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
