But Frilly Dress is unperturbed, slowly scratching her wrist. “My, my, a little antsy this evening, aren’t we? One thing you have all forgotten is the sheer gullibility of the hepers. They’ll believe anything we tell them. After all, we domesticated them, we know how to pull their strings.” Her face suddenly turns stern. “There is no shelter. No building, no shutters, no walls, not even so much as a brick. The hepers will be completely exposed for you to hunt.”
At this, a smacking of lips ensues, so loud that, again, we can barely hear Frilly Dress speaking.
“. . . stash of weapons,” she says, finishing her sentence.
Phys Ed raises his arm again. “What did you mean by ‘a stash of weapons’?”
Frilly Dress scratches her wrist, obviously pleased with herself. She pauses, knowing she has our attention. “There is a very significant change from the previous Heper Hunts. We’ve decided to arm the hepers. With a stash of weapons. This will undoubtedly slow down the Hunt, make it more challenging, and help you derive greater enjoyment out of it. Raise the stakes, raise the pleasure.”
“Arm them? With what kind of weapons?” asks Beefy, his voice gruff, more curious than alarmed.
An image of a spear and dagger is projected on the large screen. I recognise them as the ones the female heper had brandished – and thrown at me – the day before. “It was once hoped that the hepers would learn to use the spear and dagger as weapons. They did, but their lack of strength rendered these weapons as useless as toothpicks. Fortunately, however, our staffers here at the Institute have come up with some more robust weaponry, something with real zing. Something that can actually hurt. And possibly maim.”
The wrist scratching that began with the images of the spear and dagger comes to a sudden stop. “What kind of weapons?” Beefy asks again, warily now.
Frilly Dress turns to him, and there is suddenly nothing frilly or dressy about her gaze. “This,” she whispers, and another image is projected on the screen.
It looks like a rectangular cup, but instead of an opening on one end there is a glass encasing behind which three glassy bulbs point outward. The surface of the weapon is panelled with a highly reflective metal, mirror-like. A large chrome button sits atop the weapon on the other end.
“This is the three-bulb Flash Uniemitter, or simply FLUN for short. FLUNs can inflict devastating flashes of light. Push the button situated at the back, and out shoots a continuous ray of light – not mercuric, mind you – that lasts up to two seconds. The beam is quite powerful: at a luminous efficacy of about ninety-five lumens, it will singe your skin deeply and painfully on initial contact. If the beam is held for a second or longer, the ultraviolet resonance will cause vomiting and loss of consciousness. If you happen to look directly into the beam, you will be blinded, perhaps permanently.”
It is, as the saying goes, quiet enough to hear a heper hair drop.
“That is the lowest setting.”
Silence.
“How many settings are there?” Beefy asks.
After a dramatic pause, Frilly Dress says, “Five. At the highest setting, a single shot is powerful enough to burn a hole through you. It has five times the potency of the noon sun rays.”
Ashley June’s arm wisps up like a plume of smoke. “How many?”
Her question is vague, but Frilly Dress seems to understand perfectly. “There are five FLUNs in total. Each heper will be armed with one. Each FLUN shoots upward of three shots. It has a range of about thirty feet.” She purses her lips as if sucking out stuck entrails from between her teeth.
It is very, very quiet. “Why?” asks Beefy.
This question is also ambiguous, but again Frilly Dress has no problem understanding it. “We’re doing it for you, my dear. To make this Hunt truly memorable, to make it surpass the excitement of any previous Hunt.”
Nobody is moving now, nobody seemingly breathing. Only her dress moves, swaying about her wide body, embroidered fronds and ferns and sunflowers spinning about her.
“In fact, not only do we want to increase the combativeness between the hunters and hepers, we want to increase the level of competition between the hunters as well.” Her voice has taken on a robotic tone, as if she’s spouting a script. “This will indubitably make the Hunt that much more interesting and ultimately enhance the winner’s enjoyment.”
“How are you going to increase it?” Ashley June asks, glancing at the others. Her voice is a whisper in the airy lecture hall. “The competition between us?”
“Sometime later tonight, you’ll each be given a piece of equipment. Nothing that will help you actually kill the hepers, but it will make the chase to them more interesting. The equipment is designed to give you an advantage over your fellow hunters. Perhaps. They’re all still in the prototype stage, so their ability to deliver as advertised is unproven.”
“What kind of items?” Abs asks. She’s leaning forward, intrigued.
“Well, some of you will be given shoes designed to give more bounce and speed. We estimate that it will make you about ten percent faster. Others will be given either a SunCloak or SunBlock Lotion. Worn and applied properly, they can be used to block the early-dawn and late-dusk sunlight. We think, anyway. You’ll be able to leave perhaps ten minutes before the others, an eternity of difference in a race like this. Some of you will be given an adrenaline shot. You get the idea. Things that will give you minor advantages over the others in the chase. But again, let me emphasise: these products haven’t been completely tested. You use and rely on them at your own risk.”
“I was hoping for something more along the lines of a protective suit – against the FLUNs,” Crimson Lips says.
“I wouldn’t worry about the FLUNs,” Gaunt Man says before Frilly Dress can respond. “Remember, they’re animals. They won’t even be able to figure out how to operate the FLUNs.”
“Believe that if you will,” Frilly Dress says, her voice even and cold. “If you think that gives you a competitive edge over the others, then think that. The others here will be only too glad to take advantage of your wilful ignorance.”
“Hey, you can’t talk to me that way—”
“Funny, t
hat. I was just about to ask for a volunteer, thank you for offering.”
“Volunteer? For what?”
“That’s right, just make your way up to the stage.” Frilly Dress takes out a pair of shades from her belt, puts them on. “I suggest you all put on your shades now. Except you,” she says, looking at Gaunt Man.
Gaunt Man gets up slowly, his hand creeping up to pull his ear-lobes. He stops himself. “What’s this? What’s going on?”
“Nothing the escorts haven’t already gone through this morning.”
“What’s this? I’m not getting out of my seat,” he says, sitting back down now.
“That’s not a problem.” And then Frilly Dress takes out a secreted FLUN from beneath her dress. “Didn’t I just tell you this thing has a range of thirty feet?”
Gaunt Man strains back against his chair. He’s pinned, got nowhere to go.
“Consider yourself lucky. I’ve set it on the weakest setting. But I think you’ll still be impressed.”
“Wait!” Gaunt Man’s head snaps forward, then to the side. “The Director said punishment had already been meted out. Upon the escorts. There’s nothing left—”
“But to show what you were so lucky to miss out on. Albeit a very watered-down demonstration, compared to what they had to face. You’ll live.”
