They talk about survival strategies; how to find your way back to one of the barracks—it doesn’t matter which you stumble across. All three are safe zones. The best strategy is to head back to the barracks as quickly as possible. There are markers to follow. They denote barracks directions, which tell us where to go and keep the hunters away from them.
There are no weapons for us. Our only defense is to get away. The hunters have all kinds of weapons, not limited to guns. They have knives, bows, tasers. They have it all.
I tune them out when they note the different things they’ve seen the hunters do to their prey when caught. Sexual assault, mutilation, and torture were enough of a description. Idon’twant to hear details. I’m going to fucking panic if I have to hear details.
Our plates are dumped through a slot in the wall. I’m slightly amazed when the entire table of food disappears through a hole in the wall, which then closes up smoothly. That’s… weirdly technologically savvy.
Which makes me think of Voss. I look around the room. Sure enough, there are cameras in the corners. Someone is watching us.
Voss is the Van Doren tech genius. All he needs to do is find this feed. But how the fuck will he ever find it? I stare, somehow wishing that he’s magically scanning every fucking securitycamera in the world for my face and facial recognition will find me.
That’s a thing, right? He can do that?
The sudden flapping of wings makes me look up. No, wait. Those aren’t wings. They’re shuffling cards. The rapidclapclapclapclap.
Everyone in the room turns to the board that Malcolm pointed out last night. The one where numbers are posted for the hunt.
I swallow, staring. Dread makes my chest tight. This can’t be real. It can’t be.
One by one, a dozen numbers appear. My heart races in my chest, and I see nothing else. Darkness makes my vision all tunnel-y, and all I see is the board.
The shuffling stops, and we’re staring at a dozen three-digit numbers. 718 isn’t one of them. I sigh in relief, but then see that 643 is on there. Malcolm has been called as prey. I’m never going to see him again, am I?
“Half an hour,” someone murmurs.
Is this what it feels like to be sentenced to death? Knowing in just thirty minutes, you’re facing your fate? What are my crimes? What have I done to earn this death sentence? Why was I chosen for this?
“What do you do to prepare?” I ask Malcolm.
“Me? I sit quietly with my thoughts. It’s a mental game as much as a physical game. If you’re scared, that impairs your judgment and ability to think rationally. Logically.”
“How are you not scared?”
“Don’t misunderstand me. I’m absolutely scared,” he says. “But this is a game of compartmentalizing. Recognize that you’re afraid and then file that away. This isn’t a time to let that fear overcome you. Are you familiar with how AI learns in science fiction?”
Weird change of topic. “Uh… I guess.”
“You and I are AI. We learn a little more about our enemy every time we’re released from here. We use that knowledge to win.”
“I see…”
He laughs. “If that analogy doesn’t work for you, find one that does. Think of it as a game where there are no rules. To win, you need to survive. If you don’t like the idea that we’re AI in this game, think of something else. The point is, learn, adapt, and survive.”
He grips my shoulder and gets to his feet. “See you later.”
I want to ask him if I will? Will I actually see him later? Or has his luck finally run its course?
The room is silent as we watch five men get to their feet and head to the door. I guess the other seven are split between the other two barracks.
The door opens, and the five men walk out. The door slams shut behind them.
25
VOSS
“I don’t know,”he wails. Blood drips from the corner of his eye, his nose, his mouth, his fingers. I stand on the other side of the one-way window with my father and two/thirds of my triplet brothers as Myro questions the driver who took Brek.
It had taken Avory and Ellory just over an hour to track him down and bring him back. He hasn’t been entirely useful for information. He doesn’t bring his victims to their final destination. He meets a truck at the truck stop once a month. His requirements are ‘able-bodied and relatively fit,’ heavier on males than females.
