Just in time. The Ruler, sitting at his desk in the Circular Offi ce, is beginning his speech. His hands are clasped, his long fi ngers interlaced, the nails gleaming under the spotlights.

“My dear citizens,” he begins. “When it was announced earlier this eve ning that I would be speaking, many of you”— he pauses dramatical y—“if not all of you, were intrigued, to say the least.

My advisers have informed me that concern spread across this great land, and that many of you were overwrought with speculation and even undue worry. I apologize if that happened; it was not my intent. For I come to you with news not of war or distress, but of great tidings.”

Everyone in the auditorium leans forward at this. all across the land, over fi ve mil ion citizens huddle around TVs and large screens with bated breath.

“My announcement to you, gentle people, is that this year we will once again hold that most esteemed of events.” His tongue slips out, wets his lips. “For the fi rst time in a de cade, we will once again have a Heper Hunt!”

At that, everyone's heads snap back and forth, side to side, loud snorts issuing out of their noses. The auditorium, fi l ed with the staccato movement of snapping heads and the sound of suctioned air, reverberates with excitement.

“Now, before I sign off and the Director of the Heper Institute furnishes you with the details, let me say that such an event is em-blematic of who we are. It encapsulates al that makes this nation transcendent: character, integrity, perseverance. May the best succeed!”

A raucous stomping of feet fi l s the auditorium. As one, we stand with him, placing our hands over our throats as his image on the screen fades out. Then the Director of the Heper Institute speaks.

He is a wiry, sharp man, offi cious in demeanor, dressed to the nines.

There will be a hunting party of between fi ve and ten this year, he tel s us. “This is a democracy we live in, where every person counts, where every person matters. Thus, every citizen over the age of fi fteen and under the age of sixty- fi ve will receive a randomly assigned sequence of four numbers. In exactly twenty- four hours, the numbers of the sequence will be randomly picked and publicly announced live on TV. Anywhere between fi ve to ten of you will have this winning sequence.”

Heads snap back, spines crack. Five to ten citizens!

“The lottery winners will be immediately taken to the Heper Institute of Refi ned Research and Discovery for a four- night training period. Then the Hunt will begin.” The auditorium breaks out in hisses and snarls. The Director continues. “The rules of the Hunt are simple: The hepers wil be given a twelve- hour head start into the desert plains.

Then the hunters will be released. The goal? Chase the hepers down, eat more of them than any other hunter.” He stares into the camera lens. “But we're getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we? First, you have to be one of the few lucky lottery winners. Good luck to you all .”

Then more foot stomping, silenced with an uplifted hand.

“One more thing,” he says. “Did I mention anything about the hepers?”

He pauses; everyone leans forward. “Most of the hepers were too young for the previous Hunt. They were mere babies back then, real y. It would have been cruel, barbaric, and, wel , simply unfair to have babies as prey.” A cruel glint perches in his eyes. “But since that time, we have raised them in the most control ed of environments.

To ensure not only that will they provide us with succulent fl esh and rich blood, but that they will also be more . . .

dexterous than last time. Final y, as we speak to night, they are ripe and ready for sport and consumption.”

More wrist scratching and drooling.

“Good citizens,” the Director continues, “there is no time like the present. Most of you will receive your lottery numbers at your workstation within a minute. Mothers at home, your numbers will be sent via e-mail to your offi cial account. And for those in high school and col ege, your numbers are awaiting you back at your desk. Good luck to you all .” His image fades out.

Usual y we are led out in orderly fashion, row by row. But today there is pandemonium as the student body— a slippery, sloppy soup— gushes out. The teachers, usual y lined up along the side directing traffi c, are the fi rst ones out, hurrying to the staff room.

Back in my homeroom, everyone is maniacal y logging in, long nails tapping against the glass deskscreen. I am al fakery as I put on my act of shaking my head and drooling.

At the top of my in-box, in large caps and in crimson red, is the lottery e-mail: Re: YOUR HEPER HUNT LOTTERY

NUMBERS

And these are my numbers: 3 16 72 87.

I could care less.

Everyone shoots off their numbers to one another. Within a minute, we realize that the fi rst number in the sequence ranges from only 1 to 9; the remaining three numbers in the sequence range from 0 to 99. A meaningless tal y over the fi rst number is drawn up on the blackboard:

First sequence number

# of students with that number 1 3 2 4 3 1 4 5 5 3 6 2 7 4 8 3 9 2 Irrational theories are quickly developed. For what ever reason, 4— being the most common number in our classroom— is surmised as having the best chance of being the fi rst number selected. And 3, with only one hit— me—is quickly dismissed as having no chance.

all fi ne with me.

It's dark when I arrive home, a hint of gray smearing the sky.

In another hour, the morning sun will peek over the distant mountains to the east. A siren will sound; anyone outside wil have only fi ve minutes to fi nd shelter before the sun's rays turn lethal. But it's rare for anyone to be outside by that point. Fear of the sun ensures that by the time the sirens sound, the streets are empty and windows shuttered.

As I slip my key into the keyhole, I suddenly sense something is off. A fragrance? I can't put my fi nger on it. I scan the driveway and streets. Other than a few horse- drawn carriages hurrying home, no one's around. I sniff the air, wondering if I imagined it.

Somebody was just here. A few moments before I arrived.

I live alone. I have never invited anyone here. Other than me, nobody has even stood at the front door before. Until today.

Cautiously, I make my way around the perimeter of the house, looking for signs of disturbance. Everything looks fi ne. The stockpile of cash left by my father and secreted in the fl oor boards, though slowly diminishing, is untouched.

Closing the front door, I stand listening in the darkness of my home. No one else in here. Whoever was standing outside never came in. Only then do I light the candles.

Colors break out.

This is my favorite time of day. When I feel like a prisoner taking his fi rst steps of freedom or a diver rising from the depths of the mythical sea, drawing in his fi rst gasps of air. This is the moment, after the endless gray black hours of night, I see color again. Under the fl ickering light of the candle, colors burst into being, fl ooding the room with pools of melted rainbows.

I put dinner in the micro wave. I have to cook it twenty times, because the timer only goes up to fi fteen seconds. Hot, slightly charred, is my preference, not the tepid, soppy mess I'm forced to eat outside. I remove my fangs, place them in my pocket. Then I bite into the burger, relishing the heat as it attacks my teeth, savor-ing the solid feel of charred crispiness. I close my eyes in enjoyment.

And feel dirty, ashamed.

After my shower— showering is this thing you do where you rub gobs of hand sanitizer and pour water over your body to get rid of odor— I lie on the sofa, my head propped up on folded sweatshirts.

Only one candle is alight; it casts fl ickering shadows on the ceiling.

Sleep- holds dangle above me, placed there years ago merely for show on the off chance a visitor might drop by.

The radio is on, the volume set low. “Many experts are speculating that the number of hepers will be in the range of three to fi ve,” the radio analyst says.

“But because the Director was silent on this issue, there really is no way of knowing.”

The radio program continues, with a few cal ers chiming in, including a crotchety woman who speculates that the whole thing is rigged: the “winner” will end up being someone with deep pockets and close friends in high places. Her cal is suddenly cut off. Other cal ers weigh in about the number of hepers in the Hunt this time.

Only one thing is for certain: it has to be at least two, because the Director— in a voice loop that has been played over and over— used the plural tense: heper s.

I listen to a few more cal ers, then get up and switch off the radio. In the quiet that fol ows, I hear the gentle pit- pat of rain on the shutters.

My father sometimes took me out in the daytime. Except for the times he took me swimming, I hated going outside.

Even with sunglasses, the brightness was overwhelming.

The burning sun was like an unblinking eye, spil ing light like acid out of a beaker, turning the city into an endless fl ash.

Nothing moved out there.

He would take me to empty sports stadiums and vacant shop-ping mal s. Nothing was locked, because sunlight provided the best security. We'd have the whole Core Park to fl y kites or the empty public pool to swim in. He told me this ability to withstand sun rays was a strength, made us superpowerful. We can withstand what kills them. But to me, it was only something that made us different, not stronger. I wanted to be like everyone else, cocooned in the dome of darkness that was home. Blackness comforted me. It hurt my father to hear that, but he didn't say anything.

Gradual y, we stopped going out.

Except when a certain awful need hit us.

Like right now. I open the door. The rain has stopped.

I venture out.

The city is fast asleep behind shuttered husks of darkness. I “bor-row” a horse from a neighboring yard and ride down empty streets under an overcast sky.

I head out today because every few weeks I get the urge.

When my father was alive, we'd venture out together. The shame was mu-tual because we'd never speak, wouldn't even look each other in the eye. We went far, past the city borders, to the Vast Lands of Uncertain End. That's a mouthful, and most people simply cal it the Vast.