The road was narrow, unpaved, and slightly rutted. On either side, the lush greenness of tropical forest rose toward an azure morning sky. Hearing something approach, a green lizard scurried back into the brush, and a brilliant red and blue parrot, voicing its displeasure with a raucous squawk, took to wing. A few seconds later a green truck, the back covered with canvas, rolled into sight, rounded a bend past a giant ironwood tree, and vanished again. On the door was the logo, "National Park Service."

In the back of that truck, sitting on one of the benches that stretched the length of the sides, sat a young woman clad in an orange jumpsuit. Her eyes, large and very dark, stared blankly at the floor; she seemed oblivious to the tropical beauty rushing away beyond the open back of the truck. Her hands rested on her knees; bright steel handcuffs encircled both her slender wrists. A wisp of her short black hair fell across her forehead; she ignored it. Just six weeks earlier, Melanie Abbot had been living in New Orleans and making her living as an exotic dancer in the clubs along Bourbon Street. Now, although it still didn't seem real to her, Melanie was a convicted felon, a prisoner about to begin her sentence. Her arrest, her trial, the horrifying shock when she heard the judge say that her sentence was death, the despair when her lawyer told her appeals were useless, and then the flight here, to the holding cells and induction center on this pristine tropical island--all that was a blur, all that was vague. It seemed so unreal to her, like some insane nightmare--but she kept waking up in a jail cell.

As the truck bounced along, she could still hear the voice of the instructor back at the induction center, explaining things to her and the other girls in her group, telling them the way things would be: "You cannot forget what you are," he'd told them, pacing back and forth in front of them in the almost-sterile classroom. "Most of you, anyway. You are condemned prisoners." He raised his hand, silencing the protests he evidently always heard at this point. "Don't bother," he said sternly. "I know, all of you are as innocent as newly-fallen snow. Just about every prisoner says that, but even if you convinced me it was true in your case, there's nothing at all I can do to help you. At this point there is nothing anyone can do to help you--except for you. You can listen, you can pay attention, and there may be a chance for you to have your sentence commuted."

At this point, naturally, all the prisoners fell silent, listening intently. "You have been lucky enough to get a break, in a way. You were all placed in Class B; that is, you were judged to be attractive enough and athletic enough to be sent here, to the National Park Service Hunting Preserve on Isla de la Muerta. You were not judged attractive enough to be executed on national television; and you were not judged attractive enough to be put into the guided program. Do not feel insulted, feel lucky. If you'd been placed in Class A, your execution would have been a certainty. If you were Class C's, the class where the old and unattractive are placed, you would already be dead. Class C's are executed en mass, immediately, without fanfare.

"But you are class B's, and that means you have a chance--a small chance, to be sure, but a chance nevertheless--to survive and be free again."

He stopped speaking and pulled down a large and finely-detailed topographical map. "This," he said, rapping the thick paper with his pointer, "is the hunting preserve. While you are here, you will be permitted, by law, exactly three hours following this briefing to study this map and memorize as much of it as you can. I suggest you put that time to the best use possible." He paused again and studied the faces in front of him. "You are the game, you will be the hunted. The hunters come from all walks of life. Anyone who's interested and who can pay the fee the government charges for a license to hunt here may hunt you. It is a lucrative source of revenue for the government, ladies. You can feel a certain pride in that you are helping your government fill its coffers." He grinned. "Or maybe not. It doesn't matter. This is your situation, and you can make the best of it, or not."

He turned and gestured toward the map again. "Here," he said, tapping it again with his pointer, "are the 'villages.' As you can see, there are four of them. In the villages there are a number of huts, constructed to fit harmoniously with the tropical climate here. There are always many more huts than there are girls to occupy them, so you'll have no trouble finding a vacant one you can claim. At night, these villages are safe havens for you. They're guarded by Park Rangers; food and water is brought to the villages twice a day, and a doctor will be available to you in the evenings. Do not make a mistake, ladies, about the doctor's role. He is there to treat small wounds and minor illnesses. If you become seriously ill--we do not expect this, as you have been immunized against all diseases endemic to this area and you have all received your insect-repellent injections, which are over 96% effective--you will be removed from the Preserve and brought to the clinic here for treatment. When you are well enough, you will be returned to the compound. Do not imagine, though, that if you manage to stagger into the village with a mortal wound that the doctor will save you. In such a case--when it is the doctor's opinion that the wound may, if untreated, be fatal--he is required by law to escort you back outside the village and leave you there for the next hunter who happens to find you. The doctor will not stay on the premises; if you think you need him, you need only inform the night rangers at the villages. You should be aware that there is no prohibition against night hunts except that the villages are off-limits to hunters during the evening hours. If you are outside the villages after dark, you are on your own.

"Time is kept by a system of sirens. A siren sounds in the morning when the day's hunting period is to begin, and again in the late afternoon when it's ended. It sounds like this." He paused and pressed a button on his desk; a high-pitched wailing sound came from speakers in the ceiling. "For one hour after the morning siren sounds, the villages and the surrounding areas remain off-limits to the hunters. The same siren will be sounded in the afternoon, and after it does the villages are again off-limits to the hunters. Between the afternoon and morning sirens, you are completely safe inside the villages." He paused to study the faces again. "I must remind you, though, that during the day, you are safe nowhere. You are completely on your own. If you fail to come into one of the villages at night, you will be on your own then, too. The hunters pay for up to a three-day pass, and they can take up to three women, one per day, on that pass. Some of them--a lot of them--do not vacate the preserve at night, they camp there. At such times they are not permitted to hunt inside the village perimeter, but everywhere else they can do what they choose. The hunters are required to wear these," he paused and held up what appeared to be a plain ring, "at all times. They are subject to arrest and a fine if they remove them for any reason while they're on the island. They allow us, using satellites and computer tracking systems, to pinpoint the location of any hunter at any time. Thirty minutes before the morning siren and evening sirens, the hunters are signaled through these rings. If they are within one-half mile of a village, they must vacate the area, and they may not re-enter it until the siren sounds. If they have not, you will hear this sound from the siren." He paused again and pressed another button on his desk; a whooping sound was heard. "That sound is audible two miles from the village and serves to warn you the zone around the village is not clear. Wait until it stops before leaving or approaching; if it is sounding a ranger will go to the hunters and insist they observe the half-mile limit. The hunters can, however, wait for you in ambush outside that range, but that range creates a three-point-one-four mile perimeter; as the hunting parties are limited to six at most and are not allowed to join up inside the Preserve for hunting, they cannot possibly cover the whole perimeter. We do not make the hunt easy for the hunters. Still, you have to cross that perimeter twice a day. I'd advise caution in doing so. Using a regular trail day after day is certain to result in your being taken."

He waited for questions; there were none. "Now," he continued, "these are the rules: guns are not permitted here. Most of the men--the vast majority of our hunters are men, naturally, but there are a few women--hunt with a compound bow. Some hunt with knives alone or even with their bare hands, but those seldom take any game. A few use snares, so watch out for them; if you're caught in a snare the men in the party that captures you can do anything they wish with you." His face twisted a little. "At least one girl," he told them, "was burned alive by such a party. It is not in your best interests, ladies, to be captured alive by hunters. It is not in your best interest to come to the village seriously wounded and have the doctor put you out, where the hunters will likely be waiting for you. In such cases it is very possible that you could be tortured severely before you are killed. If at all possible, I suggest you find means to take your own lives if capture seems inevitable." He gave them a hard look. "Under no circumstances, not even to save your own lives, are you allowed to do harm to the hunters. You are not permitted to have any weapons of any sort. Even a pointed stick or a rude club can be considered a weapon. If you are caught with a weapon in your possession, regardless of the nature of it or the reason for it, you will barred from the safety of the villages for one month; you will not be fed during that time, you'll have to live off the land. If you even attempt to harm a hunter in any way, you will be declared 'rogue' and you will be hunted down and summarily killed by the Rangers. Take my word for it, you cannot evade them; they will be using infrared finders and high-powered automatic rifles in their hunts."

The instructor stared down at the floor for a moment, then looked back up. Now, he grinned. "But there's a brighter side," he went on. "First, the forested area of the Preserve is quite extensive; there is a lot of thick underbrush, there are caves, there are lots of places to hide. As I've said, we do not make it easy for the hunters. And--and this is what you've been waiting to hear--if you can survive, if you can elude the hunters for ten years, then you will be granted an automatic pardon by the office of the Director of the National Park Service. You will be free, your debt to society paid, and in addition you will be given a cash stipend to start you in your new life. It will not be easy for you to survive ten years, but it is not impossible. The Isla de la Muerta Preserve has been in operation for fifteen years now, and already the Director has granted three pardons. It can be done. Bear that in mind. Now: study the map. You will taken to the Preserve one at a time, at approximately two-day intervals."

The truck bumped to an abrupt stop, bringing Melanie out of her reverie. A moment later, the driver--one of the rangers, a dark-skinned, dark-eyed, and rather handsome man who had previously introduced himself to her as "Harry"--appeared at the back. Stepping up on the back deck, he helped her down to the ground. Before her was a fifteen-foot steel fence topped with razor wire; just to her right was a locked gate.

Harry unlocked her handcuffs, removed them, and dropped them into the pocket of his uniform. "Here we are," he said. "You have any last-minute questions?"

She rubbed her wrists and gazed at the trail leading away from the gate. "Are there any hunters in there now?" she asked.

"No," he said, shaking his head. He looked at his watch. "We never release a girl when there are hunters around. It's eight A.M. now, the day's first party is scheduled to come in at ten. That gives you a two-hour head start on them. Make the most of it, Melanie. Don't stay close to the gate or the fence."

She nodded. "Well," she said, "might as well go, then, I guess..."

"Yes. Take off your clothes now, Melanie."

"Huh?"

He took a small bag from the truck and opened it. "Here," he said, handing her the contents. "Moccasins, side pack, water bottle. The bottle's full and you'll find some snack crackers in the pack. You can resupply at the villages if you lose anything. We don't allow the game girls to wear any clothes. Policy."

Melanie sighed. "I guess that's not a surprise," she said. "They didn't tell us about that in class, though." Without arguing, she removed the orange jumpsuit, revealing small but shapely breasts, a narrow waist, and finely-shaped long smooth legs. Taking the pack from Harry, she fastened the narrow belt around her waist and slipped the water bottle into the loop provided for it on the belt. The moccasins she decided to carry; she was used to going barefoot.

Harry gave her a smile and opened the gate. "In you go," he said. She walked through, then turned to look at him for a moment. "Good luck," he told her. "And be careful. Your first few days here are the most dangerous for you. Trust no one wearing clothes, and be careful of those who aren't..." He hesitated and brushed back his very black hair. "But right now, you can trust groups of nude women," he said hurriedly, as if it were something he wasn't really supposed to say. "And don't be too careful, your chances are improved if you join an experienced group."

"Thanks," she said woodenly. He turned away and so did she. For a short time she followed the trail, which was wide enough for a Jeep, into the woods; but it wasn't long before she realized that staying on the beaten track wasn't at all a good idea, and she plunged into the deep woods to her right.

It was, she told herself as she wandered aimlessly through the tropical forest, a really beautiful place. There were flowers everywhere, birds and butterflies flitted through the trees; there were lots of insects around, but thanks to the repellent injections they did not bother her. Not a bad place to spend the rest of your life, she told herself. She just hoped that "the rest of her life" amounted to more than just a few hours or days.