Читать книгу My Stockholm Syndrome - Бекки Чейз - Страница 3

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.