Man Hunt

by K. Edwin Fritz

  But for now they ran on pavement and her hunters' weapon of choice was still the automobile. So for many years to come her maps would still be needed. Therefore, every building, every street, every nondescript walkway was perfectly located and sized to scale. It had taken two years of constant surveying to record their complete story.

  The outer areas of the island not tainted by humanity were also precisely rendered. Dark green expanses modeled the exact locations of the few and sparse groves of Hoop Pine, Coconut, Bermuda Juniper, and wonderfully fragrant Mokihana trees. Tan patches with black stippling were large beds of thistle bushes. Dark gray, marbleized masses were spans of rock left behind from the long-dead volcano that had created the island in a time before men and women had learned to use and abuse each other. Beyond these disparate features was not any ordinary white border, but a large blue vastness that couldn't quite reach the edges of the desk.

  But then, anything off the edges of this map was just more water, and neither predator nor prey would ever need to know any more than that.

  4

  Rhonda sat at her office desk, waiting. Though she would have preferred to be working on her manuscript, it was the first day for the man in box #55, and his initiation was imminent. The drugs would be wearing off any minute, and the timing of his first contact was critical. Though a seasoned insomniac, she had purposely slept several hours the night before so as to be able to spend more time with him later that evening.

  Her desk sat at the juncture of two hallways, one long and one short. It was stationed facing their corner so she could see fully down both lengths. To her left were two rows of magnetically-sealed doors numbered 1-50, each a knee-high square measuring just two feet by two feet. To her right were another hundred and fifty doors.

  The men in the boxes had no idea what time it was. Many thought that morning was still hours away. Perhaps as many as half of them lay there awake, still horrified that their door would be suddenly wrenched open and another training session would begin. Rhonda alone knew that the man in box #55 was the only one who needed fear anything just then, and the irony that he was yet ignorant of his situation was a thing she found sweetly delicious.

  Sleep deprivation was one of the foundations for administering and controlling virtually every form of coercive persuasion, and at irregular intervals throughout both day and night she or one of her trainers would take a two-foot lead pole affectionately nicknamed "The Sandman", and slam on the face of each metal door hard enough to cause yet another dent. Doors were replaced every six to eight months as needed. Rhonda, her insomnia working yet again in her favor, did all of her door banging when the rest of the women's fortress was asleep. This was also the time when she did her best training.

  Yet despite the men's fear and their sheer numbers, the training area was always utterly silent. All of the current men had learned not to make noises while they awaited their further training. Rhonda and her trainers always spoke in whispers and often wore cotton-bottomed slippers to ensure complete surprise at any given moment. Other than the few routines the men could count on— which were also a large part of Rhonda's program— the only noise that could ever be heard was her constant clacking as she worked on her massive manuscript.

  Of course, what muted noises came from the training rooms themselves was another story entirely.

  "What the hell?" a male voice suddenly said. It was muffled behind the two-inch-thick door, but in such silence and with Rhonda awaiting it, the utterance was clearly audible and more sweet music to her ears. Man #55 was awake.

  Five men had been added this week, two of whom had already been initiated. The final two were still drugged and lay in peaceful sleep, unaware their normal lives had even been compromised.

  Of the new initiates, Rhonda was happy to have found one who thought he was truly tough. He had refrained from screaming on his first day, something that a rare few could manage. She was going to enjoy planning out his schedule. Though her girls could take care of him easily enough, her true joy came in the strategic developing and implementing of a personalized and complicated plan of ebbs and flows that would one day culminated in his true emotional obliteration.

  It was true that certain steps within a man's training were always personal favorites of one woman or another. Some liked the simple but terror-inducing physical torture. Others liked their day of release or hearing them talk to themselves in solitary confinement. Rhonda's had always been Day One. It was the most critical in training a man to become the pathetic sack of meat and bones which allowed the clean slate she needed in order to reshape them. No moment filled her with as much peace as a man's initiation.

  A few moments of silence passed until— and Rhonda nearly timed the exact second of its occurrence— a low donk! followed by louder curses was heard. He'd tried to sit up, of course, and discovered just how small his box was.

  The clanks of his shackles and long chain that secured him to the back wall of his box came next. He was exploring his confines, and Rhonda waited for the moment when he began to lose control. Soon after, the moment of first contact would arrive. She sat, playfully twirling the scalpel in her hand.

  "Hello!" man #55 shouted. There was no response. She ruminated on the various thoughts from the other men when they heard one of their own waking for the first time. Was it relief that they would be spared for another hour, or did they experience sympathy pains in expectation of what was to come? For some, she could pinpoint one or the other of these usual reactions, but for others she could never be sure. Coercive Persuasion was more an art than a science, after all, despite what her research had told her. And this was the reason for her manuscript. It would one day be the definitive work on the subject. And despite knowing her name would go down in infamy, it would certainly be a name that would be remembered.

  "Hello?" A question this time. Fear was starting to seep into his mind. "Stephanie? Hello?"

  Yes. How often they called out for help from the very girl who had brought them there. More silence lingered, and Rhonda mimed in her mind the five stages of grief coursing through him. Stages she'd seen thousands of times before. "Hello!"

  "Shut up, stupid!" Another man. Whispering.

  A noob, Rhonda surmised. Man 62 or 51 perhaps. Couldn't be 57. He's smarter by now, surely. Is he trying to help, or just sick of the noise because it, too, is torture? She twirled the scalpel, feeling the tone of the second man's words. The torture, she soon decided. His voice had been desperate, bordering on insanity. She would have to assign an extra beating to everyone in his row today, just to be sure they all understood the rules.

  "Who's there?" man #55 asked. More silence, and Rhonda continued waiting. He was closer now, but not quite ready. "Hello?"

  "Just shut up, you asshole!"

  "Who are you?" And during the next silence Rhonda finally stood and crept like a hunting panther toward the right-hand hallway. Her scalpel was now firmly clenched in her hand.

  "I'm nobody, and so are you. Now shut the fuck up or I'll kill you myself if I get the chance."

  Rhonda stopped outside box #55 and waited one final time. The glow from her computer monitor was the only light shed, and the man behind the door before her was in total darkness. Upstairs her girls were busy having breakfast and chatting away their frivolous blather. They weren't scheduled to arrive for another hour. She had the training rooms all to herself, which was how she always initiated a man.

  She listened intently for a moment, waiting for a whimper or, if he was inherently weak, a slight blubber. A mumbled curse would suggest he was of the violent type, like most of them were. Instead, man #55 revealed himself to be quite the moron. A truly slow learner. She smiled when he began his string of shouted obscenities because second only to the tough guys, she had always liked slow learners best of all.

  "STEPHANIE YOU FUCKING BITCH! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO ME YOU FUCKING CUNT! FUCKING WHORE! FUCKING COCK SU—"

  Rhonda yanked the door open and he immediately stopped
. From his cramped, chained vantage point she knew he could see only her feet and perhaps, if he leaned forward far enough, the tip of the scalpel dangling in her hand.

  "Hello, pig," she said softly. Her practiced voice was sickly sweet, both playful and ugly at the same time. "My name is Rhonda. You have no name because you are a disgusting, useless heap of garbage. I will now give you exactly three seconds to crawl out here and kiss my feet. If you don't, I'll be very slow when I cut off your testicles. Ready? Go."

  Man #55 did not begin to scramble until Rhonda had already reached two.

  5

  A cloud of shrill voices grew slowly louder as the young women who voiced them walked toward the all-white room. The large woman who had been hovering over her square map for nearly a quarter-hour winced at the sound. As the voices grew closer, her fingers began to curl around the edges of the map. Soon a single, shrieking laugh rose above the rest and pierced through the walls. The woman's fingers clenched harder, bringing her blunted nails to a short, harsh scratch on the beautiful desk. Moments later, the door to the room was flung open and three faces appeared. Immediately the woman behind the desk saw the important details.

  Lucy was tall and strong, silent. She held a wooden bat in her left hand. Currently, she did not approve of their presence there but as always she was controlling her emotions. Emma was wild-eyed and the owner of the shrieking laugh. Coiled in her hands was a long whip. She was delighted at being there and… and at what was about to happen. Sherry, the only blonde of the three, stood between the other two. Her shirt was not tucked in. There was a smudge on her left shoe. Her eyes showed fear.

  The woman felt an urge to get a soapy rag for the shoe and to tuck the shirt in with a fair bit of cruelty.

  "Well, go on and ask her, Sherry-Berry," pushed Emma. Sherry was already looking at the woman and now frowned. "Go on!" Emma prompted again, this time actually nudging her lightly in the back. But Sherry only clammed up even tighter. She stared, eyes wide and vulnerable at the intimidating woman behind the desk.

  "What is it, Sherry?" the woman asked. "I don't have all day." Her voice, as always, was brusque but not grinding. Like a dog's bark, it was effective and efficient without becoming a true growl. Growls only came before bites.

  At the direct comment, Sherry reluctantly gave in. "We were... um... wondering if... uh, if..." But finally Emma could hold back no more.

  "She wants to know if you'll go with her to the feeding!"

  "Us!" Sherry interjected. "I wanted to know if you'd like to join us for today's feeding. The blue feedings are always so much fun and you look like—"

  "No," the woman said. "I don't go to feedings. That's why we have you girls here. Now if that's all, you'll excuse me. I'm very busy."

  The silence that lingered didn't seem to bother this huge, powerful woman as much as it did the three girls. She merely looked back to the black square on the map to continue her interrupted thoughts. Sherry soon turned to leave but Emma blocked her path to the hallway.

  "Go on," she whispered, giggling. "Tell her how lonely she is." The woman did not look up. With a gentle look of assurance from Lucy, Sherry boldly spoke out.

  "Gertrude?" she asked. The woman slowly raised her head and met Sherry's eyes. "I know I'm new on the black squad, but I've noticed that you... well, you work so hard all the time. The girls and I were just thinking you could use a little fun every once in a while, so we're inviting you to join us."

  The woman's fingers began straining against the paper once again. "There's no need for me to be there," she said in what was almost a whisper and what was becoming a growl.

  "I know," said Sherry. "We're just going along with Sharon and her girls to watch. They're going to take care of everything, of course. You could maybe just watch with us. It won't take but a half hour." Sherry paused, looking for any sign of acceptance. When she saw none she poked Emma in the stomach and widened her eyes. "Emma!" she whispered. Finally, Emma had had enough of her fun and acquiesced.

  "Come on, Gertie. We all know you could lighten up a little. Sherry was just trying-"

  "GerTRUDE, you screaming mimis! MY NAME IS GERTRUDE!" The three girls, even Lucy, flinched at the explosion. The woman took only a single moment to calm herself and continued in her normal, controlled voice, though there was a level of growl now in every word.

  "I don't appreciate pet names, and I think you've forgotten who's in charge of the entire black squad's operation. I don't do frivolous outings. I work. And so will you, and be happy about it, or get off the island. I can find another girl to replace you in mere days."

  "We are happy, Gertrude," Sherry almost blubbered.

  "Don't bother trying to kiss up to me, child. That's not how to earn respect and make advancements. The state of your clothes is bad enough, but this makes me wonder if it was a mistake promoting you to black squad."

  "I wasn't trying to kiss up, honest," Sherry said. "I was just trying to be nice." A tear rolled down her left cheek as she spoke.

  Gertrude closed her eyes for a quick second to envision the inside of her nearby closet with its many bottles, sponges, and gloves. For the first time in several days, she suddenly wished for a few uninterrupted hours so she might properly clean her room. She hated losing control of her emotions like that, and a proper cleaning was the only way to set herself straight again.

  She opened her eyes and looked into Sherry's. The girl was ignoring the rolling tear, which was good. She was unashamed of showing emotion. But she also showed genuine fear, which was bad. Her girls needed to be confident even in the face of admonishment.

  Gertrude looked to Emma, who was obviously useless. She was entertained and actually holding onto a touch of hope. As she so often did these days, Gertrude reminded herself that if Emma wasn't such a good hunter she would have been gone years ago.

  Then she looked to Lucy. Lucy stood firm behind the other two and met Gertrude's eyes without fear, without hope. She was merely awaiting the outcome. Gertrude detected a soft curiosity in the corner of her eyes but nothing more. This was standard Lucy, of course, but it was also something Gertrude had come to trust.

  "Fine," she finally said. "I appreciate the sentiment, but it's not for me. Go be nice to someone else. The Cause is too important to allow a headwoman time for pleasantries. That's something you learned incorrectly under Lorraine's guidance that you'll have to relearn under mine. Now you and your friends go on and have your fun, but next time just save us all the expense and don't bother coming here."

  The woman said no more and gave no indication whether she was done or had more to say. Finally, Sherry pushed Emma aside to find the safety of the hallway. Emma didn't restrict her this time and soon followed. Lucy turned to go as well, but Gertrude called her back. In turning, the girl spun the wooden bat in her hand around the imposing door jam with a practiced, blinding speed and then rested the fat end gently on the floor as if standing at attention.

  "I want you to schedule Sherry for a session with Monica sometime today or tomorrow. Do it before you go to the feeding."

  "Yes, Gertrude. Right away." Lucy's voice was deep in her long upper body, nearly as deep as a man's.

  "And tell Emma to lay off her," Gertrude said. There was no further explanation, no clarification of any kind, but Lucy no longer found this method of communication uncomfortable.

  "Yes, Gertrude. I'll tell her right after I schedule the appointment."

  The woman did not thank the girl's swift adherence to the given tasks, did not acknowledge her confidence of understanding, did not so much as formally send her on her way. She only looked back to her map.

  Lucy thought for a moment before speaking again. "I'd like to talk with you about something whenever you get the chance, Gertrude," she said. "We may have had a potentially hazardous incident."

  The woman's eyes narrowed as she looked back up and met Lucy's. "How hazardous?" she asked.

  "Rather," Lucy said. And again Lucy was struck by how her own speech had b
egun to emulate Gertrude's over the years. So often she spoke one word when once she would have spoken ten. Emma, she knew, would never advance in Gertrude's eyes simply because of her ever-yapping mouth. How the headwoman could stand Monica, she couldn't fathom.

  "Fine," Gertrude said. "Come by this afternoon when your regular schedule is completed." Lucy nodded and quickly exited to attend to her tasks. Gertrude, meanwhile, closed her eyes, hung her head, and thought of the thick rubber gloves in her closet. But she soon took another deep breath and opened her eyes again to the black square on her map.

  What she saw, however, caused her eyes to glower and her teeth to clench. Where once had been the perfectly flat, blue border of a new hand-drawn map was now a crumple of creases and folds. She grunted, almost troll-like, as her huge hands tried vainly to flatten the scars. She soon gave up, placed the map neatly on the floor where a chair should have been, and fished another perfect sheet from the enormous center drawer of the desk.

  This paper, like the damaged one on the floor, measured four feet by four feet. It was, at the moment, totally white and had not a single wrinkle, fold, or curl. Gertrude laid it on the desk, grunted another sound which might have been a sigh or a curse, and reached into another drawer for her colored pencils and ruler.

  "Piggies can't hide forever," she mumbled softly. Behind her, the soft wind pushed in another stream of cool, crisp air. In another minute, it was being poisoned by Gertrude's lungs.