My Stockholm Syndrome

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?′′