My Stockholm Syndrome. Бекки Чейз
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,