The Trap (4 page)

She nods frantically, pressing against the back wall.

And then we’re sprinting down the corridor, the four of us. Bodies are flying everywhere, in opposite directions, colliding, bumping, cursing. It’s obvious that the siren has caught
everyone by surprise and out of position.

Screams, shouts. Boys aggressively fighting over empty enclaves. Blood spilling, the cracks of noses fracturing, eyes blackening. We run past these scuffles, knowing better than to waste time.
Here and there, we sprint past a girl staggering on her lotus feet, tears streaming down, lips quivering in terror.

Seconds pass, ten, twenty, thirty. Fewer and fewer people are running along the corridors. Mostly smaller boys, those pushed out or pulled out by older, stronger boys, their eyes darting from
side to side in growing distress. Ahead of us, a burly boy pulls out a skinny girl from an enclave, subduing her with a vicious kick to the rib cage. She doesn’t even try to regain the
enclave but takes off down the corridor in search of an unoccupied space, as fast as her plodding lotus feet carry her, anyway. She leaps into an enclave, and seconds later a skinny, tiny boy is
kicked out. He sprints off, doubled over with pain, fighting back tears.

We turn a bend, race down another stretch. There. An empty enclave on the top row. We grab David, order him in there. When he protests—and he does so vehemently—Epap grabs him by the
scruff of his neck, barks something at him, then roughly shoves him farther inside. And then we’re sprinting again, trying to find another unoccupied spot. I glance back, see David’s
face pop out from the opening, his expression full of fear.

By now, the corridor is empty of stragglers. It’s just the three of us. Whenever I glance into a passing enclave, a scowling, terrified face stares back, arms and legs ready to ward off
any attempt to supplant.

The lights start to blink quickly. On, off, on, off; then faster,
on-off-on-off
. We stop, panic stalling us. The lights strobe manically, in rhythm with our frantically beating
hearts.

“They’re all occupied!” Epap shouts, sweat pouring down his face. “There’s nowhere to go!”

We need to go where there’s less people!
are the words in my mind, but before I verbalize them I’m grabbing Sissy and Epap, pulling them roughly. Back the way we came. Back
toward the smell of raw sewage.

They don’t question me, only match me stride for stride. We break into a panic-fueled, mad sprint. We turn around a bend, gun down yet another corridor, force our legs to pound faster. The
smell of sewage grows more pungent.

“You look left!” I shout at Sissy and Epap without breaking stride. “I’ll look right!”

And almost immediately I see an empty enclave. Epap is closest to me and I grab him by the shoulders and, before he has a chance to react, throw him roughly into it. He shouts in protest, then
crashes against the metal sides of the enclave.

I don’t stop, only continue to sprint faster, Sissy next to me, neither of us bothering to even glance back. We’re too far away now—Epap has no choice but to stay where he
is.

And then, just as we reach the end of one corridor and start bounding down another, the siren stops screeching. It’s quiet. I hear only blood rushing in my ears and the rapid thumping of
my heart.

A loud series of electronic beeps suddenly sounds from every enclave. From the top edge of each unit, a glass window starts to descend. The enclaves are about to be sealed off.

“C’mon!” Sissy shouts, pulling me by the arms.

The glass windows continue to fall, teasingly slow.

Then Sissy is grabbing me by the neck and thrusting me into an enclave on the bottom row. It’s empty. But I catch myself before I tumble in. Spinning and dropping to the ground on my back,
I hurl her over me. She goes flying into the enclave with a shout of surprise. Her hand shoots out, grabs me by the wrist.

“Get in!” she shouts.

“No!”
I yell, trying to pull away from her. But her grip is tight as a steel trap. “Only one per enclave!”

“Never mind!
Get in!
”

I kick at her forearm with enough strength to break her wrist. I hear a cry of pain; then her grip loosens just enough. I fall backward with the unexpected release, and tumble across the
corridor. My back smacks against glass on the adjacent wall. I feel it grate against my back as it descends.

I spin around. With barely a second to spare, I throw my body under the falling glass. I’m only just able to slide my body through the narrowing gap before it completely seals me in. I
roll around, expecting to feel a kick or punch. But wonder of wonders, the enclave is empty. Trapped inside now, my chest heaves up and down with exhaustion, my breath condensing on the glass. As
if with a will of their own, my arms and legs flap against the sides and back of the enclave, banging hollowly on metal, adrenaline still racing through my system. The ceiling looms right above my
head, like the lid of a coffin. Too close, too near, too suffocating.

Across the corridor, Sissy is gazing at me, her head turned to the side, breathing hard. She lifts her arm, places her hand flat against the glass, whitening her palm. I do the same. For a
moment, our eyes lock.
We made it, we made it
.

And then the lights go out, and everything goes dark and black.

T
HEY COME AN
hour later, gray phantoms gliding in the brine of darkness. Mercuric light spills out of their flashlights, giving them optimal
vision. The dozen or so duskers stand before each enclave, shining their flashlights on the occupant before moving on.

Turn around.

Let us see your face.

When they reach Sissy’s enclave and peer inside, they perk up. I see the sudden infusion of energy in their silhouettes, a perky enlivening. Even from behind the glass wall, I can hear the
cracking of their necks. Judging from their regal, highly decorated uniforms, these men must be the highest echelon of the Palace.

Then they turn around, walk toward my enclave. Their faces are orbs of sickly paleness.

Turn around.

Let us see your face.

Fingernails rap on the glass, insistently.
Tap tap tap
. I reluctantly lift my head to them.

They stare at me without speaking, and recognition flows into their eyes. For I know what I am to them: the heper boy who lived his whole life in their midst, who pulled the wool over their eyes
by brazenly masquerading as one of them for almost two decades. The very one who then escaped from right under their noses during the Heper Hunt.

One face floats out of the darkness until it is almost pressed up against the glass. It is the Ruler. He’s smaller and more diminutive than his carefully crafted public image. Saliva
drools from the corners of his mouth, twin lines that converge at his chin before dripping down in a glutinous ooze. His tongue snakes out, licks his thin lower lip.

Another face emerges. A man. I’ve seen him before. Not too long ago, in fact, but I can’t quite place him. He’s burly and tall, with mountain-range shoulders, so different from
the other observers with their oversized uniforms and twig-thin arms. His eyes stare hard at me, circled by a pair of rimless round glasses.

The Ruler whispers to his retinue. A second later, they glide away as one. They apparently have no further need to inspect other enclaves. They’ve found what they were looking for.

I stare across the corridor, trying to locate Sissy in the darkness. I see nothing.

“Sissy! Can you hear me?” I press my ear against the glass. I hear her muted, faraway response but can’t make out a single word. I yell back, but her reply is again muffled.
Eventually, we both give up, resigning ourselves to our isolation.

Three minutes later I jolt up, banging my head on the enclave ceiling. I remember the broad-shouldered man. I’d bumped into him at the Heper Institute only a few weeks ago, the night
before the start of the Heper Hunt. During the Gala. The man had cornered me in an otherwise empty restroom at the Heper Institute. He had asked me questions about the Heper Hunt, made a few odd
suggestions regarding it, and I’d dismissed him as a paparazzi hack. But then he told me—and I remember his exact words—something odd as he exited:
Things are not as they
appear.

A skein of fear shoots through me, cocooned inside a metal coffin, deep in the darkness of the earth. What is that man doing here? Who is he?

Things are not as they appear.

And I suddenly recall something else he’d uttered as he exited the restroom, words spoken with an almost flippant casualness but which now echo off the walls of the metal enclave. Cryptic
words about Ashley June.

You need to watch out. She’s not who you think she is.

ASHLEY JUNE

A
SHLEY JUNE PILLAGED
the village all night. For the first hour, it was sheer delirium: a rampage through heper-ladled streets, a frenzied romp of a hunt with hundreds
of other duskers. The hepers—almost all girls—tried to flee, but their strides were oddly plodding and ungraceful. The duskers picked them off as easily as dandelions in a field. Some
heper girls tried to hide, just as futilely, under beds and inside wardrobes. They were eaten right where they cowered in an explosion of splintering wood. For hours, the snap of jaws and the
rattle of teeth cracked the night skies. Afterward, when there were no more hepers to eat, the duskers licked up dots of blood splattered on walls, wooden floors, the cobblestone paths.

They ran their tongues over the village like a ravenous pack of wolves licking a bone clean.

Still, the night was not without its disappointments. A large number of hepers slipped through their clutches, escaping on a train. More than a few dozen duskers made a dash for that runaway
train, ramming through the bottleneck at the bridge, and managed to cling on to the ribbed cages of the train. The smarter ones U-turned, headed right back into the heper village. They knew the
train was picking up speed and that the hepers were, in any case, unreachable behind impenetrable steel bars. There were more hepers in the village ripe for the picking.

Afterward, the duskers’ bodies sated, their tongues licking bloodstained lips, they dozed upside down from street lamps and rooftops. Or they ranged toward the fortress wall, drinking
from whisky bottles discovered in the dining hall, where narrow slit windows served as near-perfect, almost custom-made sleepholds. They stared into the night sky, and their bloated, engorged
bodies quivered with satisfaction. They knew for a fact that no matter how many years lay ahead of them, they had experienced the apex of their lives. Nothing could ever top this. Perhaps that is
why they were so careless—they had nothing ahead of them anymore. Filled and satiated, they drifted into a deep, bottomless sleep, forgetful that they were outside, that they were facing
east.

But Ashley June did not sleep. She was haunted by her encounter with Gene. She had hoped to meet him in the mountains, but in her most honest moments she had suspected him dead already. A
victim at the hands and fangs of a hunter, or perhaps of the Nede River. And yet there he was, standing in the middle of an empty street in the village square. As if by mutual arrangement, a
midnight tryst.

She had felt two emotions. Most keen was an urge to protect him, to shield, to embrace. She approached him slowly, and how her lungs wanted to scream out. She had expected, with the turning,
some dilution or diminishment in her feelings for him. But they rumbled deep as ever, amplifying along her jaw and collarbone and spine.

But she felt something else, too. She wanted to devour him. To taste his flesh on her tongue, the warmth of his blood filling her, his body broken down and digested and fused seamlessly with
hers, merging with her muscles and bones and eyes and hair and molecules and atoms. To feel him saturate her as he passed through her and, in passing into death, into her very being.

The inherent conflict between these two feelings overwhelmed her, stopping her in her tracks. Until a third feeling plowed right through her, dismantling everything. Jealousy. She saw the
girl standing next to Gene and noted all too easily the intimate, natural bond between them. Jealousy raged in Ashley June, springing her into action. She found a target and it was not
Gene.

Ashley June sucked down the girl’s blood. Virginal and hot and pure, it flowed down Ashley June’s throat like lava. For a short spell, she forgot Gene. But only for a few
seconds. Another hunter moved in, eyeing him. A surge of protectiveness swept over Ashley June, and she made quick work of the interloper. But then Gene was gone. She chased after him as he fled
down the meadows, toward the train station. She ran not to hunt but to protect him. She raced to the front of the pack, broadsided many hunters, sent them tumbling away. But there were too many and
she was quickly overwhelmed.

But Gene got away. She saw him crouched inside the train as the distance stretched between them. And then the train was across the bridge, gaining speed. But no matter. She stared at the
train tracks disappearing into the folds of the mountain. They would lead her to him. She would find him again.

Resolve energized her, rendering sleep impossible. While everyone else—after every heper had been devoured, every spot of blood licked up, every bone chewed and sucked on—fell
into a sedated slumber, she roamed the streets, the buildings, the fortress wall. The night was hers alone. She was a solitary pale dot moving under a canopy of a billion stars.

Stars. She remembered the night (it was not so long ago, yet how far away it seemed) when it was her with whom he held hands, the skin of their palms touching. They lay
(so bizarre a body contortion to her now) on the rooftop of the Heper Institute under the sprinkling of those bright, celestial dots, unaffected by the moon’s full brightness. The muted
sounds of the Gala beneath them lifted harmlessly into the night. Gene had whispered to her, and a weird slip of laughter escaped his lips as she scratched her wrists.