My Stockholm Syndrome. Бекки Чейз
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