Бесплатный фрагмент - My Stockholm Syndrome

Dedicated to Richie and her cynicism, which is why there is no despondency in my life. It is very difficult to find someone who is not just supportive, but who also understands and shares ideas. Thank you for sparing me from this search. Thank you for your invaluable advice, for your vision and sense of character. Know this: I genuinely consider you a co-author, even though you refuse to make it official.

There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.

Ernest Hemingway

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events and geographical locations is purely coincidental.

Prologue

Gasping for breath, I raced through the woods, weaving through the trees. My heart was pounding frantically as if it was going to explode. Wet branches whipped my cheeks but I ignored them, dashing through the brush. I didn’t even realize it was raining and that the grass was wet until I ran into the clearing and fell down. The camera on the pole in the middle of the clearing slowly turned in my direction. Another, on a special crane, came down to get a close-up of my face. I was tempted to give the invisible viewer the middle finger, but it could have cost me my life. This was not the time to play Katniss Everdeen. Not wasting valuable seconds, I jumped up and ran again.

In three days I had explored the area only partially: I barely remembered this sector of the forest. I hesitated at the fork in the trail and turned to the left. I almost fell into the hole of a wolf trap: slowing down sharply, I slipped on the wet ground and fell, inertia dragging me forward. The distance was enough for my legs to overbalance, pulling me into the trap. Imagining the sharpened stakes below, I grabbed at everything within reach and hung on the edge. I tried to get out by pressing my toes into the trap walls, but the rain was making my shoes slip. There was a scream in the distance, interrupted by a gunshot. I pulled myself up again, whimpering in pain: two fingernails were broken and splinters were stuck under the rest of them. ′′Think positive,′′ I was trying to urge myself on. A shot means a hunter, and a scream means death. And that death means that at least one more killer’s daily limit is exhausted. It really doesn’t take much in this life to become a cynic. Just three days of running through the woods from armed degenerates eager to kill you. Another push and I climbed out of the trap for good, falling on my back with a sigh of relief. I was alive. But the smile was immediately wiped off my lips by the crackling of a broken branch: they were close. The hunters’ footsteps were barely audible, but I knew he was among them. He was following me, raising goosebumps all over my skin. I have felt his presence since the first day of the hunt. And here it was again, the quintessence of danger and fear…

There were three pursuers. They were approaching from the right, and there was nothing I could do but go past the trap deeper into the woods. I had hardly run five meters when a bullet chipped a piece of bark off the tree in front of my face and made me freeze. I got the message, I was not allowed to go that way. I rushed to my left, but another bullet stopped me again. I could see the gamekeepers encircling me, but I kept darting from side to side, twisting and weaving. They weren’t going to kill me today. They were just trying to scare me, as they routinely do. The circle tightened, and another pirouette brought me too close to one of the gamekeepers. He swung his rifle at my ankle, knocking me down. Well, that was that. This is it. I knelt without raising my eyes, and could see two silhouettes on both sides. The cold metal touched the back of my neck. I couldn’t see their faces, but I knew exactly who was behind me, and whose gun was pointed at me. Jason.

′′Freeze.′′

The warning was unnecessary: in his presence I was afraid to even breathe.

Chapter 1

A clod of dirt thudded on the lid of the coffin and crumbled into dust. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Rest in peace. This latest blow put an end to my list of woes, because there can be no more grief. I have no one else to bury and no one else to mourn for. I don’t believe in curses, only in depression which is now my constant companion. In the last six months I had buried everyone I cared for. First my uncle and my brother, now my grandfather. I never knew my parents, they died when I was a little over a year old, and my grandfather took us in, my brother Dmitry and me. The ex-submariner was strict but never used a belt to bring us up. We never stood in a corner either since my grandfather’s authority didn’t even allow for any thoughts of naughtiness or caprices. He was always an example both for us and for his younger son, who also served in the Navy. It was no surprise Dmitry followed in his footsteps and went to Kamchatka to serve in the navy. He was in the same crew with his uncle… and died with him during the submarine trials. The scandal was muted and nothing leaked to the press, but my grandfather lost the will to live and faded away in six months.

′′Dina,′′ Vika tugged my sleeve quietly. She saw me shaking, and tried to calm me down. ′′Dinka, let’s go.′′

She hugged me and mumbled something comforting, but I had no sense of her words. I let her take me away and woke up, or rather, gradually roused from my stupor back in the apartment. The same apartment whose mortgage had been paid off by the benefits provided by the government after my uncle and brother vanished. Except neither I nor my grandfather needed this apartment any longer. He couldn’t live here anymore and I didn’t want to. No, I didn’t want to, but stayed there anyway, slowly finishing the stock of cereals and canned food and washing them down with copious amounts of tea.

In the second month of my voluntary confinement, Vika gave up. Her impending marriage had reprogrammed her brain into a single thought: everyone around her must be happy. I, naturally, failed to fit into this scheme. Long conversations about the fact that life went on were fruitless, and my friend plotted a new plan.

′′You’re about to have a nervous breakdown,′′ she droned on and on, removing all reminders of my relatives from the shelves. ′′Or worse, gastritis. Go to the seaside for a couple of weeks, you’ll look like a human again.′′

′′I’m fine here,′′ I muttered, stubbornly putting the pictures and souvenirs back in their places.

′′Remember Olga from the second entryway?′′ Vika kept up. ′′The divorce left her swollen with tears until her older sister made her travel to Goa. She came back a different woman — cheerful, enlightened…′′

′′...and knocked up by her yoga instructor.′′

My comment was ignored. In turn, I ignored another moralistic statement about a change of environment.

′′You need a splash of excitement!′′ Vika argued, waving her hands. ′′Stop being carried by the wind and suffering! You’ll get stuck eventually.′′

It was useless to explain that I wanted to get stuck, because the idea of shaking me up was firmly planted in Vika’s head. She went through all sorts of therapeutic vacation ideas and every day emailed me links with last-minute travel offers, and when she realized that I did not check my inbox, she began to bring printouts.

′′No one’s going to make me go to any of those therapies or gymnastics,′′ I pushed the stack of sheets aside, not bothering to read them.

′′Right,′′ Vika suddenly agreed. ′′Old ladies with their daily discussions about ailments are not the best company for you.′′

So health resorts were crossed off the list and my friend switched to websites with extreme tourism. Now the tables and the dresser were covered with a thick layer of booklets describing rock climbing, rafting on mountain rivers, biking, and diving. Excuses that I had no experience in climbing, paddling, or diving were useless. Vika persisted, and I continued to rebuff her, dreaming of marrying her off sooner and having Sergey suffer from excessive care.

On the eve of the wedding she smiled slyly and showed me a plane ticket.

′′Krasnoyarsk?′′ I was surprised. ′′I thought you were going to spend your honeymoon in Egypt…′′

Vika laughed and, seeing my puzzled look, explained:

′′It’s for you!′′

I was taken aback and couldn’t find anything to say before my friend began to talk enthusiastically about a resort in the coniferous forests.

′′It’s the perfect place, away from the city and the crowds. No cell phones or computers, not even TVs. If you want to hide from the world, do it there,′′ she handed the ticket to me. ′′Get some fresh air, get some sleep… and come back with peace of mind.′′

Her voice trembled, and I couldn’t say no.

′′Thank you for giving up the diving idea,′′ I hugged Vika. ′′Extreme is not my cup of tea.′′

She sniffed her nose in response.

Though I had made an exception for the wedding, I was still reluctant to leave the house and waited until the last minute to depart. I even schemed not to check in beforehand and arrive at the airport late. My friend however was smart enough to foresee this and volunteered to see me off. I had to put up with the idea that I would have to go for at least a day and began packing.

′′Take comfortable shoes,′′ Vika admonished, scrutinizing the contents of my closet. ′′You have to walk before you go to bed′′.

I pulled out my old sneakers.

′′A couple of sweaters, some spare jeans, some underwear,′′ she kept going through the shelves. ′′Warm socks, a windbreaker…′′

′′What’s that for?′′ I grabbed the makeup bag away from Vika.

′′Just in case.′′

′′And a curling iron?′′

′′Just take it!′′

A quarter of hour later I got tired of squabbling and let her pack my suitcase. I didn’t think I’d need any of it but Vika didn’t need to know that. Neither did she need to know about my plans to return earlier. At the airport I waved at her for a long time from behind the glass in the security area until they announced boarding. The flight was rough — an infant was crying non-stop in the seat next to me — and by the time we landed, I could only wish for a chance to sleep. Dragging my heavy suitcase behind me, I headed for the terminal exit. A sign with the name ′Selina′ flashed in the crowd of people. Great, I made it.

Instead of a greeting I got a printout from a smiling girl.

′′The interview is scheduled for tomorrow but in the meantime, please check this.′′

I froze in surprise, looking at my own application form: D. I. Selina. Age: twenty-four years old. Height: one meter sixty-eight centimeters. Eye color: brown. Hair type: brunette. Length: medium. Mother: deceased. Father: deceased. Close relatives: none.

It looked like Vika had filled it out for me. But she was prudently silent about the interview. Will I really have to talk to a psychologist? I tried to call my friend, but her cell phone was out of range.

′′Is the information correct?′′ The girl asked, taking back the sheet.

′′It is, but…′′

′′Wonderful,′′ she took me by the elbow, pulling me aside. ′′Then let’s get you on the bus, you need to rest after the flight.′′

I was tired, so I didn’t push it. It was no use hanging around the airport waiting for the return flight since I could leave the resort at any moment. I’ll do it with a clear head after some much needed rest.

On the bus, they loaded my suitcase into the luggage compartment and offered me tea. I gratefully took a plastic cup and leaned back in my seat, looking around. I had no energy left for anything else after the flight. There were others with no less sleepy faces, mostly foreigners, clearly suffering from jet lag. Looking at them, I started to yawn more often, and eventually dozed off.

I opened my eyes to see the shabby houses of an unknown village float by outside the window. After texting Vika and getting no response, I dozed off again and woke up after dark. The bus was turning off the highway. The group was dropped off at a hotel without any signboard that looked more like a private home. My legs were buckling with fatigue and my head was pounding. Once in the room, I collapsed on the bed. My suitcase was brought to the room, followed by dinner. I passed out before I had eaten anything substantial.

All morning my head felt congested. After an early breakfast, during which no one made any attempt to speak, the torpid group headed for the familiar bus. For about two hours we were driven past sparse and similar looking villages and seemingly impenetrable forests. While staring indifferently out the window, I kept hearing the clicking of cameras behind me — the foreigners were taking shots of the scenery, accompanied by enthusiastic comments. I would never have guessed that the Russian countryside was of any interest to them.

While I pondered this, we turned off the road and stopped. There was no name for the village: someone had torn off the sign leaving only the posts. I thought we would immediately start checking in, but instead we were fed again with boxed meals on the bus. After finishing my coffee, I felt more energized, and when everyone was invited to get off, I no longer felt as if I was moving in a fog. Exiting the bus, I froze on the last step in surprise: instead of a resort there was a pavilion with filming equipment in the center of the village. Inside the pavilion, we were divided into groups and lined up for makeup artists and hair stylists. I looked around, not really understanding what was going on. A multilingual hum of voices poured into my ears. The number of foreigners in the pavilion was impressive: Mexicans, Nigerians, Americans, Poles, Germans, and Vietnamese. Most of them were speaking English.

′′Camera three to the right corner!′′ someone yelled into a walkie-talkie behind me.

I recoiled in surprise. Judging by the preparations, some serious filming was being planned and my fellow travelers were not surprised, they knew exactly where they had arrived. Asking about a ′resort′ and looking like an idiot would be a bad idea. I called Vika again, and again there was no answer. I walked around the pavilion listening to snatches of conversations. Five people were Russian-speakers, including me: a father and son from a village near Khabarovsk, a busty blonde from Zhitomir, and a scowling bearded man from Chechnya. Everyone was discussing the prizes and I could only guess what they meant until I saw the word ′Golden Fleece′ on one of the banners. I typed the phrase into a search engine and discovered that it was a foreign survival show in challenging environmental conditions. The site offered few details, only pictures of contestants from previous seasons and a description of the main prize — the pelt of a sheep made of gold. Having estimated the approximate weight and cost of the ′fleece′, I slipped into a state of shock from the number of zeros and decided that Vika had lost her mind. Sneaking into a nook behind the lighting rig, I dialed my friend’s number again. This time she answered after the first ring.

′′Did you send me to a reality show?′′ I hissed angrily into the phone when I heard a cheerful ′hello′. ′′Not mountain climbing, but a quest?′′

′′You would never have agreed had you known the truth.′′

It was hard to argue with the remark, but I went on:

′′I still don’t agree. What the hell…′′

′′Enough!′′ Vika interrupted me. Her voice became stern. ′′You locked yourself away inside four walls for way too long, and now you are grasping at any excuse just to get back to your cozy couch. And God forbid, someone pushes you out of your comfort zone. That’s not even cowardice… it’s laziness! Go ahead, go back to your apartment, where every corner will remind you of your losses. Quietly weep and waste yourself away. You can’t even prove to yourself that you are capable of accomplishing anything!′′

She abruptly hung up and I suddenly felt embarrassed. It was a paradox — I wasn’t disturbing anyone with my inaction, but somehow her rebuke hit a nerve. I called Vika again but she immediately hung up on me.

′′What if I really go back now,′′ I grumbled to myself, pocketing my cell phone. ′′I’m the one who decides how to live. If I want to, I’ll sit on the couch until I’m old. Or…′′

′′Hi. Are you Selina?′′ A swarthy Spaniard, who didn’t seem to miss a single girl in the pavilion, peeked into the nook. He came closer, swaying his hips and tried to theatrically kiss my hand. ′′I’m Diego.′′

′′Selina,′′ I explained, stressing the ′e′. ′′It’s not a first name, it’s a last name.′′

He didn’t seem to care what my name was. After a couple of banal compliments and seeing no interest from my side, he let up trying to hit on me. I made no attempt to engage in conversation and Diego quickly switched to the Ukrainian woman, who was obviously willing to flirt with whoever showed the slightest interest. Wandering around the pavilion, I turned to the nearest hairdresser’s counter. At least I could get my hair done before leaving, and then I moved to a makeup person.

′′Miss Selina?′′, again, stressing the second syllable, someone from the film crew asked me while I was having my eyes made up.

I nodded tiredly, it was useless to correct them, they’d mangle my name anyway. Whatever they call me, as they say, names will never hurt me.

′′You’re next.′′

They put me into a chair in front of the camera and started asking me a familiar list of questions: age, date and place of birth, relatives. Squinting in the spotlight, I muttered my answers. I couldn’t get Vicky’s words out of my head. Was I really worthless?

When the interview was over, I walked slowly around the pavilion. People were still crowding around; the Mexicans were eating snacks, the Poles were watching the news on TV, and the Spaniard, who had lost his Ukrainian girlfriend somewhere, was hitting on the new girls. After hanging out in front of the screen for a bit, I ducked behind the speakers and sneaked past the guards, slipping out of the pavilion unnoticed. It immediately felt easier to breathe. I smiled. And then it struck me — I’ll stay here and prove that I can do more than just sit on the couch. Vika was wrong to believe I was lazy.

I looked around and walked down the path to the nearest house. The pavilion in the middle of the village looked oddly out of place, like the crown on a vagrant’s head. Shabby peasant houses crowded around it like cripples on a church porch near a humanitarian giving out alms. A crooked well was sticking out of the ground beside the house; half-rotten logs had fallen through, and the chain on the pulley was rusted, but a puddle around it showed it was still in use. The gate creaked and an old woman slowly waddled past me to the well, muttering to herself.

′′Ma’am, is the water good?′′ I stepped closer in case she needed help with the bucket.

′′Water is water,′′ she looked up at me and then, frightened, recoiled to the side.

Yeah, a great start. Had the makeup person overdone it? The old woman stared at me and came up closer again.

′′Get out of here, beautiful,′′ she hissed, clutching my hand. ′′Run far away!′′

Now it was my turn to recoil. I furtively checked for my bracelet. It was still on my wrist. The guards were already running towards me from the pavilion.

′′Miss, are you all right? Did she scare you?′′ One of them asked me politely in English.

His Russian mate was less tactful, swearing at the old woman.

′′Old witch!′′ He added in fury. ′′Miss, make sure you aren’t missing anything′′.

I shook my head, showing a piece of jewelry that was safe and sound.

Inside the pavilion the fun continued but everything that was going on seemed wrong and unreal. Also there was that old woman with her warning. The prize in the show was substantial and I understood why all these people had come to these godforsaken backwoods, but I didn’t care about the money! After the last interview was done being filmed, we were shown back to the bus. A nagging feeling of homesickness wouldn’t let go of me. Maybe I really am lazy if even thinking of change makes me averse to it. I could leave right now, I thought, hesitating at the entrance to the bus. A girl from the film crew was collecting our cell phones and putting them into a plastic box.

′′It’s our privacy policy, I’m sorry,′′ she apologized repeatedly.

Ok, I’ll fly back, and I won’t regret it. I was about to step aside, but… remembering Vika’s angry voice, I got onto the bus. To hell with excuses, I’ll go. And if the contest challenges are too difficult, I’ll just purposefully fail them.

I dozed off on the way and was awakened by the bouncing of the bus as it was going cross-country, approaching the woods. At the entrance we were met by two camouflaged guards with machine guns. Everyone got visibly tense and silent. The shade of the high tree canopy made the atmosphere in the bus even more somber. An acute sense of foreboding came over me, but this was no time for me to succumb to a fit of hysteria! We were dropped off at the entrance to the contest area which was of impressive size, divided into sectors for different stages of the show. As soon as we unloaded our bags, the bus turned around and left. Everyone looked around at a loss. A high fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the area perimeter. It’s for protection from wild beasts, one of the assistants explained immediately. Of course, from bears, the Mexicans nodded understandingly. I rolled my eyes. Bears, of course. Huge and scary. With balalaikas, and wearing valenki, traditional Russian felt boots. With a bottle of vodka in each paw.

The assistants pointed the way and we passed through the gate into the compound. The site didn’t look so ominous: the camera crew were bustling and crackling jokes by the access gate, unloading equipment from a pickup truck; a little further away a couple in love were kissing in the parking lot by the cottages. I grabbed my suitcase and followed the crowd. The couple stopped hugging and looked at us with interest. We made our way past the cottages and the two trailers that stood side by side toward the back and stopped near a long wooden structure. A shapely brunette with bright eyeliner was waiting for us inside. Smiling broadly, she introduced herself: Sandra, an executive producer.

I had never been in a military barracks before but I imagined them exactly this way: a big long room with bunk beds two meters apart from each other. At least the toilets were separated from the common room. The windows were narrow, like arrow slits or loopholes. According to Sandra, it was done to prevent the contestants from peeking at the equipment on the site and thus gaining an advantage over their opponents. In some places there were strange brackets sticking out of the walls, but their purpose was not explained to us. Cameras were slowly rotating on the ceiling in the corners of the room.

The rules of the quests were described very vaguely: the trials were supposed to be individual and each participant had to last as long as possible. In the morning we would receive our challenges, and in the evening we would find out the results. Wishing us a pleasant time, Sandra left us to ourselves and departed, politely brushing off Diego. The people slowly disbursed through the barracks. Some were playing cards, others were just chatting or discussing plans. Diego was telling dirty jokes, never taking his eyes off the Ukrainian woman.

I found my bunk labeled with the sign ′Selina′. It seems the last name was firmly cemented as a first name. Well, new life, new name. The player Selina enters the arena. I lay down on the bed and noticed a bracket attached to the log near my face. My fingers mechanically touched the metal. In some places the bracket was scratched as if the log had been dragged by it. Maybe the house was built so carelessly that they never bothered to pull the extra hardware out of the walls? I didn’t feel sleepy so after wandering around without joining anyone, I looked out the door. The guard outside immediately turned around at the creak of the door. I gave him a token smile, but he was in no mood for conversation. The guy was clutching his rifle, as if we were in danger of being attacked.

′′Don’t go out, miss,′′ he politely warned me in English with an accent. ′′The grounds are being prepared for the contest and you mustn’t see it. Violation of the rules,′′ he added more sternly when I didn’t move.

I was about to nod and head back into the barracks when the guard’s eyes suddenly rounded and he straightened up to attention. I turned my head to look for the cause of his fear but saw no one but a well-muscled man in camouflage pants and a tank top lazily approaching us. He walked slowly and casually, like a well-fed lion amongst the pride. Actually, I was too flattering: he had no lion’s mane, only an ordinary American military-style haircut. However, the characteristically shaved sideburns were on his temples, flowing seamlessly into the tattoos on his neck. Classy. There was something mesmerizing and dangerous about his gait despite its ostensibly relaxed manner. His eyes made me feel uncomfortable: colorless and lifeless, they looked like lenses, the eyes of an alien monster, a predator, anything but human. If they were glowing in the dark, it would make me feel less nervous.

′′Why is a player outside the perimeter?′′

The stranger’s voice turned out to be even more sinister than his eyes. It was low, husky, and sent chills down my spine. Swallowing frantically, I staggered back into the barracks. Why are we being guarded so excessively? I agree I wasn’t supposed to peek at the preparations, but what was the point of having a gun? We’re being treated like… prisoners.

No one, besides me, felt like a prisoner. The people were enjoying life, sipping beer from the supplies they’d brought with them or cuddling in the corners. The latter was true of Diego and his blond date, who he breathily called ′Snedzhana′. The Mexicans were playing cards, the dreadlocked student was smoking weed, and the Nigerians were huddled in a tight ring around the older man and excitedly discussing something. The Russians also kept to themselves, and only the youngest of them approached me, ignoring his father’s shout: ′′Hey, where the hell are you going?′′

′′Hi, I’m Lesha,′′ he held out his hand shyly. ′′Is your name really Selina?′′

I had to explain again the confusion with my first and last names. In turn, Lesha told me about himself. He had decided to take part in the show to improve his English but hasn’t had any practice yet. I promised to help. We were going over some common phrases when Snezhana slipped past us, covering her cleavage with her hand. We noticed that the Ukrainian had managed to break the rules: she carefully pulled out a cell phone from her bra.

′′It’s a convenient place,′′ I grinned, and Lesha blushed.

Examining the screen, Snezhana swore profusely.

′′Shit, no network,′′ she explained, hiding her cell phone. ′′Bastards. And they promised me wi-fi.′′

′′They probably don’t want us to leak any information before the show starts,′′ Lesha guessed.

′′More likely they’re afraid that we’ll tell everybody about the pigsty they are keeping us in.′′

After wandering around the barracks for a while without getting a signal, Snezhana gave up with her plan to post pictures of her new boyfriend on social media, and left again to make out with Diego. It got dark outside, so Lesha and I wished each other good night and went to our own beds. I couldn’t fall asleep for a while due to constantly waving off mosquitoes, and dozed off only with a blanket over my head.

In the morning we were fed a modest breakfast of coffee and sandwiches, and then gathered onto a set near the barracks. The camera team was bustling about, one of them was setting up the camera, and the technicians were rolling out reels of wire and checking the connection to the screen. The assistants were talking over walkie-talkies.

′′Dear show contestants,′′ Sandra began with a sugary smile as everyone finally took their seats. ′′We are happy to welcome you to the first stage′′.

A smattering of applause broke out.

′′Give us the intro, please!′′ asked someone from the crew.

The technician began to work his magic on the laptop. The monitor above our heads came to life; the Golden Fleece logo, which occupied the entire screen, scattered into puzzles, followed by photographs. I spotted familiar faces: Snezhana, Diego, Andrew and Lesha. I never remembered who was who in the Hispanic trio of Alvarez — Roberto, Jose, and Federico came as a set. The first and last names of the Nigerians were unpronounceable, and I only remembered girl Dayo, the youngest of the three. And the prettiest. But the young Polish girl Laila, with white skin and curly red hair, was undoubtedly the prettiest girl in the show. The same though couldn’t be said for her mother, a woman with a tired face and a dull gaze. And then my picture was on the monitor, Selina Di, the organizers mistakenly using my first and middle initials as my last name. While everyone was looking at the screen, six armed men turned up on the platform in front of the barracks. Surrounding the crowd, they froze.

′′Your first and only assignment…′′ Sandra began, gushing with joy. She paused, looked around at everyone with a triumphant look, and proclaimed, ′′Survive the hunt!′′

The people stopped applauding.

′′You can move around all the available territory. You will be chased by hunters. They kill one person a day, so hide better than everyone else.′′

We all looked at each other in bewilderment. If it’s a joke, it’s an absurd one. But if it’s true… God help us.

′′Survivors will be brought back to this location to stay,′′ Sandra pointed to the barracks. ′′The additional time the gamekeepers take to find you after the end of the hunt counts as a bonus. Each half-hour is a one minute head start. You can use this as an advantage the next day.′′

′′What.. you mean… it’s… like… Hunger Games?′′ The first to break the silence was a fat pimply teenager. ′′That’s not what we signed up for…′′

′′Fuckin’ A!′′ The stoned guy with the dreadlocks chortled. ′′Catching fire!′′

Their words were followed by a clamor. The Vietnamese were screaming, the Nigerians again huddled around their oldest, the Poles, gesticulating, were trying to explain something to the Mexicans in a frightened manner. A solitary biracial guy with huge biceps, who had not spoken to anyone the day before, gently pushed away Diego and Snezhana who were clinging to him in fear, and tried to approach Sandra but he was pushed aside by one of the armed men, also dark-skinned. After they exchanged a few words in an incomprehensible language, he retreated. Excitement was building up. The tattooed blond man with the frightening stare I had seen the day before was standing right in front of me. It was like watching a movie scene in slow motion as his hand reached for his holster. He drew his gun calmly and casually, as if he was simply checking the time on his watch. He didn’t even change his expression.

′′We will not participate!′′ yelled the fat guy, who probably considered himself a leader. ′′We will not! We won’t…′′

The shot rang out sharply, and half of the guy’s face was gone. The women screamed. I clamped my hand over my mouth, trying to hold back from retching.

′′Anyone else want to speak out?′′ The bright-eyed man asked, not lowering his gun.

Laila clung in fear to her mother. Snezhana sobbed and wailed in Ukrainian. The Nigerian tried to cover his wife and children with himself. The Russians darted forward, but the gamekeepers quickly reined them in. Sandra’s pompous voice sounded in the ringing silence:

′′Let’s greet our hunters!′′ She made an inviting gesture and armed men entered the area in front of the barracks. Another cameraman was circling around them, filming close-ups.

This time no one applauded. There were five hunters. A fat cowboy with a greasy look was stroking a rifle with a telescopic sight. A skinny blond man was holding a handgun in one hand and a cigarette in the other. A curly black-haired guy with a hooked nose was playing with a knife, flipping it from palm to palm. The hand of the tallest hunter in the team, who could easily have passed as a Viking raider in the first millennium, was demonstratively stroking the buttocks of the only woman in the group, slender and swarthy. It was the couple who were cuddling in the parking lot yesterday. The brunette smiled and sent an airy kiss to the camera.

′′Welcome to the hunt,′′ Sandra must have been paid extra for her sugary smile. ′′We guarantee at least five targets for each of you. You can choose any of them, but you can’t hit more than one a day. You are also not allowed to pick one target for two people. Violations will result in a fine or disqualification. Our gamekeepers will watch you to make sure the rules are being followed. They will also assist you in the chase. Any weapon is allowed during the hunt. Mercy is not forbidden.′′

At the last phrase the hunters laughed, and Sandra turned to us:

′′Dear Contestants!′′

′′Fuck you!′′ Lesha yelled.

Ignoring him, Sandra continued:

′′You have two minutes to get off the set, and then the chase will begin. Ready… set… go!′′

Still hoping that everything that was happening was a bad dream, I rushed into the thicket, estimating the size of the forest and what distance I could cover in two minutes.

To my right, the Mexicans were breathing heavily as they trudged through the bushes and the Polish women were running to my left. The mother kept falling and Laila had to help her up. I stumbled over the roots sticking out of the ground a couple of times, but kept up the pace. A siren sounded from somewhere behind us… I guess the two minutes were up and the hunt was on. I turned sharply to the right when I heard the first shot and almost knocked over a guy in glasses wearing a checkered shirt.

′′Sorry…′′

He ran further without responding to my apology. I rushed forward. A few meters further Lesha caught up with me.

′′What the fuck is going on here?′′ he shouted on the run.

′′I have no idea. And I really want to get out of here.′′

Lesha was called out by his father and he ran to him. Both turned into the sparse spruce forest and soon disappeared among the trees. I stopped, trying to catch my breath. I heard gunshots and the hiss of radios behind me, the hunters talking to each other. I took off and, taking a wild guess, turned to the right.

From the barracks I could see only two walls. Both went far into the thicket, but even if the whole area was fenced off, there were probably holes in the fence somewhere. It was worth a try to find them.

The sounds slowly receded, and I froze again. What if I can’t make it to the wall? I looked around. The forest wasn’t very dense here though there were some tall trees. My brother had taught me how to climb them when I was a kid, so I decided this was a good time to brush up on my rusty skills. The thorns on the nearest wide aspen tree prevented me from climbing — the whole trunk was covered with them. The lower branches of a neighboring birch had been chopped off and I couldn’t reach the upper branches. Well, they couldn’t possibly have disabled every tree here! I rushed to check and soon abandoned the idea of climbing. I could not pull out the thorns, and the trees that had not had their lower branches removed could not support the weight of my body. Having found nothing useful but a few cameras, I moved on. Slowly at first, then back to running.

The gunshots behind me had ceased completely. I must have run quite far away from my pursuers. A figure flashed to my right and I crouched in fear, but it was only the guy with glasses. He didn’t notice me but looked around and ducked into the bushes again. I straightened up and suddenly saw a dark-skinned gamekeeper in front of me. He fired and I barely had time to stretch out on the ground, hiding behind the bushes. The second bullet hit the tree trunk next to me. Trying to make as little noise as possible, I crawled along the bushes but the gamekeeper heard me and fired again. I jumped up sharply, darted to the other side and ran, expecting to be shot in the back, but either the trees prevented the guy from aiming or he did not intend to kill me. After running a few hundred meters, I turned to the right, hoping to find a wall, but soon realized that I had gotten myself lost. Maybe I should have made a small detour and gone back to the camp. They certainly wouldn’t look for me in the barracks. I darted forward again, stopping only when I reached the wall. A burst of machine gun fire prevented me from reaching the wall. The guards were watching the area from the towers, not letting anyone get close. Maybe I should wait until dark. I wandered along the wall, not going deeper into the woods, away from the watchtowers, but the guards weren’t the only ones watching my whereabouts. A shadow flashed to my left. I shuddered and retreated to the trees, trying to hide, but it was too late, a gamekeeper was approaching. The dangerous one, the one with the tattoos. I was too scared to make a move. And should I, when I’m in their crosshairs? Calmly, with no change on his face, the blond-haired man stepped closer with the same indifference he had when he shot the fat teenager a few hours ago. Staring into the black gaze of the muzzle, I held my breath. The blond-haired man took another step and the gun touched my forehead. I closed my eyes shut and shuddered imagining the bullet smashing through my skull.

′′Not in the head…′′ I didn’t recognize my own barely audible whisper.

The gamekeeper was silent. The gun moved slowly, chillingly along my cheek as it made its way down to my neck. I opened my eyes in surprise. Tilting his head, the gamekeeper was watching my reaction. Suddenly, I remembered the saying that if a killer looked their victim in the eye for a long time, he couldn’t kill them. It was worth trying. So, which one of us will blink first? As if accepting the challenge, he wasn’t looking away. Chills ran down my spine again as the blond-haired man slowly moved the gun lower. It was now resting in the hollow of my chest. I held my breath.

Just when I thought he was going to shoot, the radio in his pocket went off:

′′Jason, did you find her?′′

′′Yes,′′ the gamekeeper said reluctantly, as he continued to hold me in his gaze.

′′Come out then,′′ the radio crackled. ′′You’re in the blind spot′′.

Not putting the gun down, he shoved me in the shoulder. I turned and walked slowly through the thicket, pushed on by the prodding of his gun in my back.

Chapter 2

Outside the barracks, an exhausted Laila was sitting on the ground. A gamekeeper in a light suede jacket had brought her in and was now towering beside her, waiting for her to get up. Her clothes were soaked through and clinging to her body, but this only accentuated her slender figure.

′′Vogue, are you going to grow roots here?′′ Jason asked sarcastically, pushing me forward again. ′′Or are you just waiting for your redhead to drop dead?′′

A funny nickname, I noted mindlessly. Vogue. A dandy. The nickname seemed to fit; with his neat hair and leather gloves, he looked completely out of place in the woods. He grabbed Laila by the scruff of her neck and with a jerk he pulled her to her feet. To my right one of the hunters emerged from the thicket, the ugliest of the hunters, the cowboy. Snezhana was limping after him, her T-shirt torn and her makeup smeared.

′′Hey you, with the firm ass!′′ The fat man gave Laila a salacious look, and when she looked up at him with tearful eyes, he sent her an airy kiss and a promise, stroking his balls: ′′You’re next.′′

Laila went hysterical and Vogue had to practically drag her into the barracks. Snezhana was being pushed by a shaggy-haired gamekeeper in a long cloak with greasy sleeves. He looked as if he had last bathed a month ago, assuming he even knew how to bathe at all.

′′Outcast, did you mess with her under the bushes?′′

′′She’s not my type,′′ the dirty-haired man snorted, appreciating Jason’s joke. ′′Stu’s the one who decorated her.′′

When the cowboy heard his name, he laughed contently.

′′Did you let her go or did she get away?′′ Jason shifted his gaze from Stu to Snezhana, as if trying to imagine how anyone could have missed such a simple target.

′′Her down payment was enough for my first time.′′

′′Do you want me to send the video?′′ Outcast chuckled. ′′I’m going to watch it on long, boring nights.′′

The cowboy nodded and laughed again.

′′How did you manage it?′′ I asked Snezhana in Russian, still not understanding.

′′Orally,′′ she snapped.

′′What?′′ I gasped, unable to believe my own ears. ′′You gave him…′′

′′…a blowjob,′′ Snezhana hissed. And mistaking my silence as interest, she added arrogantly: ′′He liked it, so he let me go. He said I’d have to come up with something more original next time.′′

The squeamishness on my face infuriated her.

′′What would you do, you fucking righteous girl? Would you die rather than take it in your mouth?′′

That was a fair rebuke. I have no idea what I would have done to save my skin.

In the barracks it turned out that we were the last ones caught. The rest of the ′contestants′ had already been brought in and chained to the walls. So that’s what the brackets are for! The bed could be moved or broken, freeing the handcuffs. Ripping the metal out of the log was more difficult. Jason checked to see if my new bracelet was tight by twisting it around my wrist. It scratched my skin, but I held back a groan. As soon as the door closed behind the gamekeepers, I checked the length of the chain, it allowed me to move freely to the bathroom. After looking around the barracks, I counted the casualties. Dayo’s father, the strongest of the Nigerians, had been killed. His wife was sobbing with her daughter in her arms. Dayo’s brother sat beside them without a single tear in his eye, his face gray with grief. No one cried over the solitary biracial man with the huge biceps. The two remaining Alvarez brothers mourned the third, Jose, I think. One of the two Polish women was killed too. Laila was howling, burying her face into the pillow. All together five less, including the fat man Jason had shot.

I sank down on the bed. My bag with IDs and my suitcase with clothes were gone, just like all the others. But that was the least of my worries right now. The thought that I was going to die wouldn’t leave me for a moment. I had to find the strength to accept it, to calm down. Everyone dies sooner or later. The only difference between me and everyone else is that I know exactly how long I have: four days until the end of the hunt, five at most if the hunters aren’t too lucky. The only question is: how do I die? Should I let myself be killed or should I fight to the last moment?

There was no telling where my depressing thoughts would have taken me; I probably would have settled on taking a bullet. But the three guys at the next bunk, the bespectacled guy with his two friends, the one with the dreadlocks and the bearded man, didn’t let me brood over a growing feeling of resignation: they were heatedly discussing the layout of the site.

′′There are two trailers with satellite dishes on the roof,′′ the bearded man gestured vigorously. ′′That’s where they receive a signal. And there are cameras on almost every tree. I’m sure they broadcast as well. They wouldn’t be filming this perversion for nothing. We could send a message if we got connected to their network.′′

′′Don’t be silly, Barty,′′ snorted the guy with the dreadlocks. ′′They won’t let us anywhere near it.′′

′′This is no time to argue, Ian,′′ the bespectacled man interrupted him. ′′Let’s just go over the facts and come up with a plan of action before we’re all blown to hell.′′

′′But the rules say no less than five targets per hunter,′′ the curly-haired guy, obviously not of their company, timidly intervened. ′′That makes twenty-five, and we’re thirty. So there’s a chance of survival.′′

′′Do you see any survivors from the previous hunt?′′ the bespectacled man him off. ′′Or maybe you think we’re the first? It’s obvious they’ve got everything down to a routine here. And we’ve seen their faces. Trust me, they won’t let us live. We have to escape.′′

′′Where to?′′ snorted Ian. ′′Remember how long it took us to get here? It’s two hundred miles to the nearest settlement! It’ll take you two months to get out.′′

′′Do you want to live or not?′′ Barty poked him on the shoulder. ′′Or don’t you give a shit after smoking a joint?′′

′′Shut up,′′ I hissed, lowering my head so that the four cameras in the corners couldn’t see it was me talking. ′′There are cameras everywhere. That means there might be microphones too′′.

The guys fell silent, and I mulled it over for a while. Four-eyes was right about a lot of things. If we could find a way to stay in the woods until dark, there was a chance to climb over the fence. Besides, I know what they don’t — there’s a blind spot, and where there’s one there’s probably more. Which means that the cameras don’t cover the entire area. It took us about half an hour to get to the barracks, so the distance to the fence is around two kilometers. Multiplied by the width of the site, it’s a big area. Not easy to fully monitor. Suddenly I smiled. Hope was spreading its wings again, pushing the thought of death aside.

′′Hey, Ms. Overcautiousness,′′ Four-eyes said without turning his head toward me. ′′Let’s run in one direction tomorrow, talk about who saw what.′′

The guy wasn’t stupid.

′′Okay. And we don’t talk here anymore.′′

The door of the barracks swung open with a mighty kick. One of the gamekeepers, who looked older than the others, appeared on the doorstep with an insidious grin. He was wearing a sleeveless leather vest, badly worn in places, over a holey T-shirt. Was it to show-off, or did he really not get bitten by mosquitoes? I had scratched my skin red the previous night, but he didn’t seem to give a damn. Without saying a word, the gamekeeper went inside and took aim at some of the captives. Outcast followed him and went to the far end of the barracks, also without lowering his rifle. The people fell silent, and only Laila kept sobbing. Are they going to kill us now? Fortunately, they had just brought boxed meals with dinner. Two new guards piled them up right on the floor under the silent eye of Sandra and the gamekeepers while we were looking at them hatefully. A plastic box with bottles of water was dragged in last. The people headed for the food as soon as the jailers were gone. I approached too, stepping carefully over other people’s chains.

′′Don’t rush to eat,′′ Four-eyes handed me a meal box. ′′And don’t drink.′′

I nodded. Eating in an enemy camp was dangerous. The tea they had served us on the bus made us all sick for a reason. The guy was smart. I wonder what he was even doing here.

′′I’m Simon,′′ he pointed his head toward his friends.

′′Barty and Ian, I heard. I’m Selina.′′

When I opened the meal box, I found a ham sandwich, a hard-boiled egg, an apple, and boiled buckwheat. Well, we weren’t going to get fat on the local delicacies, but at least we wouldn’t starve to death, small thanks for that. I scrutinized the shell looking for punctures and decided to eat the egg. Simon took a cautious bite of the bread, and Barty wolfed down the ham without chewing. Ian was squeamishly poking a plastic spoon into the buckwheat.

′′Come on, eat it,′′ Simon hissed at him. ′′I have to see what’s loaded with tranquilizers.′′

None of us touched the water. By midnight only Ian got sleepy, so we finished everything but the buckwheat. I didn’t feel like drinking tap water, so I saved an apple as my only source of liquid.

The hours of darkness passed in nightmares, but I remembered none of them. All morning we waited for someone to come for us. Nervousness could be felt in the air. It was only at lunchtime, when the meal boxes arrived, that Sandra said the hunt would continue the next day. Everyone took to the delay differently. Andrei and Lesha tried to remove the handcuffs, taking turns covering each other from the cameras. The third Russian, Egor, who turned out to be an ex-military man, was making a knife out of a piece of pipe unscrewed from the toilet. Dayo’s mother stayed in bed, staring mournfully at the ceiling. Her son had no luck making her eat anything. Laila kept sobbing and fell into a heavy sleep only after another sip of water. The Mexicans whispered quietly. Diego and Snezhana practically made their home in the toilet, and we could hear their loud moans. Fear of death truly triggers primitive instincts.

I and a trio of MIT guys were having a fruitful time. Ian was smoking and wistfully singing obscene songs, while we were using this noise to screen our discussions, sharing valuable information. I told them about the blind spots and places where I’d seen cameras and Simon talked about the soldiers, presumably Russians, who guarded the camp on one side. The picture was getting bleak — if the show is indeed ′protected′ by the military it would be easier to get out of Guantanamo Bay than out of this Krasnoyarsk backwoods. I decided not to share my concerns in the vain hope that the American students had just mistaken guards in camouflage for soldiers. After covering the important details, the discussion turned into a more personal nature. It turned out that the guys were seduced by the contest’s payoff to earn money for independent research.

′′Won’t you be looked for?′′ I asked in disbelief.

After all, Uncle Sam cares about his citizens, and the disappearance of three Americans in Russian territory would not go unnoticed.

′′Our classmates think we’re freaks,′′ Ian shrugged. ′′We don’t have any family.′′

′′And the teachers?′′ I wouldn’t give up that easily.

′′They’ll think we dropped out of the university.′′

We were quiet for a while.

′′At first we wanted to send Simon alone,′′ Ian admitted. ′′As the smartest of us. And the most athletic,′′ he blushed when he saw my skeptical look. ′′Well, relatively athletic.′′

′′But the three of us were asked to participate together,′′ Barty interrupted him. ′′And only now we know why.′′

′′Because no one will miss you that way,′′ I nodded understandingly.

But I’m not a freak! I will be looked for. By Vika, at the very least. Most likely she’s already flooded me with messages. And when she gets no answer, my friend will start calling the show managers. First she’ll be fed promises that I’ll call back after the competition is over, telling her about the privacy policy. Then she’d want to come, but it’s unlikely she’d be able to trace my route from Krasnoyarsk airport. If Vika shows excessive zeal and succeeds in the search, she and Sergey will be killed as well. What relatives they have will not go beyond the TV show ′Wait for Me′. The show organizers have foreseen everything, choosing people from small towns, mostly lonely and unremarkable, and invited their entire families. Fitting into this group, like I was one of them, left me with a dismal feeling. My gloomy musings were interrupted by Ian who tried to pass me a joint. I kept stubbornly refusing but he wouldn’t let up and made faces.

′′It’s the best antidepressant, believe me,′′ he said. ′′See how mellow I am?′′

His grimace made even Lesha snort loudly. But he immediately faded away in embarrassment seeing his father’s stern gaze.

The lights in the barracks were out so I could see the guys’ faces only thanks to the lit end of the joint. Simon was squinting myopically, Barty was smiling, giggling intermittently, and Ian was staring off with an unfocused gaze. It was a wonderful group, a depressed Russian woman and three stoned American freaks.

Ian passed out on the floor, not letting go of the joint. Simon and Barty, choking with laughter, dragged him to bed but they couldn’t get him to the top bunk.

When the guys fell asleep, I wrapped myself in a blanket and sat on the bed for a long time, staring at the only star visible through the narrow window. The silence in the barracks was broken only by the buzzing of the ubiquitous mosquitoes, the snoring of a German guy, and the heavy sobs of Laila. Even Diego and Snezhana finally fell asleep, having had enough of each other. As I listened to the night, I thought about how the day before I wanted to fail the competitions if I didn’t like the show. Now that I hate everything going on around me, my only goal is to make it through. To win at least one more day without going through death’s door.

I woke up as dawn broke through the narrow windows of the barracks. Who knows, maybe this is the last day of my life. I have to make the most of every moment. I grinned. The second day of the hunt and I was already a philosopher. A lyrical poet. No, it really was easier when I was depressed.

I got out of bed and cautiously looked out the window. The color of the cloudless sky brought tears to my eyes. It looked unnaturally blue, like it had been processed with a color filter. The guards were unloading thermoses of coffee and plastic-wrapped sandwiches from their carts. I learned from their conversations that the hunters had a lot of fun during the night. Stu especially hit it big. Hopefully the hangover would affect their marksmanship. The conversation suddenly died down as the Viking’s girlfriend, in her tight T-shirt and gym shorts, was crossing the courtyard, apparently returning from her morning jog. She looked like a model in a sports commercial. When Sandra caught the guards looking at the slender huntress she shouted and they began unloading the cart, doubling their effort.

After breakfast, pushed on by the gamekeepers, we went out to the area in front of the barracks where the hunters were already waiting for us. No one showed any signs of a hangover. The cowboy grinned, staring at the girls. I hid behind Simon’s back.

′′Hey, Armand,′′ the Viking looked at the curly brown-haired hunter with the humped nose. ′′Wanna bet? Wanna shoot that blonde over there?′′

Snezhana shuddered, and the brunette grimaced.

′′He’s more into the muscle guys,′′ chuckled Stu, who obviously had time to brag to everyone about last night’s successes.

The Viking’s girlfriend laughed too. Ignoring the mockery, Armand scrutinized the crowd, pausing to look at the sturdiest men, like the biracial man killed on the first day. A short, blond-haired man took a cigarette out of a pack and lit it.

′′Eric, are we hunting or not?′′ he asked the Viking, letting out a puff of smoke.

′′Patience, Frost,′′ he grinned. ′′Letty will take her pick now, and then we can begin.′′

With a smile on her thin lips, the brunette studied potential targets displayed on the screen and then turned her gaze to the crowd. No one seemed to be looking at me. I hope none of the five deviants were interested in me yet. But before I could relax, the crowd parted before me, and Jason emerged. He grabbed my forearm roughly and dragged me along with him. My knees buckled from fear. Outcast shoved a screaming Snezhana out of the crowd too.

′′These two have an extra minute each,′′ he explained.

I closed my eyes and took a breath, but the relief was replaced by panic. Oh, shit. Shit. Dammit! I’d agreed to run with Simon today. I looked at him questioningly, and he shook his head. No waiting, then. That’s noble.

In the woods we split up: Snezhana ran forward, and I, coming across a camera, turned towards the wall. The siren howled. I had to hurry.

After about a kilometer, I realized that I had poorly remembered the way and had gotten myself lost in an unfamiliar spruce forest. I circled around it, trying to figure out the right direction, but no matter where I ran, the wall was nowhere to be seen. There was a clearing on one side, while the spruce forest turned into bushes on the other. Trying to avoid the cameras, I walked along the edge of the trees, staying away from the open space.

There was a small hill far ahead, and I decided to go around it. When I went round an embankment, I had to duck — Armand was in front of me. The hunter drew his pistol and reached for his knife, but his hand froze midway. A gamekeeper in a leather vest stealthily appeared from behind and shoved me with the butt of his gun. I fell down to my knees.

′′Are you sure you don’t want this one?′′

Armand shook his head and started climbing up the embankment while the gamekeeper went around me, keeping his sights on me. I closed my eyes. He leaned over and hissed right into my ear:

′′Run!′′

He didn’t have to say it twice. I jumped up and dashed across the clearing.

′′Satyr,′′ Sandra’s voice sounded in the radio behind me. ′′Stop fooling around and get her away from the wall!′′

′′Don’t be jealous,′′ grinned the gamekeeper.

I didn’t hear Sandra’s answer because I’d run a fair distance away from the gamekeeper. When the clearing and the embankment were far behind me, I sat down for a moment, catching my breath. If Satyr and Armand caught up with me, I wouldn’t have to worry: the Frenchman wouldn’t touch me — I was too minor a target for him.

The wind was rustling the leaves in the trees overhead, the birds were chirping; as I closed my eyes and leaned my back against the tree trunk, I found myself enjoying the sounds of the forest. Perhaps nature could have cured my depression after the death of my loved ones. However, that would have been in that former life. In the present one, there was only the countdown to my own demise.

A shot rang out in the distance echoed by Eric’s contented voice and Letty’s laughter. Forgetting the beauty of nature, I ran again. My legs carried me toward the wall. As I jumped over the creek, I landed on one knee. It was sure to leave a bruise, but it was more important not to damage the joint. Sitting on the ground, I carefully bent and unbent my leg, felt the bone, and tried to stand up: my knee hurt in both cases, but it was tolerable.

′′Poor thing hurt her knee,′′ the mocking chuckle of Outcast behind me took my mind off my leg.

I’d forgotten to look around while I was nursing my leg! Not looking back, I dashed back across the creek. Two bullets hit the ground to my right. I fell onto the ground with my hands over my head, and the gamekeeper, whistling and hooting, kept firing at me, and only stopped when a pair of combat boots grew before my eyes. I looked up, already knowing whose face I was about to see. Given my pathologically bad luck, it could only be Jason.

On the other side of the creek, Outcast kept laughing. There were no hunters nearby, which meant that death had once again added to its daily quota of taken lives. Not waiting for orders, I got up. Jason indicated with his head the direction to go and we headed through the woods. Outcast went the other way to help the others. As we walked toward the barracks, I found myself thinking that I would certainly try to talk to any other gamekeeper. This one scared me more than any of them, even more than the hunters. He didn’t say a word; I could only hear his footsteps behind me, and in that heavy silence the feeling of fear did not recede. Perhaps it would have turned into panic had I not slipped on a mossy log. Trying to keep my balance I waved my arms but stretched out on the ground anyway, hitting both my tailbone and the back of my head. For the first few seconds I couldn’t even get up: my head was buzzing, and the dense crown of trees swirled in a vague circle before my eyes. The figure of Jason loomed over me from one side. I tried to get up, groaning.

′′Don’t move,′′ his voice sounded through the humming in my ears.

Or did I imagine it? I followed Jason’s gaze, and froze, not because I was ordered to, but because paralyzing fear came over me: a snake had slid out of the grass and onto the log. It came right at me, a large viper! It may have been of average size, but it was as frightening as an anaconda. They say you can survive its bite, but that possibility was not in the cards for me — I was unlikely to find a doctor within a 5-kilometer radius. The viper twisted through the moss onto my unmoving boot and slithered higher up my leg, to my knee. I opened my eyes wide in terror. Either the snake didn’t like being stared at, or I twitched and it noticed the movement. The viper froze, rising to an aggresse stance. Keeping my eyes on it, I saw Jason leaning in slowly through my peripheral vision. Enjoying the spectacle? Or making sure the viper would definitely bite me? My neck stiffened, but I couldn’t move. The snake’s head swayed in a hypnotizing dance. Now it will strike at me, and my part in this game of survival would be over. A flashing movement! A shadow flickered across my face and I barely had time to draw in air. I thought for a moment it was the snake, rushing forward like lightning, but the viper didn’t have a chance to attack. Jason had grabbed its head and was slowly lifting it, staring at it. It was writhing in his fist, trying to close its jaws. The tail dangled in agony right in front of my eyes. He must be nuts… was he going to strangle it with his bare hands? But Jason just tossed the viper aside. Was it a twisted form of mercy? Or a tribute to his own kind?

′′You didn’t… kill it…′′

I was struck by his expression as he stared at me, as if digesting the fact that I had dared to talk to him. And I couldn’t tell if that made him angry. Or was he not even taking my impudence seriously?

′′The snake is a perfect predator,′′ he said curtly, stepping toward me and lifting me up by the collar of my T-shirt.

Interesting classification. I’m clearly lower than reptiles on the food chain.

′′Quadrant two five,′′ the radio on Jason’s shoulder came to life. ′′The rat is in the noose. You wouldn’t believe how that fatso got himself tangled up in it! You should see it!′′

There was a distinct chuckle.

′′Bronx, stop cluttering up the airwaves,′′ Jason cooled down the funnyman.

Bronx is probably that dark-skinned man. A typical ghetto dweller.

′′Quadrant four-two,′′ Jason looked around, as if he were estimating the distance. ′′Satyr, over.′′

′′Quadrant six one.′′

The roll call continued.

′′Englishman, over.′′

′′I’m in quadrant three one,′′ said a voice with a distinctly British accent.

′′Quadrant four two. Intercept.′′

′′Copy that. Ten minutes.′′

I didn’t remember Englishman and got to see him better when he emerged from the nearby thicket, purring to himself. He was of medium height, dark-haired, with a two or three day stubble. He gave off a perfectly ordinary appearance and looked seemingly harmless, except for the mere trivialities of a sniper rifle, a huge number of magazines in his vest pockets and a handgun in his waist holster.

Jason disappeared behind the trees without giving any explanation. The gamekeeper took aim at me and pointed with his head in the direction of the camp. Rubbing the sore back of my head, I headed forward, watching my step to avoid another encounter with a viper. Behind me, Englishman kept humming an unfamiliar tune while I worked my way through the roll call on the radio in my head. The gamekeepers divide the area into quadrants, and there are at least six of them. I couldn’t get a mental estimate of the total area, but I hoped the guys could do it if I recounted the dialogue to them. While I was thinking this over, we arrived. Englishman pushed me into the barracks and handcuffed me. I looked for familiar faces. Simon, Barty, and Lesha were already sitting in their beds. The latter smiled when he saw me.

Waving back to them, I rushed to the shower where I spent a long time washing the clumps of earth and cobwebs out of my hair and rinsing my jacket and T-shirt. It was impossible to take them off completely with the handcuffs on, but I couldn’t walk around in dirty clothes anymore, my skin was itchy. I tried not to think about the smell. I washed the jeans and put them on soaking wet. They would dry out quicker that way. When I returned from the shower, I saw that dinner had already been delivered. All the survivors had finally been rounded up.

I was reluctant to count the dead, but it happened automatically anyway. The cowboy kept his promise, Laila didn’t come back. One of the Germans was killed. Also the big guy with the beard, whom Armand had been eyeing this morning. The curly-haired fellow who had assumed someone would be left alive out of the twenty-five targets. And… Ian wasn’t in the barracks.

A grim-faced Simon sat cross-legged on the floor with his back resting on the legs of the bed. Barty was half-sitting next to him, twirling a half-empty water bottle in his hands.

′′I’m sorry,′′ I knelt down beside them and added, taking the bottle away. ′′But you shouldn’t. Or do you want to be sleepwalking all day tomorrow?′′

Chapter 3

Simon, Barty and I were lying across the bed so that our faces were covered by the top bunk. A joint from Ian’s supplies passed from hand to hand, but we just pretended to smoke. Better to be underestimated. Bending my knees I spread a tattered meal box with a mapped layout of the camp on my hips, blocking it from the cameras. All of my makeup was in the suitcase, pens and pencils were gone, too, but Barty had a box of matches.

′′Here’s the creek,′′ Simon said, drawing a curved line with the charred end of a match. ′′It goes right up to the wall and under it. It’s impossible to get under the wall, there’s netting, and two guards.′′

′′The lookout towers are here and here,′′ I drew two X’s on the layout. ′′We have to pick a place between them, wait for darkness, and climb over the wall.′′

′′There’s only one question,′′ Barty concluded. ′′Where to wait for nightfall.′′

After marking all the known traps on the cardboard and roughly dividing the area into quadrants, we moved closer to the window. We could see only part of the site through its narrow opening. While the guards were on watch outside, slowly strolling along the barracks, we kept watch at the window from the inside, hoping to learn something new. The surveillance didn’t reveal anything new. Throughout the whole day we didn’t see any of the hunters. They either lived further up or preferred to spend their free time in the cottages. Outcast hung out near the trailers for a while. After lunch Satyr appeared from under the canopy at the entrance to the camp with a trap on his shoulder and disappeared into the thicket. The woods were being prepared for the hunt again.

′′The guards change every six hours. That makes at least eight people watching us every 24 hours,′′ Barty calculated.

′′I wonder how much they get paid for their silence′′, Simon chuckled. ′′They look pretty well-fed. I don’t think they’re undernourished.′′

′′Maybe they’re killed as unnecessary witnesses?′′ I shrugged. ′′It’s cheaper.′′

′′Where would they hide so many bodies?′′

′′Maybe there’s a crematorium here′′ Barty assumed. ′′Or a cold room.′′

′′It’s costly,′′ Simon disagreed. ′′It would consume too much electricity.′′

′′It’s easier to drown them in the swamp,′′ I agreed. ′′There are quite a few on the grounds here′′.

′′Enough with the theories,′′ Barty reached for the map. ′′Let’s see what we know about the traps. So far we know for sure about the wolf pit and the steel traps.′′

′′They’re not the only ones here,′′ Lesha was obviously attracted by our playing spies and joined in, despite his father’s disapproval.

I hurriedly charted everything he told me: the loop in which one of the Germans had gotten tangled yesterday, and the net along one of the glades that Snezhana had almost fallen into.

′′Keeping an eye on her?′′ I winked.

The boy blushed and looked down, not knowing what to say.

′′Come on,′′ I reassured him. ′′She’s pretty. And you’re a hundred times better than Diego.′′

But either not needing my approval or failing to appreciate it, he retreated, muttering that he needed to talk to his father.

We put the new info on the map and hid it in the toilet in case we were searched.

The next day we were herded out of the barracks as soon as it dawned. The sky was overcast, and it seemed even darker in the woods. Sandra greeted the party with her usual pomposity, and we raced forward followed by the blasting sound of the siren. Simon and Barty wanted to run with me but there were too many gaps in the map so we split up to explore them.

I stopped when I heard the gunshots and turned my head, trying to figure out the direction they came from. I couldn’t figure out which way to go, so I crouched down and waited. There was no point in running in a random direction, I could run into a hunter. It turned out to be the right thing to do because I soon saw one of them. Vogue flashed between the trees first, followed by Frost. Walking stealthily, like a cat, the hunter slowly moved forward, gesturing to the other. I ducked, hiding behind the remains of a stump. Both were still too far away to see me. I huddled in the grass, holding my breath and occasionally looked up. They were slowly turning to the right, coming closer, but they still weren’t looking in my direction. Finally Frost raised his gun, taking aim. I couldn’t see his target, but when he pulled the trigger, his satisfied smile told me that he hadn’t missed.

′′With one shot,′′ Vogue nodded approvingly.

′′When has it ever been otherwise?′′ Frost asked self-contentedly, pulling out a cigarette.

Instead of answering, the gamekeeper saluted him with his gloved hand.

I waited until they started moving away in the opposite direction and slowly followed them, not something they’d expect me to do. But I was unable to sneak into the camp unnoticed: one of the nets that wasn’t marked on the map ruined my plan.

When I hit the wire, I instinctively threw myself to the side and that was fortuitous. The net opened in flight but it only entangled my legs, pulling them together rather tightly. Twisting, I tried to take it off. The rope bit into my fingers, but I’d rather lose some of my skin than my life. Having broken free, I looked around. No one had noticed me yet, but I was undoubtedly drawing attention to myself by thrashing through the woods like a bear. Unwilling to tempt fate, I ducked and continued on my way, crouching.

Catching movement in the corner of my eye, I darted behind a tree just in time. I was being shot at. I had to run away again.

Gasping for breath, I raced through the woods, weaving through the trees. My heart was pounding frantically as if it was going to explode. Wet branches whipped my cheeks but I ignored them, dashing through the brush. I didn’t even realize it was raining and that the grass was wet until I ran into the clearing and fell down. The camera on the pole in the middle of the clearing slowly turned in my direction. Another, on a special crane, came down to get a close-up of my face. I was tempted to give the invisible viewer the middle finger, but it could have cost me my life. This was not the time to play Katniss Everdeen. Not wasting valuable seconds, I jumped up and ran again.

In three days I had explored the area only partially: I barely remembered this sector of the forest. I hesitated at the fork in the trail and turned to the left. I almost fell into the hole of a wolf trap: slowing down sharply, I slipped on the wet ground and fell, inertia dragging me forward. The distance was enough for my legs to overbalance, pulling me into the trap. Imagining the sharpened stakes below, I grabbed at everything within reach and hung on the edge. I tried to get out by pressing my toes into the trap walls, but the rain was making my shoes slip. There was a scream in the distance, interrupted by a gunshot. I pulled myself up again, whimpering in pain: two fingernails were broken and splinters were stuck under the rest of them. ′′Think positive,′′ I was trying to urge myself on. A shot means a hunter, and a scream means death. And that death means that at least one more killer’s daily limit is exhausted. It really doesn’t take much in this life to become a cynic. Just three days of running through the woods from armed degenerates eager to kill you. Another push and I climbed out of the trap for good, falling on my back with a sigh of relief. I was alive. But the smile was immediately wiped off my lips by the crackling of a broken branch: they were close. The hunters’ footsteps were barely audible, but I knew he was among them. He was following me, raising goosebumps all over my skin. I have felt his presence since the first day of the hunt. And here it was again, the quintessence of danger and fear…

There were three pursuers. They were approaching from the right, and there was nothing I could do but go past the trap deeper into the woods. I had hardly run five meters when a bullet chipped a piece of bark off the tree in front of my face and made me freeze. I got the message, I was not allowed to go that way. I rushed to my left, but another bullet stopped me again. I could see the gamekeepers encircling me, but I kept darting from side to side, twisting and weaving. They weren’t going to kill me today. They were just trying to scare me, as they routinely do. The circle tightened, and another pirouette brought me too close to one of the gamekeepers. He swung his rifle at my ankle, knocking me down. Well, that was that. This is it. I knelt without raising my eyes, and could see two silhouettes on both sides. The cold metal touched the back of my neck. I couldn’t see their faces, but I knew exactly who was behind me, and whose gun was pointed at me. Jason.

′′Freeze.′′

The warning was unnecessary: in his presence I was afraid to even breathe.

With a yank, he made me get up, and pushed me toward Outcast standing nearby. I limped forward, but before I’d gone ten meters, he had me pinned against a tree.

′′You know what the blondie did to get the fat man to let her go, don’t you? I can let you go too, if you want?′′ he hissed into my ear with a nasty smile.

I could feel his tobacco-soaked breath on my face. Mixed with sweat, it turned into a nauseating cocktail of smells. The greasy hair touched my cheek. I jerked to the side, but Outcast was holding me tight.

′′Come on, doll, work your mouth,′′ he grabbed me by the hair and tried to pull me down on my knees.

′′Get your hands off me,′′ I gritted through my teeth.

′′Outcast,′′ Jason called out to him. ′′We’re running out of time. There are four more to find.′′

The gamekeeper pulled away in annoyance.

′′I’ll do you tonight,′′ he promised, shoving me in the back.

I almost ran to the barracks. The rain was getting heavier. Streams of water ran down my face and into my eyes, hindering my vision. My jacket and jeans were soaked through and my boots were sloshing with water. Outcast’s radio crackled behind me announcing the statistics: two targets had been caught in pit traps, and the snare traps remained undisturbed. The first thing I did when I crossed the threshold of the barracks was to look for Simon and when I found him, I was relieved: he was alive. Outcast chained me to the wall, giving me a nasty goodbye groping. I broke free from his hands. Simon jumped up, followed by Lesha, but I shook my head: don’t mess with him.

′′Wow, you have defenders here,′′ chuckled Outcast and swung his rifle butt at Lesha. The boy jumped back in fear and the gamekeeper laughed again. ′′Pussy!′′

With the rifle on his shoulder, Outcast leisurely walked away and I looked around, counting the casualties. The Nigerians had lost Dayo, her mother was sobbing on her son’s shoulder.

′′The fucking prick didn’t just shoot the girl, he raped her first,′′ Snezhana shared the details. ′′Yesterday Lila wouldn’t let him, so this time he made sure he shot the girl in the legs first so she wouldn’t run away.′′

I could barely contain my gagging.

′′Why are you telling me this?′′

′′Do you think it’s easy to keep it to yourself?′′ Snezhana sobbed hysterically.

′′So you… saw it!?′′

I threw up after all, barely making it to the bathroom in time. And then I sobbed under the cold shower for a long time, washing the vomit out of my hair.

The gamekeepers kept bringing in the rest of the survivors, and I kept adding up the bloody results. The Russian, Egor, had been killed. The knife didn’t help him after all. And another Mexican, Roberto. A Vietnamese couple who irritated us with their wailing. And Barty wasn’t back yet, but they were probably still looking for him. We stubbornly pushed away the thought that he was gone.

′′Maybe he fell into one of the traps.′′ I suggested.

But this version didn’t bear out. The last to be brought to the barracks were two Germans mutilated by the traps: one had his hand cut off at the wrist and was cradling the stump in a bandage made from a T-shirt. The other was more fortunate, having only a minor injury on his hip. He collapsed on the bed right in his blood-soaked jeans. Barty was still gone, though. After counting the rest of the men, we realized he was sixth victim after all. Could a hunter have broken the rules?

We leaned against the windows, hoping to overhear something, but nobody mentioned a possible disqualification.

′′Maybe he escaped after all?′′ Lesha said with hope.

Dinner was brought in. I hid in the bathroom as a precaution to avoid being seen by Outcast, but he either forgot about the threat or found a better option. After habitually separating the probable sedative-laden contents of the meal boxes, we ate, still not touching the bottles, preferring tap water.

For the rest of the day and the rest of the next, the guys and I discussed an escape plan.

′′If Barty could do it, so can we,′′ said Lesha.

I didn’t try to dissuade him. Hope is not the worst incentive.

′′Armand is not a problem for us, he only chooses strong and hardy targets,′′ Simon said with an authoritative manner. ′′Eric and his girlfriend hunt together, so we have to run in different directions and climb over the wall in different places. Our problem is Frost or the cowboy. I can’t understand Frost’s system, he’s more into spontaneity, but the cowboy is only dangerous for you. You’re the last pretty girl in the group.′′

′′Thanks, that’s reassuring,′′ I grimaced.

Lesha timidly put his hand on my shoulder.

′′I… we won’t let you get hurt,′′ he promised, stammering. He blushed when I smiled back.

′′Sweet couple,′′ Snezhana passed by.

Without makeup on her face, she was surprisingly pretty. Or maybe the right mood had its effect. Snezhana had cheered up noticeably since last night when she was reunited with Diego. They were rather quiet during the night, but in the morning they activated the mode of non-stop sex with breaks for meals. Judging by the condition of the others, we were only given tranquilizers after the hunt and the following morning, because by evening the general lethargy usually disappeared. People lay down less and moved around more. Apparently, the hunters preferred cheerful targets.

In the morning we were escorted out of the barracks. Sandra, with a snarky smile, informed us that attempts to escape from the territory would be punished most severely. How, I wonder? Are they going to kill us twice? Then we saw Barty, or rather what was left of him in a clear plastic bag. Someone in the crowd threw up. Simon bellowed and rushed forward. I tried to hold him back. The gamekeepers drew their guns and the crowd went wild. Seeing Jason raise his gun, I kicked Simon under the knee with all my strength. He fell onto the ground.

′′You can’t help anyone this way!′′ I vigorously shook him by the collar of his shirt. The only way to get revenge is to get out of here!′′

The gamekeepers made their way through the crowd toward us. Jason roughly pulled me away from the raging Simon, throwing me to the ground and took aim. I squeezed my eyes shut, expecting the worst. The gamekeeper was going to pull the trigger and my friend would be gone.

′′I’m ready to continue.′′

Did that resolute voice belong to the freak from Massachusetts?

Jason put the gun down. I got up off the ground shaking the dirt off my knees, and when I straightened up, I saw the cowboy shifting his assessing gaze from Snezhana to me. I could tell by the greasy smile that Stu had finally made up his mind and that his choice left me no chance of survival.

′′Ready… set… Go!′′

The echoes of Sandra’s shout were still in the air when I grabbed Simon’s hand and dragged him into the woods. Lesha and his father were running beside us, but Andrei was gradually lagging behind.

′′Don’t patronize me,′′ Simon shrugged off my hand. ′′I can manage on my own.′′

There was a loud click behind me, followed by a scream full of pain. A trap had been triggered. I turned around: Andrei was convulsing on the ground, trying to free his leg. Lesha stayed with his father trying to help him get out. The siren wailed. Here we go. After another half a mile, I stopped Simon by the sleeve.

′′Time to split up,′′ I nodded toward the wall. ′′Run.′′

′′Better you!′′ He still hesitated. ′′You’re a girl′′.

′′Exactly. That’s why you have a better chance of getting out!′′ I countered, forcefully pushing him away.

Simon darted to the side, and I sprinted forward, trying to run, making as much noise as I could to attract attention. Hopping over tree stumps and holes in the ground, cutting through the bushes, I was getting deeper into the woods, veering away from Simon’s direction. I stopped to catch my breath, and then ran on again. I ran, and ran, and ran… until a cowboy hat loomed between the trees. Seeing Stu before he spotted me, I dove forward like a fish and stumbled, sprawled out on the grass. He heard the noise and moved toward me.

′′Jason, find out what quadrant she’s in!′′

′′No need,′′ a familiar, intimidating voice sounded behind me.

I turned around. Jason was hovering over me, aiming his gun at my head. Stu walked over to me and gave a contented laugh:

′′Speak of the devil.′′

I got up.

′′You shouldn’t have,′′ he gritted his teeth in a semblance of a smile, and hit me under the knee with the butt of his rifle.

I cried out in pain and staggered, but kept standing. Stu struck a second time. I collapsed onto the ground with a groan. On my knees in front of him, I thought I wouldn’t part my lips even if he tried to strangle me.

′′Keep her in your sights,′′ the cowboy ordered Jason and put the rifle away.

It was out of my reach, but maybe it was worth a try. Stu followed my gaze and with a chuckle pushed the weapon away with his foot. Then he turned back to me.

′′Come on!′′ He growled impatiently as he unzipped his jeans.

Instead of answering, I spit into his fly.

′′You bitch!′′ The slap made my head rattle.

I felt dizzy and nearly fell over on my side. The cowboy took advantage of my dizziness trying to force my mouth open, and I sank my teeth into his hand. Stu squealed, and I, tasting his blood in my mouth, bit down even harder.

′′Pull the bitch away!′′ He whimpered until I leaned back, unclenching my teeth.

The cowboy recoiled, clutching the wound, but immediately ignored it, picking up and raising his rifle:

′′You’ll pay for that!

Suddenly frightened, I flinched backwards. I’d run out of time.

′′Don’t touch her!′′ Lesha suddenly jumped out from behind a tree and threw himself right at the cowboy.

No! Why the heroics?!? Stu shot his gun in surprise. It looked as if Lesha had hit an invisible barrier: he froze and collapsed onto the ground right in front of me with a blur of red spreading on his chest. The boy blinked a couple of times, and then his body went limp. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I crawled to him and took his hand.

′′Why?′′ I sobbed as I wrapped my arms around the boy’s slumped body. ′′You fool…′′

Why, having made the promise, did he have to keep it? Damn exuberance of youth, and recklessness. The teenager turned out to be braver than the adults around me.

′′Now it’s your turn, bitch,′′ the cowboy wheezed. The rifle was shaking in his hands, making it hard to aim.

′′The second murder of the day,′′ Jason reminded him indifferently.

′′I don’t give a shit if it’s the tenth!′′ Stu went into a rage, rubbing his bitten hand. ′′You think I give a shit about your fucking rules? If I want to, I’ll shut your fucking shop down.′′

′′You heard me.′′

′′I heard you. Now you listen to me, motherfucker,′′ the cowboy grimaced again. ′′I put my first target down before you could even say the word ′bullet′! Or you think just because you’ve been put in charge, you can dictate your terms to me? Shove it up your ass! I’ll shoot that girl, and if you try to stop me, I’ll shoot you too!′′ He raised his rifle, pointing it at Jason. ′′And don’t you try to scare me with the rules. I’m entitled to a bit of compensation, after all, the bitch bit me.′′

Taking the gamekeeper’s indifferent gaze as tacit consent, Stu turned towards me. I was still on my knees, holding Lesha’s hand, brave Lesha who had died for me. I squirmed instinctively and when the shot rang out, I flinched, but I felt no pain. Instead, I heard Stu’s desperate screaming. I opened my eyes in surprise: the cowboy had dropped his rifle and was crouching on the ground, holding on to his wounded hip. His hat had flung off his head. Without it, he looked ordinary and unremarkable.

′′As a warning,′′ Jason explained, not lowering his gun. ′′But if that’s not enough, I’ll put you down.′′

′′You don’t have the guts!′′ Stu hissed, grabbing his rifle. ′′I’m the client, and you wouldn’t dare! But I can afford to take you out!′′

The cowboy’s hands were shaking. Jason waited for him to take aim, then fired again. The bullet entered Stu’s eye through the rifle’s telescopic sight. The cowboy’s body collapsed to the ground. Unclasping my fingers and letting go of Lesha’s hand, I began to crawl back. A hunter had just been killed right before my eyes. Realizing that I wouldn’t be allowed to live much longer, I continued crawling until my back was against a tree trunk.

Ignoring my attempt to escape, Jason stepped over the cowboy’s body, stopped right in front of me and stared up at the camera above our heads. Jason stared into it, not saying a word, until the red blinking light went out, and then he turned his gaze to me. The gun touched my forehead. I squeezed my eyes shut. As bad luck would have it, no prayers came to mind and I kept repeating to myself: it’s over. This is the end now. And as I was mentally saying goodbye to life, I heard Jason’s low voice:

′′Get up.′′

Chapter 4

I opened my eyes in surprise to find that the gamekeeper wasn’t going to kill me. Not yet, anyway. I lifted myself from the ground and met his colorless eyes again, and wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop trembling.

′′I’m not going to repeat myself twice,′′ Jason warned me as he tucked his gun behind his belt. ′′Drag this lard-ass over to that birch tree there.′′

Pointing out the direction, he picked up Stu’s rifle and hat and began walking. Grabbing cowboy by the legs, I slowly crossed the clearing dragging him along. The jacket on the corpse was baggy and slowed me down, clinging to tree roots and branches lying on the ground. I was exhausted by the time I dragged Stu to the right place. Jason had cleared an area of about two square meters under the birch. The dry branches he’d moved aside had previously covered a small latch sticking out of the ground. Pulling on it and, it seemed to me, twisting a piece of turf out of the way, Jason swung open the leaf-covered hatch. Beneath there was a shallow bunker, like a shipping container buried in the ground.

′′Throw him in there,′′ he ordered.

I pushed Stu’s body down.

′′Now get in there yourself.′′

′′What?′′

′′You have five seconds to decide if you’re going in there alive or with a bullet in your head.′′

He didn’t even reach for his gun. On shaky legs, I climbed down into the metal coffin and laid down. Jason unloaded the rifle and threw it on the corpse together with the hat.

′′If you make a sound, you’re dead,′′ he promised me and closed the hatch.

In the darkness, I could hear him covering the bunker entrance with branches again. Then the sounds faded away. Breathing heavily, I tried to count to a hundred but lost track and went to tens. It didn’t make me feel any better. I wasn’t claustrophobic, but lying in total darkness next to a dead body was very unnerving. I could almost feel the walls beginning to shift and take in the air. At times it seemed to me that Stu was still alive and about to grab his rifle. The minutes of pressing silence dragged on and I felt like I was ceasing to exist, shrinking under the strain of waiting.

Only once did I hear footsteps over my head. My hope of getting out into the light stirred, but I shrank inwardly as I heard the voice of their owner. If that person found me, a resurrected cowboy would seem like a gift from heaven.

′′Did you hear?′′ The unsuspecting Outcast sniggered. ′′Stu was disqualified for shooting both the kid and the slut.′′

′′So why didn’t he pay the fine?′′ His companion wondered. ′′He wanted to finish with the blonde.′′

′′Apparently, she wasn’t good enough to lose money over,′′ Outcast laughed. ′′That’s why he left.′′

I didn’t recognize the second voice.

The gamekeepers had left and I was digesting what I’d heard. Jason told everyone I’d been killed by the cowboy. Officially, I was dead. He could have eliminated me as an unwanted witness more than once… so why didn’t he? I didn’t delude myself into believing he was in love with me. My future seemed bleak, considering who my life depended on. Then again, it wasn’t a sure thing that he hadn’t already gotten rid of me by burying me alive in the middle of the woods. As I brooded over this, the branches above my head rustled and the hatch lifted. Seeing Jason’s silhouette against the darkening sky, I sat up. Wondering whether or not I could come out, I heard the first order:

′′Take his clothes off.′′

Overcoming my squeamishness, I took the cowboy’s boots off. The clothes were a bit of a pain to take off; Stu hadn’t been very physically active even when he was alive. Hearing the tear of fabric I pulled the jacket off him, barely able to move the body, and ripped the sleeves off his shirt while pulling it off. I stuffed the scraps into a backpack I’d been handed down, and then collapsed tiredly on the cold floor. Jason watched me in silence. After taking a breath, I stood up again, kicking the cowboy’s fat body and shoving my knees under him, and finished with the jeans.

′′Now cut them off,′′ Jason threw me something looking like a cross between a pair of pruning shears and a pair of scissors.

′′What?′′ I almost dropped them.

′′Cut off his fingers.′′

God, I think I’m going to be sick.

′′The first bone of each finger is enough,′′ Jason explained when he saw that I couldn’t decide which part of the cowboy’s finger to put between the sharpened edges of the scissors.

My hands wouldn’t cooperate, and Stu’s finger kept slipping out from between the sharp blades, but I stubbornly pressed on the handle until I heard a quiet crunch — it had broken through the bone. One down, nine more to go.

I couldn’t decide which was more terrifying: knowing that the sword of Damocles was hanging over you, or realizing that there was someone even more frightening than the sword of death. Hearing the gunshots behind me, or the crunch of breaking bones. The third finger gave me a blister on my palm, and the seventh scratched my skin until it bled. Trying hard to control my gagging, I cut off the last pinky finger. Jason shoved the pieces into the bag and picked up the rifle. This was it. Now he was going to kill me for sure.

Instead, Jason swung and forcibly brought the rifle butt down on Stu’s head. The impact caused the mangled arm to slide off the cowboy’s flabby belly and thud on the bunker floor. I covered my ears and squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to hear that sound, and I didn’t want to see the skull turning into a bloody mess. But I could still feel every blow. Worst of all were the words that came out in the sudden silence:

′′Now the teeth.′′

Shuddering with silent sobs, I knelt down to pull Stu’s teeth out of the shattered jaws one by one. My fingers were shaking, and I felt the rising bile in my throat again. Jason didn’t rush me but I had a feeling that if I stopped, the next blow with the butt of the gun would be on my head. I threw up once, though. Wiping my lips with the back of my hand and choking on my tears, I continued to pick up Stu’s teeth and when I was done, I piled them into the bag and looked questioningly at the gamekeeper. He tossed me the tape.

′′Wrap it up.′′

After all that had happened, it felt like the least of evils. Doing as I was told, it took a long time to push the tape under Stu’s body. When I was done, Jason nodded for me to get out. He closed the hatch of the bunker himself, checked to make sure it was tight, and covered it with some leaves. What next? Is he going take me to the place where they dump the bodies and shoot me there? Without a word, Jason pulled a balaclava from his pocket and handed it to me. I pulled it over my head just as silently. Next he passed me a jacket that looked like one the guards wore. Someone else’s baseball cap completed the outfit.

The sun was almost down and the forest was sinking into darkness. Jason beckoned with his head for me to follow him and took a route only he knew. I followed him cautiously thinking about the traps we had to avoid in the twilight. It was only when I saw Jason put on his night-vision goggles that I breathed out in relief.

We reached the edge of the woods not by the barracks as usual, but by the trailer at the far end. The entrance was not visible from the windows of any of the cottages or from the entrance to the camp. At the stairs, Jason let me pass ahead of him. On trembling legs, I climbed the stairs.

Once inside the trailer, I took off my baseball cap and balaclava and looked around. A partition divided the trailer space into two sections. In the first section, there was a shelf full of labeled boxes along the wall and a laptop computer on a table in the corner. The second was behind a door with an electronic lock. Entering the code, which I failed to memorize, Jason stepped inside pulling me in. The light on the ceiling flickered on; the second compartment had a bed and another door without a lock. Maybe there was a shower or maybe the refrigerator that Barty suspected was here. There was a reason Jason had brought Stu’s severed fingers along.

Behind the door was only a small bathroom. Throwing the bag with Stu’s remains into an ice bucket in the sink, Jason returned to the bedroom. There were only two possible answers to the question of why he wanted me: either he would brutally kill me and dismember the body or rape me.

′′Are… are you going to shoot me?′′ I asked just to say something.

A silly question, he could have done it four times already. What do I care now, though?

′′You’re already dead,′′ he reminded me, and then added, still impassive:

′′Take your clothes off.′′

Well then, the second option.

′′Look, I have an apartment,′′ I couldn’t help but bargain for my life. What if the problem can be settled with money? ′′If I sell it, I’ll have about a hundred thousand dollars. I swear no one will ever know I was here…′′

I stopped when the barrel of the gun pointed at my forehead.

′′Never. Make. Me. Say anything. Twice.′′