The Trap (Hunt) Online - Andrew Fukuda

One

THE TRAIN ARRIVES in the dead of day.

The sun, perched high in the sky, scorches the desert a blinding white. Only the black filament of the train’s moving shadow taints this baked wasteland. The train slows, its line of cars rattling like the links of a metal chain dragged. None of the occupants on the train—and there are many, and they are tense, and they are standing with taut backs and frightened eyes—make a sound.

A tiny black dot circles high in the blue sky. It is a hawk, gazing curiously at the rippling shadow of the train beneath. The hawk squawks in surprise as the train suddenly dips into an opening in the ground. Like a snake, swiftly into a hole, disappearing. Gone as if it were never even there.

About ten miles away, on the other side of a range of low-slung hills, lies a gigantic disc-shaped building spanning several city blocks. It lies silent as a tombstone, circled almost completely by a thin rampart. A tall, slim obelisk rises from the building’s dead center. The windowed tip of this obelisk glimmers brightly under the sun like a lit candle. The obelisk is otherwise, as with the entire building, the color of the desert. Nothing moves on, in, or around the building. Not at this time of day.

The hawk observes this building with a steely, unblinking stare. Then, with a sudden squawk, it flaps its wings and flies away.

Two

WE PLUNGE INTO the tunnel. Its opening gapes wide like a diseased mouth that eagerly swallows us whole. Our world of stark white and cobalt skies, in a sudden blink of an eye, is erased with pure black. A hot wind, dank and moist as a tongue, hurls through the bars of our caged car, gusts through our clothes and hair, our clenched hands, our crouched, shaking bodies.

Under us, sparks of light shoot out from the shrieking, braking wheels of the train. As one, we’re flung forward onto the metal mesh floor. Fear hums off our piled bodies in droves. A small hand, clammy with fear, clutches mine. “Not the Palace, not the Palace, not the . . .” she murmurs. One of the younger girls.

Yesterday, after Sissy and I recovered from the turning (the hellish fever broken, our discombobulated bodies knit back together), we told the girls what we suspected about our destination. Not the Civilization, the idyllic city they’d been told by the Mission elders was filled with millions of humans populating its streets and filling its stadiums and theaters and parks and restaurants and cafés and schools and amusement parks.

But the Palace. Where the Ruler reigns. Where, it is said, the only humans are those imprisoned in the catacombs like cattle in pens. Their individual fates hostage to the whims of the Ruler’s voracious appetite.

For a few minutes, the train drifts along the tunnel before lurching to a stop. Nobody moves, as if motion alone will cause the next unwanted chain of events to begin.

“Everyone stay still,” Sissy whispers next to me. “Stay very, very still.” For three days and nights on the rattling train, exposed to wind and sunlight, motion has been our constant companion. This stillness, this blackness, it is a world too suddenly and starkly reversed.

A loud metallic click rings from the train car door. And for the first time in days, the door begins to slide open. The girls nearest to it, screaming, recoil from the opening.

But I leap toward the door, grab hold of one of the bars. I lean back, digging in my heels, and attempt to halt its progress. I sense somebody else next to me, also pulling back on the door. It’s Sissy. For days, we’ve tried, futilely, to pry it open. But now, in this dark tunnel that can only portend one thing, we’re trying to close it. But again our efforts are futile. Even as we grunt, our feet scrabbling for position, the door slides open, clicks into place. In the darkness, I hear similar clicks clacking along the length of the train. The doors of each train car are now opened and locked into place.

A wave of cold fear washes over us. Nobody moves.

“What now?” a trembling voice asks from the darkness.

“Nobody move!” Sissy shouts, loud enough to be heard down the length of the train. “Everyone stay where you are!” I feel the strands of her hair brushing against my arm. She’s swiveling her head, trying to get a visual on something, anything. But we see nothing. We