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I slow down.
Cold seeps into my bones. I know what I have to do. Get out of the water before the shivering gets out of control, escape into the locker room. But when I lift my arms, goose bumps – disgustingly like bubble wrap – prickle out, obvious to all. Then something weird happens to my jaw. It starts to chatter, vibrate, knock my teeth together. I clench my mouth shut.
When the team completes the lap, we rest up before heading out for the next lap. We’ve all paced ourselves too fast and have twelve seconds before the next lap. It’s going to be the longest twelve seconds of my life.
“They forgot to turn on the heat,” somebody complains. “Water’s too cold.”
“The maintenance crew. Probably too busy talking about the Declaration.”
The water levels off at our waists. But I stay crouched, keeping my body underwater. I trail my fingers over my skin. Little bumps all over. I glance up at the clock. Ten more seconds. Ten more seconds to just fly under the radar and hope—
“What’s the matter with you?” Poser says, gazing at me. “You look sick.” The rest of the team turns around.
“N-no-nothing,” I say, my voice chattering. I grip my voice and bark it out again. “Nothing.”
“Sure?” he asks again.
I nod my head, not trusting my voice. My eyes flick at the clock. Nine seconds to go. It’s as if the clock is stuck in Super Glue.
“Coach!” Poser yells, his right arm motioning. “Something’s wrong with him.”
Coach’s head snaps around, his body half a beat behind. The assistant coach is already moving towards us.
I raise my hands, up to the wrists. “I’m OK,” I assure them, but my voice trembles. “Just fine, let’s swim.”
A girl in front of me studies me closely. “Why is his voice doing that? Shaking like that?”
Fear ices my spine. A soupy sensation steals into my stomach, churning it upside down. Do whatever it takes to survive, my father would tell me, his hand smoothing down my hair. Whatever it takes.
And in that moment with the coaches coming towards me and everyone staring at me, I find a way to survive. I vomit into the pool, a heaving green-yellow mess filled with sticky spittle and gooey saliva. It’s not a lot, and most of it just floats on the surface like an oil spill. A few colourless chunks drift downward.
“That’s so disgusting!” the girl shrills, splashing vomit away as she jumps backward. The other swimmers also move away, arms and hands slapping at the water. The green slick of vomit floats haphazardly back towards me.
“You get out of the water now!” Coach yells at me.
I do. Most people are too distracted by the vomit in the pool to notice my body. It’s ridden with goose bumps. And shaking. Coach and his assistant are making their way to me. I hold up my arm, pretend I’m about to upchuck again. They stop in their tracks.
I run into the locker room, bent over. Inside, I make retching sounds as I towel off and throw my clothes on. I don’t have much time before they come in. Even with the clothes on, I’m still shivering. I hear them getting closer now. I jump down onto the floor and start doing push-ups. Anything to get my body warmer.
But it’s useless. I can’t stop shivering. And when I hear the first voices cautiously enter the locker room, I grab my bag and head out. “I don’t feel well,” I say as I walk past them. Disgust pulls their faces down as they step aside, but that’s OK. I’m used to it, that look.
It’s the way I look at myself in the mirror when I’m alone at home.
You live too long trying not to be something, eventually you wind up hating that thing.
In English literature class right before the Declaration, no one can concentrate. All we want to do – including the teacher, who jettisons any pretence of teaching – is talk about the Declaration. I’m quiet, trying to thaw out, coldness still dug in deep in my bones. The teacher insists the Declaration is about another Hunt. “It’s not like the Ruler is going to marry again,” she says, her eyes stealing up to the clock, counting down the minutes to two a.m.
Finally, at one forty-five a.m., we’re led to the auditorium. It’s bubbling over with excitement. Teachers line the sides, shifting on their feet. Even janitors loiter at the back, restless. Then two a.m. arrives and the screen above the stage is filled with our nation’s symbol: two white fangs, standing for Truth and Justice. For a frightful moment, the projector sputters and blanks out. A groan ripples across the rows of seats; technicians fly to the projector that sits, heavy and unwieldy, like all audiovisual equipment, in the centre of the auditorium. Within a minute, they have it up and running again.
Just in time. The Ruler, sitting at his desk in the Circular Office, is beginning his speech. His hands are clasped, his long fingers interlaced, the nails gleaming under the spotlights.
“My dear citizens,” he begins. “When it was announced earlier this evening that I would be speaking, many of you” – he pauses dramatically – “if not all of you, were intrigued, to say the least. My advisers have informed me that concern spread across this great land, and that many of you were overwrought with speculation and even undue worry. I apologise if that happened; it was not my intent. For I come to you with news not of war or distress, but of great tidings.”
Everyone in the auditorium leans forward at this. All across the land, over five million citizens huddle around TVs and large screens with bated breath.
“My announcement to you, gentle people, is that this year we will once again hold that most esteemed of events.” His tongue slips out, wets his lips. “For the first time in a decade, we will once again have a Heper Hunt!”
At that, everyone’s heads snap back and forth, side to side, loud snorts issuing out of their noses. The auditorium, filled with the staccato movement of snapping heads and the sound of suctioned air, reverberates with excitement.
“Now, before I sign off and the Director of the Heper Institute furnishes you with the details, let me say that such an event is emblematic of who we are. It encapsulates all that makes this nation transcendent: character, integrity, perseverance. May the best succeed!”
A raucous stomping of feet fills the auditorium. As one, we stand with him, placing our hands over our throats as his image on the screen fades out. Then the Director of the Heper Institute speaks. He is a wiry, sharp man, officious in demeanour, dressed to the nines.
There will be a hunting party of between five and ten this year, he tells us. “This is a democracy we live in, where every person counts, where every person matters. Thus, every citizen over the age of fifteen and under the age of sixty-five will receive a randomly assigned sequence of four numbers. In exactly twenty-four hours, the numbers of the sequence will be randomly picked and publicly announced live on TV Anywhere between five to ten of you will have this winning sequence.”
Heads snap back, spines crack. Five to ten citizens!
“The lottery winners will be immediately tak
en to the Heper Institute of Refined Research and Discovery for a four-night training period. Then the Hunt will begin.” The auditorium breaks out in hisses and snarls. The Director continues. “The rules of the Hunt are simple: the hepers will be given a twelve-hour head start into the desert plains. Then the hunters will be released. The goal? Chase the hepers down, eat more of them than any other hunter.” He stares into the camera lens. “But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we? First, you have to be one of the few lucky lottery winners. Good luck to you all.”
Then more foot stomping, silenced with an uplifted hand. “One more thing,” he says. “Did I mention anything about the hepers?” He pauses; everyone leans forward. “Most of the hepers were too young for the previous Hunt. They were mere babies back then, really. It would have been cruel, barbaric, and, well, simply unfair to have babies as prey.” A cruel glint perches in his eyes. “But since that time, we have raised them in the most controlled of environments. To ensure not only that they will provide us with succulent flesh and rich blood, but that they will also be more . . . dexterous than last time. Finally, as we speak tonight, they are ripe and ready for sport and consumption.”
More wrist scratching and drooling.
“Good citizens,” the Director continues, “there is no time like the present. Most of you will receive your lottery numbers at your workstation within a minute. Mothers at home, your numbers will be sent via e-mail to your official account. And for those in high school and college, your numbers are awaiting you back at your desk. Good luck to you all.” His image fades out.
Usually we are led out in orderly fashion, row by row. But today there is pandemonium as the student body – a slippery, sloppy soup – gushes out. The teachers, usually lined up along the side directing traffic, are the first ones out, hurrying to the staff room.
Back in my homeroom, everyone is maniacally logging in, long nails tapping against the glass deskscreen. I am all fakery as I put on my act of shaking my head and drooling. At the top of my inbox, in large caps and in crimson red, is the lottery e-mail:
