Man Hunt

by K. Edwin Fritz

  The sweat was soon rolling down Josie's face, and it felt good, like a penance paid. A sentence served. She didn't wipe any of it off. A sweat line was also spreading under each breast, and though she was now very aware of her feet landing and jumping, of the drops falling from her chin, and of the hard, fast beat in her chest, she could still bring forth the image of Gertrude standing behind her desk. How she stood over that silly map of hers as she worked on it. Who stood as they worked? Didn't it get tiring? Josie knew Gertrude probably didn't get tired, or maybe she could just ignore it. It angered the girl to realize another aspect of Gertrude's strength, and she picked up the pace to a full sprint.

  Her feet pounded the rolling treadmill with the consistency and speed of her elevated heartbeat. Every step sounded a punctuated beat that screamed a weak protest from the overworked machine and reverberated up her tiring legs and into her turmoiled mind.

  Josie saw Gertrude's huge forearms and her piercing, accusatory eyes. She heard her loud, authority-filled voice, and again Josie felt the hot flush of embarrassment in her own face. She couldn't believe she had allowed that bitch to get under her skin yet again, and with a sudden violent yell she swung her arm to punch the imaginary face in front of her.

  The quick movement was neither planned nor very intelligent. Josie stepped her left foot outside the moving sheet of vinyl and her right leg could not compensate correctly. In a second she twisted her ankle and found herself thrown violently against the back wall.

  The unoccupied machine whined on at a high-pitched pace. Josie panted heavily the sweat from her workout now pouring out at twice the rate. She held the ankle tight with both strong hands, trying to ignore the sharp pain there, and failing. She couldn't pretend she hadn't just injured herself because of her own stupidity. As the ankle swelled and the pain slowly intensified, she wished she could soothe her pride as well.

  Eventually her anger subsided. She was spent of it and felt the preliminary chill of refreshing laughter. She frowned at herself as she realized how she had, for a few moments, "Lived Like That," as she and Steph sometimes said.

  This inside joke had become serious business over the years. It was now a reference to people who let life's little challenges and failures get the better of them. Inevitably these were angry people who sapped the joy out of life for themselves and everyone nearby.

  The phrase had come naturally in their first months of island life. They'd seen Gertrude go ballistic at a girl who had ultimately been sent home. The infraction had been a repeated one, but minor nonetheless, and Gertrude's reaction was clearly crossing the line. "Can you imagine going through life living like that?" Steph had asked.

  "Yeah," Josie had agreed. "Imagine never smiling. Never laughing. I'll never let myself get that way." The statement was heartfelt. More than a promise, it had become an instant mantra between them. And now, Josie had failed at it. She felt like she was failing at life.

  She carefully picked herself up, turned off the treadmill, and hobbled back to the locker room. She was reaching for the shower faucets when a distant gunshot sounded through the open, curtainless windows. Her hand twitched at the sound.

  Oh my God!, Josie thought, holding her towel against her chest. Why would anyone do that?

  A hundred possible scenarios flew through her mind, none of them good. It was the first time in her nearly seven years on the island that she'd actually heard of someone firing a gun. She hoped whatever the reason that trouble wasn't brewing among the men. Her only comfort was in knowing that what happened out in the field wasn't her domain or problem.

  Besides, she reasoned to herself as the warm water began to flow over her chiseled body, if I'm not careful with Monica, I'll be in even bigger trouble than whoever pulled that trigger.

  4

  The windows to Gertrude's office stretched across the entire north wall and allowed bright daylight to flood in. This was a problem for her special moments. When open, as they stood now, a perpetual fresh breeze wafted slowly through them. It was the sunlight, however, that needed adjustment.

  With the lights off and the door securely fastened, the incoming daylight would often pierce Gertrude's eyes. Today was not one of those days, but she disliked the brightness of the room nonetheless. But instead of letting this negative thought smolder in her mind, she walked to her closet, opened its door, and basked.

  The closet was huge. Easily three times larger than an average office closet, it was really a small room of its own. This was the only construction the fortress had undergone on the ground floor, but Gertrude had needed it.

  Enshrined on the rear and side walls of the closet were a dozen giant maps of such striking and intricate detail that any cartographer would gape at their beauty. Identical but for a handful of wavering lines that seemed to trace an unknown path, each was a specific memory to Gertrude, for each had been the catalyst to a particularly difficult kill in the black sector.

  She retrieved a pile of black velvet from a large shelf and began unfolding it. Fully opened, it was long and tall enough to cover the entire wall of windows. Along one of the long edges of the cloth were a half-dozen brass grommets. She used these to hang the velvet drape on the thick nails driven discreetly above the windows. In the moment the last corner was secured, the room turned a somber, ghostly gray– as close to blackness as could be attained during the daytime. At night it blocked out even the moon and stars.

  She went back to the closet and reached above the inside door frame. Rolled and resting there on a small shelf was a white cloth which she tugged at with the tips of her fingers. The sheet fell and unrolled in an instant, coming to rest less than a quarter-inch from the tiled floor. Only then did Gertrude open her closet door fully so it rested flat against the wall. On the inside of this door was a full-length mirror.

  Gertrude took her position opposite the mirror and looked. With the white cloth in the open doorway and the black cloth blocking any stray reflections or sunbeams, she saw only her own reflection in the mirror. And she was framed in white. Beautiful white. Pure white. The image calmed her, and she felt the power of the moment taking hold.

  She reached to the top button on her white uniform, but her eyes betrayed her and flicked to the door. The deadbolt was still flipped to its horizontal, locked position– of course it was– but even after all these years she still needed that confirmation before beginning to undress. Some instincts never changed, she supposed.

  As she undid her clothes, Gertrude watched herself closely. Every button undone revealed more shadows, more lines, and more angles. When she reached her waist the top of the uniform was removed, folded, and placed neatly on the floor behind the desk… out of view. With her upper body fully exposed, she returned to position and admired the pillar she had become.

  She wore no brassiere as there were no longer any breasts to support. Totally muscle now, she felt they were no longer desirable by modern standards, which pleased her. She appreciated her massive biceps and thick, taut forearms, flexing them to produce maximum volume. She examined the spread of the massive V that was her torso, her gargantuan back and shoulders topping a moderate waist. Surrounding her navel were a furrow of shadowed muscles. Most people didn't know it, but it was possible to have "8-pack" abs. Gertrude had achieved them. Had, in fact, perfected them.

  She flexed again, straining every visible muscle until she shook with exertion. The collective effect was amazing, even to Gertrude's familiar eyes. That a human being could be so monstrous and defined was hard to fathom. That a woman could do it was truly unbelievable. She smiled and relaxed, ebbing the impact of her efforts to a tolerable level once again.

  Then she removed the lower half of her uniform. The contrast was extreme and initially comical. Gertrude did not exercise her legs in the same manner as her other half, which resulted in the delicate, slender curves with which she had been born. Round hips hovered above long, lean, even sexually appealing legs, and she smiled wider. She could not, nor would not, change this d
etail of herself even for a scream of pain from every man on the planet. In her uniform, Gertrude's upper body dominated her appearance, and the other women and the few men she still encountered naturally thought her whole body to be as such. But her continued femininity was a secret she was proud of.

  Gertrude stood in front of the mirror for a long time, staring. There were always going to be reasons that would keep her from running The Cause with 100% efficiency. She had learned, for instance, that she could never control other people, and the young, immature girls of the island were exasperating in this regard. Yet her body was solely hers, and in it she had achieved both beauty and intimidation. It was perfection.

  Gertrude finally abandoned her position in front of the mirror and went back into the closet. Deep in its recesses, she lifted the corner of her favorite map and slid a finger into the small hollowed-out hole in the wall behind it. In a moment she had a syringe and vial in her hands. She took a small desk lamp from another shelf and retreated back to her massive desk. With the lamp plugged in and turned on, she laid the other items next to the lamplight's brightest glare.

  Still naked, still pure, Gertrude prepared the syringe. In seconds the drug awaited her. Finally she would get to prick her skin, push the syringe, and feel her heart rate pulse. In the upcoming hours the island's little gym would see a workout like none of the other girls had ever achieved.

  Prick, push, pulse, she told herself, smiling. It was a little game she played. A little tune she singsonged at this most special of all moments.

  "Prick, push, pulse," she murmured aloud. "Prick, push, pulse." Finally, she was ready.

  She chose a vein in her inner thigh and reached forward with the needle's point when a distant shotgun blast sounded through the open windows. She jumped and gasped aloud, nearly swearing, but managed to stab her leg and draw a single drop of bright red blood. She looked back to the needle. It had broken off the syringe and now stuck, quivering, from her thigh.

  She steadied herself, trying to hold onto the emotions of her ritual, but all that came to mind was the imaginary image of a mass of revolting men, eagerly trading their lives for the women's downfall… and Gertrude knew that her special moment had been ruined.

  She abruptly abandoned her syringe, haphazardly squirting its contents through one of the open windows. There was suddenly much work to be done. She quickly put away the vial, the broken syringe, and the offending needle tip, then dressed herself and stored the black and white curtains in their proper locations. All of this had taken her less than a minute.

  Safe again, she unlocked and opened the door, allowing the world and all of its faults to harass her once more. When she took her place behind the desk, she awaited the girls who would come to her. They would ask what had happened. They would ask what to do. She had no answers for them. But she soon would.

  From a second giant drawer of the desk she fished out and positioned a complete but rudimentary map of the island and began to study it. Though her eyebrows never furrowed and her lips never twitched, Gertrude was seething with anger as she searched. Nobody disturbed the machine that was woman.

  Her eyes quickly settled on the tiny blue square in the center of the island's northeast section. As she stared at it, feeding it the same anger she had always reserved for the tiny black square, she mumbled a single word.

  "Gopher," she said aloud. It was only then she allowed herself to smile.

  5

  "Come in, Josie. Sit down. How are you doing today?" The question was rhetorical or in the very least polite, but coming from the island counselor, it would always sound suspicious.

  Monica's thin, airy voice somehow belied her dark, brown skin. It was still strange hearing such a small sound coming from someone of her considerable size, but it was stranger still when she became excited and the warble that sometimes eked through distorted it even further.

  "I'm O.K." Josie said, trying to ignore her curiosity and focus on the problem she knew was about to confront her. "I twisted my ankle on the treadmill and it's a bit sore, but it'll be fine in a few hours."

  "My goodness!" Monica fussed, her voice nearly piercing the air. "Do you need an ice pack?"

  She sounds like an anxious grandmother, Josie thought. Monica was already getting up to retrieve a first aid kit. Aside from being an unlicensed psychiatrist, Monica also functioned as the island's unlicensed doctor.

  "No, thanks. I'm fine, really." Josie appreciated one thing about Monica and the other headwomen on the island: the health and safety of any girl was always a first priority, even above killing a man. Even above killing a man in the black sector.

  Monica settled back into her chair and soon continued the formalities with more small talk. "I don't suppose you heard that gunshot a little while ago?"

  Josie perked up. Perhaps Monica had heard something of the gunshot's origin. "Yes," she said, trying not to sound too eager, "I did. Do you know who fired it or where it happened?"

  Monica frowned. "No, I don't. Lucy was here when it happened and she didn't know anything either. I was hoping you might have heard something. I don't want to say it sounded like an omen or anything, but it certainly can't be good news. You don't know anything about it, then?" Josie shook her head, for the moment on exactly the same plane as Monica. "Well, we'll just have to worry about that later then, won't we?"

  Josie nodded and adjusted her position in the wooden chair. Sitting as Monica's captive audience, there was no such thing as a short session.

  After a few moments of intolerable silence, Monica put her elbows on the table, as she always did, placed her hands together at her fingertips, as she always did, and looked directly into Josie's eyes. She wouldn't begin speaking until eye contact was made and held for several seconds.

  Those few moments could be worse than a half-hour of listening to her "counsel." Josie felt a twinge settle into her upper back as she watched Monica's dark eyes. She wanted to sit up straighter to crack a spot in her spine, but she didn't want to appear weak or intimidated for any reason.

  Everyone knew a session with Monica was designed to keep things running smoothly on the island, regardless of the effects it had on the girl who sat through it. Still, that did not prevent the headwomen and Monica from trying to disguise them as emotional healing. The truth was that the more time a girl spent with Monica, the more emotionally drained she became. But that girl would certainly be efficient and "by the books" when she was done.

  Finally, Monica spoke, and as it always did in session, her voice changed. Josie still didn't know how, but when she wanted to, Monica's voice could be as full and sonorous as an operatic chorus. The why of the change, however, was obvious. The effect, especially in the drastic contrast to its normally thin sound, was hypnotizing.

  "Gertrude tells me you've been slacking off lately," she said. The voice was low and slow, just as Josie and the other trainers used on the men when they were being broken. "I want you to discuss why you think that is."

  It was horrible how Monica's first move was always put a girl on the spot. Josie didn't like talking about her deepest feelings with anybody. Even her trust in Steph had grown slowly and with much trepidation. So once again she sat in Monica's office on the uncomfortable wooden chair and mused about how obvious the truth of the situation was. Monica was concerned only with Josie's work, and not at all with Josie. Women were a machine, and Josie was a gear that had been squeaking lately.

  Sitting there locked to Monica's eyes, Josie knew for certain only one thing: that if she told Monica the truth, or even parts of the truth, that she'd be in serious trouble. This was the third time she'd sat in the wooden chair with her secret implanted and growing within her. Three times she had managed to deceive the island counselor. But how long could she continue to do so? Her secret was no longer a wispy sprout of green just breaking the ground. It was larger now, recognizable for the true plant it was. And her secret was no simple head of lettuce or pumpkin vine. It was a whole tree. Solid and full of streng
th and potential. How long could she hide a growing sycamore from Monica's investigative eyes? Her opening statement would be critical. Monica was notorious for perceiving lies.

  "Well, I have been tired lately," Josie began, "but I think it goes deeper than that." She knew Monica would never believe a simple explanation. She would need reasons for everything. Josie had already prepared a story, something that stemmed from and twisted the truth, and was therefore dangerous. But the only alternative would risk hiding everything, which Monica was unlikely to believe. To be caught in such a lie would be devastating.

  "Tell me about it," Monica said in her sonorous tone. Her eyebrows furrowed. "What deeper issues are causing this?" Josie took a deep breath and went on. So far, Monica was listening and believing. She pretended to think about it for a while. She allowed herself to move her eyes around, careful to look up and to her left so as to indicate recall rather than to the right and therefore creativity.

  "You know how in grade school you can have a kid who doesn't quite fit in with the others?" Josie began. Monica nodded and Josie tried not to hold her breath. "And you know how sometimes the reason that kid doesn't fit in is because she's smarter than the others, and she should really be in a higher grade?" Again a nod from Monica.

  Josie could feel her heart picking up. She couldn't believe she was really telling this lie. In the back of her mind, she realized suddenly how much time she'd devoted to preparing it, and she recognized that her secret tree was already larger than she had acknowledged. Already it was casting a shade.

  "Well, I'm not suggesting I'm better than the other girls around here," Josie continued, "but sometimes I feel… sort of out of place. Like I should be doing something more… I don't know… beneficial. Something bigger." Here she paused for effect, hoping to convince the counselor she was now contrite.