It's an endless stretch of desert plains. Nobody knows how far it goes or what lies beyond it.
Because I live in the outer suburbs, far from the tal offi ce build-ings of the Financial District and farther yet from the center of the metropolis where towering governmental skyscrapers clutter the landscape, it doesn't take long before the city is wel behind me.
The city boundary is vague: there's no wal to demarcate the beginning of the Vast. It arrives indiscernibly. Scattered homes give way to dilapidated poultry farms, which in turn cede to crumbling shacks long ago abandoned. Eventual y, it's just the spread of empty land. The Vast. There's nothing out there. No place to fl ee. Only the cruelest of elements, the three Ds: desert, desolation, and death.
There's no escape for us out here, my father would say, no sanctuary, no hope, no life for us at all. Don't ever come out here thinking there's escape to be had.
I don't dil ydal y out here but head north. About an hour out, an isolated mound of soft green fuzz sits there in the middle of the Vast, an aberrational oddity discovered years ago by my parents. And what I need is in the green fuzz. By the time my feet hit the soft grass, I'm sprinting toward a glade of trees. I reach for a red fruit hanging off a branch. I tear it off, shut my eyes, and sink my teeth through the skin. The fruit crunches in my mouth, watery and sweet, my jaws working up and down, up and down. When my father and I ate the fruit, we'd eat with our backs to each other. We were ashamed, even as we chewed, bite after bite, juice running down our chins, unable to stop.
After my fourth fruit, I force myself to slow down. I pluck away at the different offerings of fruit, tossing them into a bag. I pause for a minute, gazing up at the sky. High above me, a large bird glides across the sky, its wings oddly rectangular. It circles around me, its form strangely unchanging, then heads east, disappearing into the THE HUNT 27 distance. I pick a few more fruit, then head over to our favorite spot, a large tree whose leaves spread lush and high. My father and I always sat under this tree, munching fruit, back against the trunk, the city in the far distance, darkened and fl at. Like a dirty puddle.
Years ago, we would explore the green fuzz for signs of others like us. Signs like rutted cores of discarded fruit, trampled grass, snapped branches. But we almost never found anything. Our kind was careful not to leave any giveaway signs. Even so, I'd occasional y fi nd that unavoidable and clearest of signs: less fruit on trees.
That meant others had been there as wel , plucking and eating. But I never saw any of them.
Once, between bites, I asked my father, “Why don't we ever see other hepers here?”
He stopped chewing, half turned his head toward me.
“Don't use that word.”
“What word? Heper? What's wrong with—”
“Don't use that word,” he said sternly. “I don't want to hear that word coming out of you ever again.”
I was young; tears rushed to my eyes. He turned ful y toward me, his large eyes swal owing me whole. I tilted my head back to keep the tears from rimming out. Only after my tears dried did he turn his eyes away. He gazed afar at the horizon until the rocks stopped churning inside him.
“Human,” he fi nal y said, his voice softer. “When we're alone, use that word, okay?”
“Okay,” I said. And after a moment, I asked him, “Why don't we see other humans?”
He didn't answer. But I can still remember the sound as he bit off large chunks of apple, loud crunches exploding in his mouth as we sat under a tree drooping with ripe fruit.
And now, years later, there's even more fruit hanging off the trees, an overabundance of color in the verdant green fuzz.
So sad, to have colors signify death and extinction. And that's how I eat now, alone in the green fuzz, a solitary gray dot among splashes of red and orange and yel ow and purple.
Dusk arrives, the night of the lottery. Inside every home, young and old are awake, jittery with excitement. When the night horn sounds, shutters and grates rise, doors and windows fl ing open. Everyone is early to work and school to night, to chitchat and tap impatiently on computer screens before them.
At school, there's not even an attempt at normalcy. In second period, the teacher doesn't cal the class to order but simply disregards us as she taps away on her deskscreen.
Halfway through class, a citywide announcement on the intercom is made: Because work productivity in the city has fal en so drastical y, the announcement of the lottery numbers has been moved up a few hours. In fact, it will now be broadcast live in a few minutes. “Have your numbers in front of you,” the announcer ends cheerily, as if everyone hasn't already memorized them.
Instantly, delirium breaks out in the classroom. Students rush back to their seats, eyes fastened on deskscreens.
“Are you ready for the lottery yet?” the news anchor says a few minutes later, all aplomb abandoned in his excitement.
“I have mine right here,” he says, holding up a sheet of paper with his numbers. “To night might just be my night, I woke up with a feeling in me.”
“As did every citizen of this great city, no doubt,” chimes in his co- host, a slim woman with jet black hair. “We're all so excited.
Let's go now to the Heper Institute, where the numbers are about to be picked.” She pauses, her fi nger reaching up to her earpiece. A feral glint invades her eyes. “We're getting word now of a surprise.
This is a whopper, folks, so sit down.”
In the classroom, heads snap back and then lurch forward.
No one says a word.
“Instead of having the Director pick the numbers, the Palace has decided a captive heper will pick the numbers.”
Somebody snorts loudly; several students suddenly leap onto their desks.
“You heard that right, folks,” she continues, and her voice is wetter now, with a slight lisp. “We're getting a live feed. . . .”
She pauses again. “I'm hearing that it's coming from a secret location from within the Heper Institute. Take us there now.”
Instantly, the view of the newsroom switches to that of a bare, cavernous indoor arena. No windows or doors.
Placed in the center of the arena is an empty chair. Next to it, a large hemp sack and a glass bowl. But nobody is looking at the sack or the chair or the glass bowl. all our eyes are fastened on the blurry image of a male heper crouched in the corner.
It is el der ly and wiry, but its stomach is fat- marbled and protrudes disproportionately to its thin frame. Hair plasters its arms and legs, and the sight of the hair sends a river of lip smacking through the classroom.
The videocamera zooms in and then out on the heper. But clearly the camera must be running unmanned, on autopi lot. If anyone were in the arena with the heper, the heper would have been devoured within seconds. The newest wave of videocameras— weighing a relatively spry two tons— is capable of autozooming, a technological advancement unimaginable just a de cade ago.
The camera zooms in now, capturing the heper's uncertainty as it gazes upward at something offscreen. Then, as if instructed, it gets up and walks to the chair. There is indecision in its every step, caution. Emotions pour nakedly off its face.
A student shakes his head violently, drool trapezing outward, some of it landing on me. Saliva pours out of our mouths, col ecting in smal pools on desks and the fl oor.
Heads are half cocked sideways and back, bodies tensed.
Everyone in a trance and a heightened sense of alertness.
The news anchors have been silent.
The heper reaches the chair, sits down. Again, eyes bulging wide, it looks offscreen for direction. Then it reaches into the hemp sack and takes out a bal . A number is printed on it: 3. It holds the bal up to the camera for a second, then puts it in the glass bowl.
It takes a moment before we realize what's just happened.
The news anchors break their silence, their voices wet and blubbery with saliva. “We have the fi rst number, folks, we have the fi rst number. It's three!” Loud groans all around, fi sts crumpling sheets of paper. The teacher in the back of the classroom whispers a cuss.
I stare down at my own paper: 3, 16, 72, 87. Cool y, I cross out the number 3. Only a few classmates are still in the running. It's easy to spot them. Their eyes are sparkling with anticipation, drool running down their exposed fangs.
Everyone else is unclenching now, muscles relaxing, mouths and chins being wiped. They slump in their chairs.
The heper ner vous ly reaches for another number.
16.
More groans. I take my pen and cross out 16, a slight tremor in my fi ngers. Must hold the pen tighter, get my fi ngers under control.
As far as I can tel , that last number took out the remaining contenders in the class. Except me. Nobody has noticed yet that I'm still in the running. I kick out more saliva, let it run down my chin. I hiss a little, cock my head back. Heads fl ick toward me.
Before long, a crowd has gathered around my desk.
The heper pul s out the next number.
72.
There is a momentary, stunned silence. Then heads start bop-ping, knuckles cracking. My next number— 87—is chanted like a mantra. Somebody runs out, tel s the adjacent classroom. I hear chairs scraping against the fl oor; moments later, they come fl ying in, crowding around me. Drool splatters on me from above; a few are hanging upside down from the ceiling, staring down at my screen.
News fl ies up and down the hal ways.
My heart, like a claustrophobic rat in a cage, is out of control.
Fear grips me. But for the moment, no one is looking at me; everyone is fi xated on the screen. Something is wrong with the heper. It's shaking its head from side to side now, almost violently, eyes wide with fear. A naked, overwhelming display of emotion. A fruit suddenly fal s from a smal opening in the ceiling. A red fruit, and the heper leaps for it, devouring it within seconds.
“So disgusting,” somebody says.
“I know, I can barely watch.”
The heper takes a few steps toward the sack, is about to pul out the last number, when it pauses. It drops the sack and retreats to the far corner, where it crouches, hands over ears, eyes snapped shut.
