They grow quiet at that. They know I'm right. On the carriage, Ben starts to cry. Even the horse, gazing at the cloud, starts to whinny.

Sissy takes two steps toward me. “What about the map?”

she asks. I'm surprised by the softness in her voice, how quiet she is despite the situation.

“What about it?”

“It shows a boat to the north of us. Tied to a dock. If we can get there in time, there might be a chance.”

“Are you nuts? You can't trust that map. The Scientist was crazy.”

“Not to us. He seemed reasonable.”

I stare north, in the direction of where the boat would be. “If the boat is real, why didn't he ever tel you about it?”

A frown creases her brow. “I don't know. But what I do know is that everything else in the map is accurate. The ridges, the mountains, everything is where it's depicted on the map. Even the boulders over there,” she says, pointing at them. “And so why not the boat?”

I shake my head. “Look, even if it exists— and it doesn't— you'l never get to it in time.”

“I'd rather die trying.”

We can't fl ee, we must stay and fi ght, I remind myself. The only chance of saving Ashley June is to fi ght back against the hunters. I raise my voice: “And I'm tel ing you the only option for survival is to fi ght them head- on.”

Epap lurches forward. “C'mon, Sissy. Let's go. Leave him here, already.”

The hepers aren't stupid. They know a doomed fi ght when they see one, they know their chances are better if they fl ee. I need to come up with a plan. One that will convince them to stay and fi ght. I stare at the hepers. Fear has shriveled their faces; they look tiny and vulnerable out here in the Vast, without the protection of the Dome around them. And then a thought occurs to me. The hunters don't even know I'm with the hepers. They must think I'm alone, separated from the hepers, a solo fugitive, and there's no reason for them to believe otherwise. And the smel of my blood, even across the miles of the Vast, now overpowers any trail of the hepers' odor.

I look at the hepers, their weapons, the FLUNs. And at the boulders toppled atop one another, high and encaving. I blink. And there it is. A plan.

Sissy steps forward, stands right in front of me with a look of curiosity. “What is it? You look like you thought of something.”

I look at them in turn, locking in on each pair of eyes for a few seconds. “Tuck tail, run away if you're too scared. But if you want to join me and fi ght back, I have a plan,” I fi nal y say.

The night merges with black. Not a speck of light in the skies, the stars hidden by gargantuan dark clouds shifting above, bloated continents of brooding darkness. The eastern mountains are gone, their once silhouetted borders breached by blackness.

I am alone. Sitting on the ground, leaning back on a boulder. In my hand is a spear that Sissy gave me right before she disappeared into the darkness. I place the tip of the spear against the palm of my hand and pause. It is al emptiness before me, the Vast stretched in an endless gray that is not quite black yet. Only the boulder I lean back on keeps me company. Its surface is cold and brittle against my back, but in this endless sea of aqueous darkness, its solidity is strangely consoling.

I press the spear tip into my fl esh and slice downward.

It leaves a smal slash, and only a dribble of blood trickles out.

But for the hunters chasing me down, that is more than enough; it is a light house fl ashing in a sea of darkness.

And only a few seconds later, the cry of hunger slices across the Vast. Already so close, so much louder, the intonations of desire heightened. They will be here soon, in less than a minute.

I fi st my hand and squeeze. More blood sluices out.

Enough now to overwhelm their olfactory senses; not a chance they will be distracted by any faint heper odor. I feel the pulse of blood against the cut, a push- push of seepage, oddly unsynchronized with the rapid, frightful beating of my heart.

The hepers left me with this spear and nothing else.

A skittering sound, sand tossed harshly across the ground, whispery hisses lisp into my ears.

The hunters have arrived.

I stand up, my knees buckling.

A hazy fl ush of movement, darting from left to right. Then another in the opposite direction, just outside my cone of vision.

Three shapes emerge from the darkness, faintly at fi rst, then attain-ing defi nition.

Abs.

Crimson Lips.

Gaunt Man.

And then, solidifying out of the milky gray, two more shapes emerge, phantomlike at fi rst, then all too horrifyingly real.

Fril y Dress.

The Director.

I expected only three of them, not fi ve.

all fi ve of them are gruesomely naked, SunBlock Lotion whipped over their bodies like buttercream frosting. Where the lotion has worn off, open sores gouge their skin like volcanic craters, glistening red raw even in the dark. The effects of a whole day in the library with sunlight pouring in.

It is their eyes that are the most chil ing, the naked anger bristling behind their eyebal s, raw hatred mixed with a pulsating lust for my blood.

“Aren't you a sight for sore eyes,” I say.

They edge forward, snarling at me. Slowly, a few yards at a time, creeping toward me.

Something is wrong: this is not how I envisioned the scene would play out. They are much too control ed; an unbridled feeding frenzy was what I imagined, bodies soaring at me, fangs bared, a race to get me, to tear through me. That I would be ripped into a dozen different pieces within seconds. But this seems too methodical.

“Did you not get your beauty sleep today?” I say. “Because you all look terrible.”

They start to spread out in a wide arc.

My eyes are on all of them, but especial y the Director, directly in front of me. He is the calmest of the lot, his breathing steady, his feet stepping with fastidiousness on the desert gravel. His long left arm is dangling down, his nails delicately tapping his kneecap, his right arm kept strangely behind his back.

“We've decided to play a game,” he says.

“Do tel .”

Gaunt Man is on my far left, hunkering lower even as he continues to move down an imaginary arc.

“I'm trying to decide what to cal this game. The Sharing Game and the Savoring Game are probably the top contenders.”

Fril y Dress is rol ing on my right, slowly, like a guttered bowling bal , her eyes fi l ed with wet anticipation. Her mounds of fat lol downward off her body, like pregnant water droplets about to drip off. Her teeth are bared, a faint hiss sluicing out. She continues to rol right until she hits up against the boulder.

As does Gaunt Man on my left. Each of the hunters holds position; they look at the Director as if for further instructions. Then they edge closer, the circle shortening, tightening.

“See, we need to make an example of you,” the Director continues. “You've made a mockery of the Hunt, of the Institution, of the Ruler. And of me. My reputation has been irreparably damaged. What kind of heper expert wouldn't be able to detect a heper right under his nose?” And for the fi rst time, his voice betrays emotion. A hitch. “It is not enough to simply devour you. That would be too quick— for us and for you. So, we have decided— my suggestion, of course— to share you, to savor you. Slowly. Luxuriantly.

One piece at a time.”

And still they inch forward, eyes swiveling back and forth, examining me, behind me.

Crimson Lips suddenly darts forward at me.

“Stop!” the Director yel s, and Crimson Lips fal s into a frozen crouch, her body erect, like a startled cat. And for the fi rst time I see a FLUN in the Director's right hand, pointed at Crimson Lips.

It must be Ashley June's FLUN, the one left behind in the library.

Crimson Lips retreats back into formation.

“It's hard to play this game, sometimes our excitement can get the better of us.” He swivels his head about at each of the hunters.

“Proceed,” he says.

They creep closer, the circle enclosing, everyone staying in formation. Eyes constantly on the move, scrutinizing me.

“We will take you piece by piece, each of your limbs at a time,” the Director says.

“The two male hunters will rip off each of your arms, and the two ladies will rip off your legs, one by one. We'l space it out, maybe fi ve minutes between limbs? We'l be sure to keep you alive through it all . It will play out so wel for the book, see? Draw out this ending, really keep the readers on edge. A heart- thumping climax like no other.” He stares at me, his eyes glistening wetly over as if drooling. “Last to go will be me. I get your head.”

“And then what?”

The Director leans back like a wolf howling at the night sky, scratching his wrist with rabid delirium. “Did you really say, ‘And then what?' What does it matter to you? You're dead!”

He pauses, studying me. “Oh, are you concerned about your heper buddies?

Don't you worry about them. We'l get to them eventual y.

Even in this large desert, we'l fi nd them.”

They don't know where the other hepers are, I think.

“And then we go back to your girlfriend and tel her what we did to you!” Gaunt Man sneers, drool now leaking out of his mouth.

“We will do that,” the Director cuts in, shooting a cold look at Gaunt Man with the irritated expression of a man deprived of the punch line he's been chomping at the bit to tel . “And, eventual y, we will do the same to her. Limb by limb. The Savoring Game. Oh, I quite like that name, actual y, I think that's the name that's going to stick.”

The circle encloses on me even more. Their bodies percolate with ravenous excitement now, heads bobbing up and down, arms twitching at their side, weird nipping sounds escaping their lips.

“Who do you think will scream louder, you or her? She's got a lot of passion, that girl, so perhaps she'l scream louder.

But then again, she's got quite a bit of spine, wouldn't you say, what with that stunt she pul ed? Not at all like you, running away like a squirrel and leaving her all by her lonesome.”