My Stockholm Syndrome. Бекки ЧейзЧитать онлайн книгу.
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