The Hunted

by Steve Scheunemann

  Matt was placed in the rear of a van with no windows and driven for four hours then after being blindfolded he was taken aboard a helicopter and flown for 20 minutes. The order had not managed to acquire any of the new fusion powered vehicles that were appearing everywhere. It was a curious fact that gasoline powered vehicles, which were a sign of wealth among citizens, were the only type available to those outside the legal society.

  After they landed, his blindfold was removed and Matt got his first view of the test zone. The sky was the same amazing blue, but on the horizon storm clouds were gathering. Massive walls of dark, black cloud that Matt knew contained the makings of one mother of a blizzard.

  “Let’s take a look at your gear, Matthew”

  As Matt laid it all out for his teacher, he was acutely aware of the unease Brother Fidelis tried and failed to hide. Briefly, Matt wondered at its source.

  “This is a good selection for this environment, but I must now inform you of the Abbot’s directive to me. You are to be left alone here for one week. You do not know your location, nor do you know the location of the abbey. This much you are already aware of. In order to truly test your ability to survive, I must confiscate all your gear.”

  “Well, I guess I can get by without this stuff if I have to” replied Matt, dumping his pack on the ground and awaiting final instructions and a farewell from the man he considered his closest friend.

  “Matthew, I’m afraid you don’t understand”, sighed the monk “all your gear. That includes your clothing.”

  “You mean you’re gonna leave me here naked?” Matt blurted.

  “I’m afraid so. Please remove your clothing, and I shall leave you to get by as best you can.” Brother Fidelis gathered up Matt’s clothes and started for the helicopter. Turning around again he said, “Matthew, I know this is hard, and I know you are scared. Trust in the Lord and in your abilities. Trust in me, for in one week, I shall return and bring you home. You are equal to this challenge - never doubt that. We of the order have, of course, never known the joy of children until you. You have been a shining light of hope in the darkness of the world we inhabit. You have not had much of a childhood, but then none do these days. Our prayers are that you can, one day, help to change that. Remember that you are not alone. Fare thee well my friend.”

  Matt watched the helicopter rise and head northwest toward the swiftly moving storm.

  He had to find shelter and get a fire going if he was to survive even an hour in the coming storm, much less a week. Already his toes were numb from the cold, and the weather was as mild as it was likely to be for some time.

  That was ten days ago. Brother Fidelis was three days overdue. Matt had been eagerly awaiting his return, to see his pleased face when he saw how well Matt had made out. He’d spent the first two days in a cave he had located. As luck would have it he had found plenty of fuel for his fire from a storm that had blown down several aspens years before. The wood burned hot and since it was dry, relatively smoke free. That was an important consideration if one was to remain unnoticed by the Hunters. Twirling a stick between his palms and feeding strips of bark shredded with teeth and nails, he crouched shivering for almost 20 minutes before a thin tendril of smoke arose. Carefully he fed more shredded bark and then twigs into his tiny blaze, blowing on it gently. Then larger and larger sticks until he had a small fire going. It would keep the cave warm enough to prevent hypothermia and frostbite, but not much more.

  Over the next several days he fashioned a spear and a crude bow. Using the bow, and then the spear to finish the job, he even managed to kill an elk. More meat than he needed, it did provide a hide to fashion clothing from. Using a green, uncured hide it would be no good for extended wear, but would serve his purpose for surviving the requisite week.

  On the seventh day when brother Fidelis did not arrive, Matt knew something was gravely wrong. The brothers were resolute in keeping their given word. Nothing would stop them from retrieving Matt if they were able. Therefore, they were unable. Matt knew this could mean only one thing. The Hunters had found the order. The brothers were all dead, in custody undergoing torture, or in hiding.

  Matt was on his own. Alone in the world with no friends, no family, and a death sentence just because he’d been born. He still did not know the Abbot’s grand plan for him. Only that he was to be an instrument of justice. He knew nothing of surviving in the populated world. Oh, he had all kinds of skills. He knew electronics, all manner of vehicles; already he was deadly with all kinds of weapons or none at all. What he lacked were people skills. The next phase of his training was to have been learning to survive within the society that desired his death.

  On that mountain top Matthew Mark Connor took a vow. He would continue to learn as the Abbot had planned. He would find other teachers; learn what he had need of. He would indeed become an instrument. An instrument of vengeance.

  He would avenge the deaths of the only people who ever cared for him. Those who had risked themselves and paid the ultimate for him, for had they betrayed him, the Hunters would already have found him. No, the BGP knew nothing of him. Someday that would change. Someday the Hunters would become the hunted.

  Justice was a high ideal, but now his soul cried out for revenge. He practiced every method he knew to kill a man. He would have his revenge.

  Setting off down the mountain passing below a granite outcrop, he suddenly dove and rolled…

  1

  New Chicago, American Territory

  September 9, 2077

  Matt had been surviving in the world of men for three years now, and was often amazed that he was still alive. There was so much he had not known.

  When he showed up on the edges of Old Denver, one of the few cities that had survived the militia wars, he was dressed in the same rancid elk hide he’d been wearing for almost three weeks. While he knew little of the world he was about to enter, he did know he’d not last ten seconds on the streets without proper clothing.

  Using every bit of stealth he possessed, he located and cautiously approached what appeared to be a school. Hidden in a drain culvert, he watched for just the right candidate. What he needed was a boy of his approximate size, who could be approached while alone. It took six hours. Six hours laying in cold, filthy water.

  When the boy did finally come close enough Matt knocked him senseless and stripped him of his clothing, his watch, and 12 credits. Wincing as he noticed the compound fracture to the left arm he’d given the boy in return for his clothing, Matt took the time to splint it as best he could and left in a hurry. He’d had to bathe in a nearby fountain, and left the water considerably dirtier than he’d found it. Donning clothing that almost fit, he entered a city for the first time in his life.

  That had been three years ago. He was now somewhat of an old hand at surviving on the streets. He had quickly learned that there were many, many more outcasts than he’d believed possible. There was an entire secret world within that inhabited by the ‘legitimate’ people. There were all manner of people. In this shadow world there was only one rule. Survival. Loyalty was not a word in the outcast vocabulary. Sure they’d help you. They’d help for a price, always seeking to gain as much as possible with no risk to themselves. Then just as easily, if it suited their purposes, they’d sell you out to the Hunters.

  It was even rumored that there were outcasts on the BGP payroll. Matt doubted that. All he’d seen of the Gene Police indicated that they would kill any outcast they caught, rather than release one, even if it meant catching ten in return. It was part of their aura of terror. Matt thought it much more likely that a real Hunter using his considerable acting skills, and make-up or prosthetics, would infiltrate the outcast society.

  Of course, he was not alone in this belief. This made things harder for those with his particular genetic makeup. Try as he might he could not hide his superior physique, obvious lack of birth defect, or missing body parts. The simple fact was most outcasts distrusted those like him, calling them ‘n
ils’, street slang for ‘nearly legitimate’, and synonymous with nothing, which was a nil’s status in outcast society.

  At fifteen, few believed him a Hunter…yet. He’d seen others like him who had not been so lucky. He’d seen them beaten senseless and on several occasions killed. He’d even heard of one who’d been subjected to all manner of torture and then, with every orifice violated, his genitals stuffed in his mouth, and both kneecaps sliced away, had been dumped near the BGP field office in Paris, alive. The man had not been a Hunter, but rather a clerk for the BGP.

  The resulting purge of outcasts all over what used to be Europe put a stop to such open defiance of the BGP, however, no opportunity to injure a suspected BGP agent and get away with it was ever passed up.

  What all this meant to Matt was that his days of relative safety among the outcasts were numbered. As he completed puberty he would be in almost as much danger from other outcasts as he would from the world at large.

  Still, his hatred of the Hunters and all that they had taken from him burned white hot within him. Only his own difficulty in surviving among outcasts kept him from participating in the brutality he’d seen directed at suspected Hunters. That, and the fact that Matt knew from his own training that the poor fools were not Hunters. No Hunter could ever have been taken as he’d seen those unfortunates taken. On one occasion in his second year in the cities, Matt had been eating his lunch when the trouble started. The man was physically perfect and he looked the part, to an untrained eye. Matt was not fooled for a second. Big and strong, he was no more dangerous than an un-weaned kitten. That didn’t stop the other outcasts from turning on him. Matt didn’t think they even believed he was a Hunter. If they had they would never have tackled him at three to one odds. No, they simply resented his breeding.

  It started with a brutal blow from a lead pipe to the small of his back. Crying out in fear and pain, the poor slob fell to the ground.

  What followed was ugly. Boots crashed into his skull and kidneys repeatedly. The pipe rose and fell, only to rise again, bloody. It fell again and again.

  Before they had a chance to beat the life out of the poor man, two others joined in. The man lay there broken and bleeding, curled in a ball, trying to ward off blow after blow. Matt put his lunch aside and approached.

  “Hey, leave him alone” Matt shouted.

  “Shove off, kid, this guy’s BGP, and gonna pay fer it,” growled the leader, clenching his bloody pipe.

  “He’s no more BGP than you are, if he was you’d be dead, fool.”

  “Maybe you’re a little Hunter in training. Maybe you need ta git what he got,” replied the pipe wielder.

  “Maybe, but not from the likes of you five,” with that Matt launched into them. The pipe came whistling toward his head. It appeared slow, and Matt knew that the test he was looking for was not to be found with this group.

  Blocking the wrist that held the pipe, a quick strike to the throat felled the first man. The others followed with even less difficulty.

  By the time the last man fell unconscious their victim had struggled to his feet, to stare in awe at the 14-year-old boy who had rescued him.

  “Thank you Son, I think they would have killed me if you hadn’t stopped them. You’re truly a brave and generous boy.”

  “I didn’t do it for you, mister. If those last two had not joined in I wouldn’t have bothered. I thought, with five of them, it might be a challenge. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have wasted my time” Matt said with disgust.

  “I’m not out to help anyone but me, do yourself a favor, and do the same” and without a second glance to see if the man was okay Matt turned and walked away.

  It was a hard world and to get by in it you had to be harder. If you weren’t, you died. It was that simple.

  Matt continued his practice of combat techniques. He knew that the Hunters never slacked in that regard and if he was to someday exact his revenge he must be better than they. While he was far, far better than most, he was acutely aware that only one of his parents had been a soldier. The other, the artist, had contributed the other half of his genetic makeup. This left him at birth about a half step slower and a fraction weaker than a soldier or a Hunter. Also, Matt most definitely felt a full measure of pain. He believed his training and desire made up the difference, but until he actually faced a Hunter he would never know. If he was wrong it would be the last thing he ever would know.

  Brother Fidelis had insisted that the half of him that was from birth an artist made him a better person. That his gentle soul, combined with a warrior’s spirit, made him a better person than any Hunter or soldier ever dreamed of being.

  Matt saw two flaws with this theory. First he did not believe a Hunter ever dreamed. In order to dream one must on some level believe in a larger world than that which was inhabited during waking hours, a world and a power greater than oneself. This belief was impossible for a Hunter who felt he was the culmination of human evolution.

  Second, since he was one man, if he was to be honest with himself, one boy, he felt he needed to be harder than a Hunter, not gentler. As much as he tried to suppress his more tender emotions, they always arose at the most inconvenient times.

  The knowledge that he had once lived among those who wished to make the world a more decent place constantly warred with the fact that that same world had destroyed those quiet, gentle warriors. For warriors they had been. For all their faith in their Creator, they had adhered to an old Quaker proverb to “Trust in the Lord, but always keep your powder dry”. These men whose most sincere desire was to spend their days in peaceful prayer had known that in a world with no God, there could be no peace for prayer. So they had prepared themselves in order to prepare Matt.

  These warriors, these good decent men, had died hard. For Matt had no doubt that those who did not die fighting the Hunters had undergone torture and drugged interrogation before being executed. Not one of them had revealed Matt’s whereabouts. Yes, they had sold their lives dearly, but they had refused to sell their souls.

  Matt’s reverie was disturbed by the arrival of his latest in a string of teachers. This one offered to teach him how to get past the DNA screenings that occurred whenever one tried to enter any secure government building and at random checkpoints.

  Since the government now controlled everything, any building could be designated ‘secure’. Often, a building that had had no testing required when one entered might by the time one left. Hundreds of outcasts had been caught that way.

  The man who approached Matt was another nil, which made this all the more dangerous. Matt, looking carefully, could see the same superior musculature that he himself possessed. Also, the man walked with balance. He was centered, something only one trained as Matt had been would notice. Being centered was a little more common than the ability to see it in others. The man might be a Hunter, but could also be a dancer, or a gymnast; he may even have received some martial training from other outcasts. The man knew his own body and how to use it. Matt was wary, but not overly so.

  They had made contact via the ‘net. Before now Matt had never laid eyes on the man. As of yet the man had not seen Matt. Arranging to meet near the now famous Water Tower, which had survived Chicago’s first destruction by fire, as well as its second in the bloodiest most destructive battle of the Militia Wars, Matt waited in the tower itself practicing his skills.

  He had arrived hours before dawn for a meeting scheduled at 1 p.m. The man who was approaching the Water Tower at 12:30 p.m. appeared in all respects to be a legitimate member of the Great Society, save for the red rose pinned to his right breast, a sign for Matt. He could be a banker, or teacher, or any number of benign and therefore harmless professions. Or he could be something more. He might even be exactly what he had claimed. If so, he could teach Matt a skill he was definitely going to need.

  It was this that had caused Matt to take the risk involved in contacting the man. He could live indefinitely on the fringe, even deal with the growing sus
picion that he was BGP, but if he was ever to proceed with his plans of vengeance he had to be able to pass for a legit.

  Matt watched his approach and prepared to disappear if he decided the man was a plant. He was of medium build; about 5”11” with sandy blond hair close cropped, and wore his personal data terminal on his waist. This last Matt knew had to be a fake. PDT’s were not something you could get unless you were a real honest to goodness legit. They required a drop of your blood to activate, and if it was not the right sort of blood, would inject a fast acting neurotoxin that led to a swift but excruciatingly painful and messy death. PDTs were a legit’s access to the world. Communications, banking, you name it. Access to the ‘net was usually through a PDT. Of course there were other means to do almost anything you could with a PDT, but they were cumbersome and often fraught with danger.

  If this man did have a real PDT and could teach Matt how to get away with using one, that would be every bit as valuable as passing the DNA screens. Of course it was essentially the same thing, but Matt had figured he would be taught a method of fooling the operator if not the machine, while avoiding giving the requisite drop of blood.

  Deciding the potential gains outweighed the risks, Matt came down from the tower and leaned against the railing overlooking the Chicago River a few feet away from the man. Close enough that their conversation should not be overheard, yet far enough that if need be a quick jump in the river, which he had previously scouted, should carry him beyond the man’s reach.

  “Name’s Matt” he said looking out over the river, and watching the man from the corner of his eye.

  “Angus” replied the man, “you got what I need?”

  “Six thousand credits on a blank card” Matt replied, handing over the small plastic card, containing the untraceable credits, trying not to think that the card represented eight months worth of ill gotten gains, the only kind an outcast ever earned.