Man Hunt

by K. Edwin Fritz

  I can't do it any more, he thought. I can't run any more. I'm going to quit. I'm just going to quit running and let them beat me to death.

  But he knew they wouldn't kill him. They'd make it feel that way, but he'd survive alright. And instead of getting a few days without the treadmills, he'd be back tomorrow.

  I can't, he thought again. I can't. I can't. I can't.

  These words pounded his mind with the consistency of his naked, pounding feet

  I can't I can't I can't I can't…

  and he ran on until Rhonda finally blew her shrill whistle and they all collapsed in gasping heaps upon the sweat-lined floor.

  The treadmills, of course, whined and rolled on, awaiting the next incoming group of men.

  5

  He opened his eyes. Still running full tilt, he had wandered only two feet from the center line of the road. He had survived the fortress. And part of the reason he had done so was coming to realize his mind could forever retain certain bits of information like his grandmother's hickory switch.

  He was so much better now, in so many ways. He was stronger. He was wiser. He was kinder to women and more appreciative of their wondrous–

  "FUCK!" he screamed. The conditioning kicked in whenever it wanted. He hated them now more than ever, but all he could do was run from them. Run with the perfect legs they had given him. Because for all they had done to him, he savored the insane pace he could now keep up for so long. Loved that his legs were what kept him alive. Loved them for having given him the only tool for survival he really needed.

  He ran with heightened awareness. His ears heard the cracking whip, which told him better than the engine noise how close the car was. His eyes saw everything in a high clarity of color and texture even as it all zipped past him. He kept his peripheral vision aware of any possible ambushes from the blue car. And always, he scanned the road ahead for options.

  The car was simply following now. It could have run him down easily within seconds, but it seemed even the drivers of the black car always toyed a little. The car approached and receded several times, the cracking whip announcing their utter hatred of all things male. But he had broken a rule. He'd stolen sneakers. Sneakers were only for men in the green sector, and he knew their patience would be short.

  Suddenly a warm wetness hit him in the back, and for a split second he thought they had cut him with the whip or a long sword and it was his own blood that coursed down his back and dripped onto his running feet. Then he heard a loud, cackling laugh and a chorus of hooting approvals from the other two women, and he realized they had only thrown the shit balloon at him.

  He'd been told about the shit balloons in training, of course. Had had his own feces and urine collected for that very purpose on several occasions. But he has thus far avoided it in the field. Now that he'd been hit with one he realized it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared. It was just shit. If he survived–

  when I survive–

  he could easily wash it all off in the blue sector's infamous fresh-water stream, assuming he could find it. Yet it made the women howl with joy, and this somehow gave him the adrenaline boost to find another gear in his powerful legs and produce still more speed.

  Then he heard the rising whine of the car's engine and felt its hunger to kill. Without a true decision but on instinct alone, Obe leaned to his left, crossed his right foot over, and bucked to the side. The car flew past him on his right a second later, missing him by less than a foot, and screeched to a shuddering stop.

  No more games, he thought.

  He ran straight into the alley before him, glad to see it wasn't a dead end. Behind him he heard the car reversing quickly then screech to another halt.

  "LiningLiningSilverLiningCloudySilverSilverLining." The quick rhythm of the litany kept pace with his speeding footsteps. It felt like he was floating on air. Running on clouds.

  He reached the next crossroad and turned left again in a wide arch that passed him within an inch of the brick corner. Left, he knew, was towards the center of the blue sector's section of the city.

  Find the center, he reminded himself. Find the grocery alley. It's my only chance.

  Behind him, the lack of echoing engine noise told him the car had exited the side street and was directly behind him again. He reached another crossroad and turned right. Behind him, the car had already halved the distance. The crack of the whip was again louder than the engine.

  Ahead he saw two alleys and another distant crossroad. His instinct told him to take the first alley. It was closer and it turned left, again towards the center of town. But then his mind went into a whirlwind of calculations. The second alley appeared to be atypically wider.

  Sunday, he reminded himself. Today is Sunday. Grocery day.

  Instead of turning, Obe lowered his head, leaned forward, and sprinted at full capacity. His lungs groaned. His legs begged for more oxygen. He ignored them, held his breath, and pushed through the pain. He needed to get to that second alley.

  He made it there a full second before the car and turned hard right, literally skidding to a halt on his bare feet. But he didn't care, didn't even notice. Directly in front of him was a wide, dead-end alley. And it was filled with men in blue jumpsuits.

  6

  The car squealed around the corner and the men in the alley became a bevy of chaos and paranoia. Many tried to scale the walls or hid behind the single dumpster that huddled along one wall, but most crowded against the back wall. Those who were too stunned to move or too smart to trap themselves only stood and stared wide-eyed at the approaching car.

  The driver of the car pounded on the brake once again, and the car screeched, shuddered, and nose-dived to a violent halt in front of a line of four men in blue jumpsuits who remained unmoving. Obe was one of them, and he held his breath while a thin veil of dust wafted past.

  The next few seconds were a soup of tension. The crowd of men stood or crouched in growing fear, ready to bolt into a run of their own. The car sat, idling its loud, shimmied rumble, and seemed to stare the men down. Obe imagined himself as a chameleon. A blue-clad, gifted creature with the ability to vanish into the small sea of like-colored jumpsuits.

  Silver, he thought. Keep things silver. Don't look tired. Don't look guilty. Don't feel your screaming feet. And don't sweat. Just look scared like all the others.

  The car's roof had been removed, making it a crude convertible, and the three women who sat in it– two in front and one atop the rear seat back– were all too real. All too present. They had faces. They wore black T-shirts that wrapped tightly around their abnormally strong arms and firmed breasts. Their eyes were each filled with malice and barely-controlled hatred. The one who perched on the seat back was compulsively squeezing the wooden baseball bat gripped in her left hand. In the front passenger seat another woman held the handle of a whip. It's impossibly long tail trailed out the side of the car and dangled past the rear tires.

  Obe hadn't seen a woman face-to-face since his release, and it was quickly becoming too much for him to control. His lips and tongue mouthed the silver litany, and he was on the verge of giving it a voice.

  Then the woman with the bat leaned forward and quietly said something into the driver's ear. Seconds later, the car emitted a loud ca-chunk!, startling all the men. As it let off the brake and slowly rolled in reverse, the woman in the front passenger seat flicked the whip upwards with expertise, and it humped then folded into itself neatly in her lap without so much as the tiniest click from the wicked, lashing tip.

  The car rolled further backward until it was entirely out of the alley. Then it turned its wheels, sounded another, softer, ca-chunk, and soon rolled forward, accelerating down the adjacent alley and out of sight.

  CHAPTER 5

  VANITY

  1

  Gertrude had drawn only a handful of lines on her new map when a soft triple knock was heard on the open door. She raised her head and saw that the two girls standing there were the remaining of the fi
ve under her direct jurisdiction. While the first three had been the hunters, these two were her trainers. They had returned from another recruiting mission only days before and were running behind on their duties, which was to be expected. But Gertrude wanted her girls to be the models that all others would strive to become. Running behind wasn't acceptable in the black sector.

  "Status report," Gertrude said.

  One girl, the prettier of the two, stepped forward slightly. "We're pretty much caught up, though we do need a name for one of the new arrivals. In fact, if you have them, we'll be needing four by next week."

  Though all of the island's trainers/recruiters were attractive– a necessary element to their job description– this girl's beauty had always been observably radiant. Beyond what many would have called the 'perfect' body, her dark, flowing hair had natural looping curls that reached to the middle of her back. Her eyes were a smooth, dark brown that seemed full of a heart-warming intensity. Her high cheekbones gave her face a soft, pleasant glow. She was beautiful, yes, but she was more than that. Her demeanor made her emotionally irresistible. It all helped to make her one of the best recruiters the island had ever had. And yet, she had her flaws.

  Gertrude consciously pulled her hands away from the delicate new map before speaking. Instinctively, she decided to give one of her longer speeches. It was imperative that these two girls stayed the course.

  "They are called 'Emotional Markers,' Josie, not 'names.' They are an integral part of The Cause, and I should not need to remind you of this. We are still trying to weed out the last of the survivors from our earliest experiments, and it is critical that all new arrivals receive an EM which is both effective and efficient." She paused only long enough to scowl at the young woman. "Now, try again. Status report."

  Before the headwoman had finished speaking, Josie was already red with embarrassment and anger. But she had known how particular Gertrude was and should have known better. She dug down inside herself to that place where she subdued her pride and found her strength. This was another of her true beauties, her strongest perhaps. It only took a moment to get to this powerful place, and she tried again.

  "Gertrude," she began, "despite our recent recruiting mission, we are nearly caught up on our duties. One remaining area of deficiency is in our collection of Emotional Markers. Rachael and I are fresh out of ideas at the moment. If you have them available, we would greatly appreciate one for today and three more within the week." She paused to glance at the other girl for support, but found none. Then Josie looked back to the huge headwoman and laid on the details she knew would help.

  "And this one pig thinks he's hot shit. Thinks he can't be broken. I'd like to give him an especially demeaning name." Josie had spoken in a half-truth here. She had no personal vendetta against the newest arrival. She never did.

  The giant woman behind the cherrywood desk did not smile, did not repeat her scowl. Her reversion to her normal, silent vigilance had happened instantaneously. Josie found that maintaining eye contact with her was excruciating.

  She's lying to please me, Gertrude thought. Good. Finally, Gertrude slipped a small grunt through her nostrils and reached into a desk drawer. She pulled out a piece of paper and looked at the list briefly before holding it out for one of the two girls to take.

  "The third one down is your choice for the troublemaker," Gertrude said. "Keep the list for your further needs. I'm glad to hear you girls are doing well. That's productive. How many men are in holding right now?"

  Rachael stepped forward and took the slip of paper but didn't look into Gertrude's eyes. And though Gertrude liked her strong silence immensely, Rachael's reserved demeanor was not the best trait for the promotion she needed to soon make.

  Josie, who was far more confident though often too independent for Gertrude's taste, gave Rachael a sideways glance of disapproval before answering. "Well, I'm not exactly sure, Gertrude, but it's somewhere between–"

  "You're not exactly sure?" Gertrude interrupted. "It's your job to be exactly sure. I don't care if we make twenty kills a day. It's pitiful to think a trainer in the black squad can become so slipshod. I've been thinking you were overdue for a session with Monica, and this confirms it. I want you to see her about this. Today."

  "No!" Josie blurted. "I mean… it's not necessary. I'm fine. I've been tired lately is all. I just come off guard duty and… I'll do better, Gertrude. I promise. Maybe I could just use a little vacation." Josie flushed as soon as she heard her own final words. Vacation? she thought. What the hell is wrong with me? The only thing she knew for sure was that what had been on her mind lately was serious, and a session with Monica was the last thing she could afford.

  "The Cause doesn't take vacations," Gertrude said, suddenly calm once again. "You know that. Either you will learn to work through your problems, or I'll be forced to reconsider your position. You need to be on top of all the statistics, and you need to know every man under your care inside and out. Rachael, how many men are in training right now?"

  Rachael, who had been staring at the floor trying to not be noticed, answered right away. "One hundred eighty six, Gertrude. We have twelve without EMs."

  "And of those twelve," Gertrude continued, "how many can you say you know well enough to write a book on?"

  "All twelve, Gertrude."

  Gertrude grunted her approval– a thing that was rarely so obvious– and looked back to Josie and spoke again. "You'll see Monica as soon as possible. Don't go to the feeding with the other girls, if that was your plan."

  "It wasn't," Josie said. Her voice was short and angry. Using Rachael to belittle her further had been unnecessary. Gertrude had made it seem like Josie didn't know the new arrivals very well when in truth she probably knew them better than Rachael.

  "Good," Gertrude said. "At least you haven't succumbed to such frivolities. Have you done your first round of exercises today?"

  "I had planned on going right after we got a good na– Emotional Marker– from you. Would you prefer I see Monica first?"

  "No. Go ahead and do your scheduled routine. Just be sure to see her before lunch. How did your recruiting mission go?"

  Here Josie smiled. While Rachael had yet again performed under par, Josie had once more flourished. "Excellent," she said. "We got five, and almost a sixth. Above average for a one-day mission." There was no need to explain further. Even Gertrude would know which of them had failed. That four of the five had been Josie's acquisitions was also a given.

  "Good." And then Gertrude said no more.

  Josie recognized the opportunity to finally escape the eerily sterile office and left, somewhat reassured but still angry at herself. Now she would have to be careful for a few weeks and she had to deal with Monica again. She walked quickly through the small maze of hallways with the blind skill of one who knew every turn. In only a minute she was safely alone inside a small gymnasium filled with weight lifting equipment. She was glad Rachael hadn't followed her. She needed to be alone for a while.

  Back in Gertrude's office, Rachael was looking at the list of Emotional Markers in her hand. Each one was but a single syllable and no more than five letters. Supposedly this added to the insignificance of the pig that would soon own it, but the most important part was the sound of the name. The connotation. It had to instill degradation.

  All men on the island, which were the hundred and fifty or more in the field and an equal number still in training, were given names that met these criteria. No name was ever repeated, and a file was kept and controlled by Rhonda, the island's head trainer, to ensure each individual man, dead or alive, could be recalled in detail. Rachael was glad Gertrude made herself available for new EMs on occasion. Thinking of new ones all the time was perhaps the most difficult part of her job.

  She looked at the third name on the list, the one that would soon identify the scum who thought he was tough. His new name would be 'Fael'. She loved it. It was perfect. It reminded her of how decidedly delicious it was to watch a m
an fail, and suddenly she couldn't wait to see this one broken. She wanted to be there during his first hour. It had always been her favorite part.

  When Rachael finally left the room, Gertrude walked immediately to her door and reached to close it, thinking only of the massive supplies in her precious closet, but heard yet another set of approaching footsteps, and growled.

  2

  The approaching footsteps were from Lucy. As she almost always did, she held her bat in her left hand, her dominant hand. She held the weapon directly in the middle, covering a badly faded, hand-made scribbling. She walked down the remainder of the hallway not with impatience but control.

  She stopped a few inches inside Gertrude's open door. She didn't speak. There was no official rule stating a headwoman should speak first, but Lucy knew all of the implied rules; the ones that made her perfect for her second-in-command position.

  "I asked you to come this afternoon," Gertrude said. "This better be good."

  "Yes, I know, Gertrude. I apologize for changing plans like this, but I truly feel you need to know this right away." Again she waited for Gertrude to respond, but Gertrude only studied her.

  Gertrude was still thinking about her ruined map– and the subtle satisfaction that could be found inside her closet– but decided to run the various details through her mind all the same. After all, Lucy wasn't usually this insistent, and her tenure as second-in-command had earned her the right to be heard.

  Gertrude saw Lucy's grip on the bat was tighter than usual. She saw the intense look in the girl's eyes. She saw the stiffness of her shoulders.

  Gertrude took a long moment, still thinking about her plan to utilize the closet's stronghold, to look into Lucy's eyes again. And what she saw wasn't just intensity, but fear. Fear that something bad would happen without Gertrude's assistance.