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I stare at the eastern mountains. “My mother and my sister, years ago. I don’t remember much about them. They just vanished one day. Then my father, about seven years ago. He got bitten.”
We fall into a silence after that, comforting and shared. Music from the banquet hall comes at us muted and indifferent, a thousand miles away. Eventually, our eyes drift over to the Dome, tranquil and sparkling.
“Ignorance is bliss,” she whispers. “Tonight, asleep, blissfully unaware of what awaits them tomorrow. The end of their lives. Poor things.”
“There’s something you should know,” I say after a while.
“About what?”
“The hepers.”
“What is it?”
I pause. “When I got water from the pond, I wasn’t like in and out. I actually interacted with them. Spent time there. And you know, they speak. They even read. They’re not the savages I thought they were, not even close.”
“They speak? And read?” She looks incredulously at the Dome. Nothing moves inside.
“They love to. They have books in the mud huts. Shelves of them. And they’re creative: they draw, paint.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t understand. I thought they were raised like barn animals. Why were they domesticated and trained?”
“No, I know this is hard to grasp, but it’s not even about them being domesticated or trained like circus animals. They’re beyond that. They’re, like, normal. They think, they’re rational, they joke around. Like you and me.”
A frown creases her face. She is quiet, mulling something over. “So you haven’t told them about the Hunt,” she says matter-of-factly.
“They have no idea,” I answer. “Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”
“What did you tell them about yourself?”
“The Scientist’s replacement.” I hesitate. “It would have been too . . . awkward to say I was a heper hunter. Maybe I should have said something to them. Maybe I should have let them know about the Hunt.”
“No, you did the right thing,” she says. “What good would it have done? They’d still be as good as dead.”
A zillion million thoughts plummet through my mind over the next few seconds. Then: “Think we should do something?”
She turns to me. “Pretty funny.”
“No. I mean, seriously. Instead of our plan, should we do something to help them?”
Her eyes widen a smidge, then droop back down. “What do you mean?” she asks.
“Shouldn’t we . . .”
“What?”
“Do something to help them?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not. They’re us. We’re them.”
Deep surprise sets in her eyes. “No, they’re not. They’re way different from us. I don’t care if they can speak, they’re still glorified cattle.” She grips my hand tighter. “Gene, I don’t mean to come over as cold-hearted. But there’s nothing we can do for them. They’re going to die during the Hunt whether or not we use it to our advantage.”
“We could, I don’t know, we could tell them not to leave the Dome. That the letter informing them about the Dome malfunctioning is all a hoax.” I run my hand through my hair, gripping it hard. “This is really hard, Ashley June.”
When she speaks again, her voice is softer. “If they die tonight according to our plan, then at least their deaths give us a chance of a real life. But if we just sit on our hands, their deaths are not only meaningless, but will ensure our deaths. We can make their deaths meaningful, giving us a chance of a real life, Gene.” Her eyes are wide and pleading. “Our new life, Gene. Together. Is that so bad, to make something good come out of this?”
I don’t say anything.
Tears start to well in her eyes, and perhaps for the first time in her life, she doesn’t hold them back. They stream out and trail down her cheeks. I reach out with my arm, meaning to wipe them away with my sleeve; but she grabs my hand and places it on her cheek, palm pressed right atop the trail of tears. Her soft skin, the wetness of her tears, tingling my open palm. My heart, melting everywhere now, her tears intermingling.
“Please?” she whispers, and the plea in her voice breaks me inside.
Our shoulders touch. When I turn, she has already turned to face me. So close, I can see a tiny mole at the corner of her eye. I brush it lightly with my fingertips, back and forth.
“It’s a mole. No amount of rubbing will wipe it away,” she whispers.
“I’m not trying to wipe it away.” I don’t know what I’m doing. All I know is that my heart is bursting out and overflowing, and I don’t know what to do with myself.
She lifts her sleeveless arm slightly. Her eyes are wide, inviting. The skin of her armpit is exposed, and she is waiting. She gazes at my elbow, then at me.
As gently as I can, I reach out and lower her arm. “Please,” I say softly, a whisper’s whisper, “don’t misunderstand. But . . . I never . . . it’s never done anything for me.”
Instead of hurt in her eyes, relief and emotion flood them. She lowers her arm. “It’s the same for me. I’ve always faked how much I enjoyed it.” She turns her head the other direction. “The times with the boyfriend, the one time with you in the closet. I felt like something was wrong with me.” She sighs with a shudder. “Of course something was wrong with me,” she says, her voice hitching. “I’m not normal. I’m a heper.” The last word comes out like a release, the final plea of guilt.
Hardly knowing what I’m doing, I grab her hand with my open palm placed on top of the back of her hand. I feel the small ripple of bones, the slight startle in her fingers. I pull my hand away, but she reaches for it. And places her open palm in my hand, the skin of her palm touching the skin of my palm, a full embrace. We stare at each other, eyes wide. The sensation, unlike anything I’ve felt before, is overpowering. I don’t dare to breathe. Her eyes close, her head tips upward. With that, her lips part, full and strangely beckoning.
And then her fingers interlace with mine. I’ve never seen that before, never knew such a thing was even possible. But the soft skin on the sides of her fingers as they graze the sides of my fingers is like the nape of her neck, tender and smooth, sending a chill and a heat up and through my body.
“Ashley June,” I whisper.
She doesn’t say anything, just keeps her head tilted heavenward, eyes closed. “I know,” she finally whispers, “I know.”
Stars blinking down. Ashley June’s head on my shoulder, her arm draped across my chest, still holding my hand. We haven’t let go, even as we lay down and drifted to sleep. I hear small puffs of her even breathing, the faint thump of her heartbeat against my rib cage. My eyes close. I fall asleep ag
ain.
When I wake up, the sky has lightened, the muted stars receded into the grey sky. The scent of dawn hangs ripe in the air. Ashley June is gone from my side. I sit up, the pebbles shifting under me.
She’s nowhere on the rooftop. I head over to the ledge, puzzled.
I see her in the distance. Walking, deep in thought.
Minutes later, I’m outside on the brick path, hurrying towards her. Evidence of the evening’s revelry is littered everywhere: paper plates, kebab skewers, wineglasses, empty bottles, strewn all along the path. Even puddles of vomit. As I draw closer to her, she senses me and turns around, waits for me to catch up.
“Hey,” she says with a faint smile, and reaches for my hand.
“Hope no one sees us.”
“Nah, everyone’s completely sloshed.”
“Hope so. What are you doing?”
“Something was weighing on me. I had to take a walk to clear my mind.” She squeezes my hand. “I’m glad you came. Come with me,” she says, and we head towards the Dome.
Hand in hand, we walk under the brightening skies, our hands fitting perfectly, our arms intertwining with surprising ease, her skin soft against my own. Our bodies tilt towards each other intimately as we approach the Dome. It is easy to forget what this day is. A day that will end in the Hunt, in violence and death.
And then we stop in front of the Umbilical.
“Open it,” she says.
Inside, sitting dead centre on the conveyor belt, is a large envelope. I look at Ashley June and she nods with her wide, penetrating eyes.
I take it out, feeling the large embossed lettering in all caps:
URGENT: OPEN IMMEDIATELY.
“I thought it would be here by now. It’s the letter informing the hepers about the supposed Dome malfunction. It’s what gets them out of the Dome, out into the Vast. It’s what turns them from the protected into unwitting prey. It’s what makes the Hunt possible. It’s what kills the hepers.”
