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A small collection of mud huts sitting inconspicuously off in the distance. The heper village. My guess is it’s about a mile away. A pond of some sort – no doubt man-made; no body of water could possibly survive in this terrain – lies in the centre. Nothing moves. The mud huts are as nondescript as the desert.
Then I see something.
Moonli
ght glimmers above the mud huts in a concave shimmer. Then I realise: there’s a transparent dome covering it. It rises high, about fifty yards at its highest point above the mud huts. Its circumference encapsulates the entirety of the village.
Of course; it all makes sense now.
Without the dome, the hepers would be a free-for-all. What would prevent the people from marauding the mud huts at night when the hepers lay asleep and unprotected? Who could stop themselves from feasting on them unless they were sealed in completely? They’d never have survived a single night hour without that dome of protection.
I zoom in on the mud huts, searching for some sign of life. But nothing moves. The hepers are asleep. Not a chance of seeing them tonight.
A heper steps out of one of the huts.
Even with binoculars, I make out very little. A thin figure, walking towards the pond, female. It appears to be holding a bucket of some kind. When it reaches the edge of the pond, it bends over, fills the bucket. I play with the dial until it comes sharper into focus. Then I recognise it: the female heper on TV, the one that picked out the last lottery number.
I watch as it stands up, takes a sip of water from cupped hands. Its back is to me, its head staring east at the mountains. For a long time, it does not move. Then it bends down, cups its hands, takes another sip. Its movement, even for so simple an act, is graceful and sure. Its head suddenly swings in my direction; I flinch back. Perhaps it has caught a reflection off the binoculars’ lens. But it is looking past me, at the Institute. I zoom in on the face. Those eyes: I remember them from earlier this evening, on my deskscreen, their brown tone like the trunk of a wrongly felled tree.
After a few moments, it turns around and disappears into a mud hut.
Hunt Minus Four Nights
I AM CURIOUS about the library they’ve lodged me in and intend to stay up through the day hours to explore. But the night’s activities have worn me out; no sooner have I sat down to read the welcome package than I find myself waking up, hours later.
Somebody is pounding at the door. Startled, I jump up, my heart hammering. “Give me a minute!” I shout. I hear a mumbled response.
Fear douses me awake. I’m realising now. My face. I’m not ready. My fingers reach for my chin: a faint stubble just breaking the skin. Enough to be noticed. And what of my eyes? Are they bloodshot with fatigue? And do my fake teeth need to be whitened, my body washed?
Never forget to shave. Get enough sleep to avoid bloodshot eyes. Never forget to whiten your teeth every morning before you leave. And wash every day; body odour is the most dangerous—
My father’s instructions. I’ve abided by them every single day of my life. But my razor blades and eye drops and fang whiteners and underarm ointments are stashed miles away at home. Given the right mix of other products, I could cobble together what I need. For example, three sheets of aluminium foil dissolved in horse shampoo with a liberal application of baking soda will, after a fortnight, congeal into a serviceable bar of underarm deodorant. Trouble is, I don’t have these ingredients at hand. Nor do I have a fortnight to spare.
The door pounding gets louder, more insistent. I do the only thing I can. Grab my penknife and quickly raze my chin, making sure not to chafe my skin. That would be a fatal mistake. Then I grab my shades and head to the front door. Just in time, I catch myself. My clothes. They’re creased from being slept in, a telltale sign that I didn’t sleep in the sleep-holds. I run to the closet, throw on a new outfit.
The escort is not happy. “I’ve been knocking for five minutes. What’s the matter with you?”
“Sorry, overslept. Sleep-holds were comfy.”
He turns, starts walking. “Come now. The first lecture is about to begin. We have to hurry.” He takes another glance back at me. “And lose the shades. It’s cloudy tonight.”
I ignore him.
The Director of the Heper Institute is as sterile and dry as his surroundings, which is saying a lot. His face has a plastic sheen, and he likes to stand wherever it is dark. He exudes an austere authority that is both quiet and deadly. He can whisper a rat to death with the razor-sharp incisions of his carefully nuanced words.
“Hepers are slow, hepers like to hold hands, hepers like to warble their voices, hepers need to drink copious amounts of water. They have an expansive range of facial tics, they sleep at night, they are preternaturally resistant to sunlight. These are the rudimentary facts about hepers.” The Director speaks with a practised élan. He pauses dramatically in the dark corner, the white glow of his eyes disappearing, then reappearing, as he opens his eyes. “After decades of intense study, we now know significantly more about them. Much of this information is known to only a few of us here at the Heper Institute of Refined Research and Discovery. Because you will be hunting hepers in four nights, it has been determined that you, too, will become privy to the latest research. Everything we know about hepers, you will know. But first, the waivers.”
We all sign them, of course. The papers are handed out by officials in grey suits who emerge from the darkness behind us. All information learned over the next few weeks will not be disclosed or disseminated to any person after the Hunt is completed unless the Heper Institute expressly grants permission. I initial next to it. You may not sell your story for publication or option said story for a theatrical production unless the Heper Institute expressly grants permission. I initial next to it. Compliance is total and irrevocable. I initial next to it. Upon punishment of death. I sign and date it.
The Director has been watching us carefully as we sign, each hunter in turn. His eyes are black holes, sucking in observations with a slippery, keen acuity. He never misses a thing, never guesses wrong. As I hand over my waiver papers, I feel his eyes clamp down on me like a suddenly jammed stapler. Just before the papers are taken from me, they dangle off my hand, shaking ever so slightly. His eyes flip to the papers, to the way they are quivering. I know this without looking, from the piercing cold burn on my wrist where his eyes settle. I grip the papers tighter to still them.
Then I feel his stare shift away, the cold burn on my wrist evaporating. He has moved on to the next hunter.
After all the papers have been collected, he continues without missing a beat. “Much of what is known about hepers is more fictional than factual. It’s time to debunk these myths.
“Myth one: they are wild beasts at heart and will be continual flight risks. Fact: they are easily domesticated and are actually quite afraid of the unknown. Truth is, during the day while we sleep and the Dome is retracted, they are unsupervised and free to roam. The whole stretch of the plains, as far as you can see, free for them to escape, far and away. If they choose. But they never have. Of course, it’s easy to understand why. Any heper who leaves the safety of the Dome is – come night-time – free game. Within two hours, it would have been sniffed out, chased down, and devoured. In fact, this has happened. Once or twice.” He does not elaborate.
“Myth two: they are passive and submissive, ready to lie down rather than fight back. Ironically, this myth has been perpetuated by previous Hunts when the hepers showed anything but resistance. Historical accounts of that Hunt reflect how useless they were: first, the initial flight, where they proved to be slow and disorganised; and second, their submissive surrender when surrounded by us. Even when we were two miles away, they just gave up. Stopped running. And when we came on them, not a single one fought back, not so much as even a single raised arm. Practically lay down and let us have at them.
“What our research has demonstrated, however, is that hepers can be trained to be aggressive. They’ve demonstrated surprising acumen with the weapons provided. Primitive weapons, mind you, mere spears, knives, daggers, axes. And, quite endearingly, they’ve even fashioned leather guards that they place around their necks for protection. Those naive darlings.” He starts scratching his wrist, then stops. He jots something down in his notebook. “Not sure how they got the leather. Surprisingly resourceful, they can be.”
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We sit still as he finishes writing. He snaps the notebook shut, starts speaking again.
“Myth three: they are a male-dominated society. This is another myth perpetuated by previous Heper Hunts. You’ve all heard about it, how it’s always the men who take charge – futilely; the men who make all the decisions – the wrong ones, as we also know. The women typically do nothing but follow. Followers. Submissive. We thought this was simply how they were genetically wired: men dominate, women submit. But our research has produced some startling results. Currently, we have five hepers in captivity, all but one of which is male. Four males, only one female. Want to wager a guess who’s the leader?” His eyes sparkle with excitement.
“This is one of the more surprising discoveries. In fact, it was I who was the first to spot the trend. Even early on, when the hepers were mere toddlers, it was I who noted that the sole female heper seemed to be in the forefront of everything. A natural-born leader. Today, she is without question the leader of the pack. They look to her for . . . well, everything. Where she goes, they follow. What she commands, they obey. During the Hunt, if you want to cut off the head from the body, you take her out first. With her out of the picture, the group will quickly disintegrate. Easy pickings, thereafter.”
He licks his lips.
“This girl. All of you have seen her, in fact. On TV – she was the one who picked the last number. That wasn’t supposed to happen, of course. We would never have put a female on the airwaves, especially one so young. We know the effect a young female heper has on people. It was supposed to be a little boy heper. But she . . . well, before we knew it, she took control of the situation and put herself in front of the camera. That girl . . .” His words grow slithery with saliva. Spittle collects at the corners of his mouth. His eyes grow distant; he is lost in some dreamland. When he speaks, his voice is soft with desire. “She would be delicious, so . . .”
