The Hunt

Chapter 4

Darren:

It's two weeks since I let them escape, and they're still on my mind. Well, she's on my mind. Those yellow eyes seemed to look through me. She's the reason I let them run. But why? It's my neck if anyone finds out.

Her black hair, yellow eyes, smooth, pale skin is burned into my memory. The life in those eyes. They weren't the eyes of a monster. And since I've been thinking about it, I've been paying attention when we're out in the forest, when we're bringing in the others.

The hunts have become more frequent. Six times in two weeks. And I'm finding it harder, although John's made sure I'm not, as he puts it, "shirking my responsibilities." I've been made to shoot each time now. I wish I would stand up to him, but how can I? We're in this for life, sworn in. It's treason to break those vows.

The hardest was yesterday. We stumbled on a family, three vampires, hidden in the woods. I remember their faces clearly, the father, the mother, the child. It's the child that sticks in my mind. She can't have been older than ten. Her eyes, yellow as always for the females, gazed at me. She bared her fangs as I approached, hissing. I think it was fear. Her father, eyes blazing, tried to tackle me to the ground, but he was brought down quickly. The mother tried to shield her daughter, but did not fight.

John looked at me and nodded. He didn't need to do anything else. I knew what I had to do. I couldn't see any way out of it. A braver man might die rather than do what I did. A braver man would already have died. But I'm not brave, at least not brave enough.

I shot the mother first, a single dart to the back. The child stared at me. I felt x-rayed. Her look was like a stab to my conscience. I hesitated. John was looking at me. The others were looking too. John smiled, it wasn't friendly. Jack pushed forward.

"I'll shoot the damn thing." he'd said, raising his own gun.

"No." John said. "It's yours, boy." he said to me. "You'll follow orders. Shoot it already."

I wanted to make a stand. I wanted to refuse. Maybe Jack would stand with me. I know he doesn't like it either. He does it though, like me he does it. Who was I kidding about making a stand?

The look in her eyes as I shot that dart, the thrashing, screaming, writhing was like a knife to my heart. A little more of me died yesterday. As it does everyday since I came here.

I'm walking through a wide hallway. It's lunch time and I'm not hungry. I'm not hungry but I have to show up for lunch, make a show of eating. If I don't I'll be referred. They'll refer me to the compound Psychologist for analysis. It happens. The stress of the job. Jack told me, he's seen men taken off the field. No one knows where they go. Quitting is out of the question. When you're in, you're in for life.

The walls are rough stone, uneven. The ceilings are high. The facility is old, although technology has moved on.

The walls have brackets made of black metal for holding candles. Large arched windows look out at the grass. I can see the city in the distance, tall buildings rising into the grey sky.

I push through the double wooden doors at the end of the hallway and enter the mess hall. The noise hits me, chatting, talking, laughing and shouting mixed with the clattering of plates and cutlery.

"Darren! Get over here." Jack shouts across at me. I look around and see him sitting at one of the long metal tables in the room.

The room is large, cavernous, the food is set up on one side, served from big pots and steaming containers. Behind the serving station is the door to the kitchen. There are windows on both sides of the room and a door leading out at the other side.