My Stockholm Syndrome

′′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 through the bushes and the Polish women were running to my left. The mother kept falling and Laila had to help her up. I stumbled over the roots sticking out of the ground a couple of times, but kept up the pace. A siren sounded from somewhere behind us… I guess the two minutes were up and the hunt was on. I turned sharply to the right when I heard the first shot and almost knocked over a guy in glasses wearing a checkered shirt.

′′Sorry…′′

He ran further without responding to my apology. I rushed forward. A few meters further Lesha caught up with me.

′′What the fuck is going on here?′′ he shouted on the run.

′′I have no idea. And I really want to get out of here.′′

Lesha was called out by his father and he ran to him. Both turned into the sparse spruce forest and soon disappeared among the trees. I stopped, trying to catch my breath. I heard gunshots and the hiss of radios behind me, the hunters talking to each other. I took off and, taking a wild guess, turned to the right.

From the barracks I could see only two walls. Both went far into the thicket, but even if the whole area was fenced off, there were probably holes in the fence somewhere. It was worth a try to find them.

The sounds slowly receded, and I froze again. What if I can't make it to the wall? I looked around. The forest wasn't very dense here though there were some tall trees. My brother had taught me how to climb them when I was a kid, so I decided this was a good time to brush up on my rusty skills. The thorns on the nearest wide aspen tree prevented me from climbing – the whole trunk was covered with them. The lower branches of a neighboring birch had been chopped off and I couldn't reach the upper branches. Well, they couldn't possibly have disabled every tree here! I rushed to check and soon abandoned the idea of climbing. I could not pull out the thorns, and the trees that had not had their lower branches removed could not support the weight of my body. Having found nothing useful but a few cameras, I moved on. Slowly at first, then back to running.

The gunshots behind me had ceased completely. I must have run quite far away from my pursuers. A figure flashed to my right and I crouched in fear, but it was only the guy with glasses. He didn't notice me but looked around and ducked into the bushes again. I straightened up and suddenly saw a dark-skinned gamekeeper in front of me. He fired and I barely had time to stretch out on the ground, hiding behind the bushes. The second bullet hit the tree trunk next to me. Trying to make as little noise as possible, I crawled along the bushes but the gamekeeper heard me and fired again. I jumped up sharply, darted to the other side and ran, expecting to be shot in the back, but either the trees prevented the guy from aiming or he did not intend to kill me. After running a few hundred meters, I turned to the right, hoping to find a wall, but soon realized that I had gotten myself lost. Maybe I should have made a small detour and gone back to the camp. They certainly wouldn't look for me in the barracks. I darted forward again, stopping only when I reached the wall. A burst of machine gun fire prevented me from reaching the wall. The guards were watching the area from the towers, not letting anyone get close. Maybe I should wait until dark. I wandered along the wall, not going deeper into the woods, away from the watchtowers, but the guards weren't the only ones watching my whereabouts. A shadow flashed to my left. I shuddered and retreated to the trees, trying to hide, but it was too late, a gamekeeper was approaching. The dangerous one, the one with the tattoos. I was too scared to make a move. And should I, when I'm in their crosshairs? Calmly, with no change on his face, the blond-haired man stepped closer with the same indifference he had when he shot the fat teenager a few hours ago. Staring into the black gaze of the muzzle, I held my breath. The blond-haired man took another step and the gun touched my forehead. I closed my eyes shut and shuddered imagining the bullet smashing through my skull.

′′Not in the head…′′ I didn't recognize my own barely audible whisper.

The gamekeeper was silent. The gun moved slowly, chillingly along my cheek as it made its way down to my neck. I opened my eyes in surprise. Tilting his head, the gamekeeper was watching my reaction. Suddenly, I remembered the saying that if a killer looked their victim in the eye for a long time, he couldn't kill them. It was worth trying. So, which one of us will blink first? As if accepting the challenge, he wasn't looking away. Chills ran down my spine again as the blond-haired man slowly moved the gun lower. It was now resting in the hollow of my chest. I held my breath.

Just when I thought he was going to shoot, the radio in his pocket went off:

′′Jason, did you find her?′′

′′Yes,′′ the gamekeeper said reluctantly, as he continued to hold me in his gaze.

′′Come out then,′′ the radio crackled. ′′You're in the blind spot′′.

Not putting the gun down, he shoved me in the shoulder. I turned and walked slowly through the thicket, pushed on by the prodding of his gun in my back.

Chapter 2

Outside the barracks, an exhausted Laila was sitting on the ground. A gamekeeper in a light suede jacket had brought her in and was now towering beside her, waiting for her to get up. Her clothes were soaked through and clinging to her body, but this only accentuated her slender figure.

′′Vogue, are you going to grow roots here?′′ Jason asked sarcastically, pushing me forward again. ′′Or are you just waiting for your redhead to drop dead?′′

A funny nickname, I noted mindlessly. Vogue. A dandy. The nickname seemed to fit; with his neat hair and leather gloves, he looked completely out of place in the woods. He grabbed Laila by the scruff of her neck and with a jerk he pulled her to her feet. To my right one of the hunters emerged from the thicket, the ugliest of the hunters, the cowboy. Snezhana was limping after him, her T-shirt torn and her makeup smeared.

′′Hey you, with the firm ass!′′ The fat man gave Laila a salacious look, and when she looked up at him with tearful eyes, he sent her an airy kiss and a promise, stroking his balls: ′′You're next.′′

Laila went hysterical and Vogue had to practically drag her into the barracks. Snezhana was being pushed by a shaggy-haired gamekeeper in a long cloak with greasy sleeves. He looked as if he had last bathed a month ago, assuming he even knew how to bathe at all.

′′Outcast, did you mess with her under the bushes?′′

′′She's not my type,′′ the dirty-haired man snorted, appreciating Jason's joke. ′′Stu's the one who decorated her.′′

When the cowboy heard his name, he laughed contently.

′′Did you let her go or did she get away?′′ Jason shifted his gaze from Stu to Snezhana, as if trying to imagine how anyone could have missed such a simple target.

′′Her down payment was enough for my first time.′′

′′Do you want me to send the video?′′ Outcast chuckled. ′′I'm going to watch it on long, boring nights.′′

The cowboy nodded and laughed again.

′′How did you manage it?′′ I asked Snezhana in Russian, still not understanding.

′′Orally,′′ she snapped.

′′What?′′ I gasped, unable to believe my own ears. ′′You gave him…′′

′′…a blowjob,′′ Snezhana hissed. And mistaking my silence as interest, she added arrogantly: ′′He liked it, so he let me go. He said I'd have to come up with something more original next time.′′

The squeamishness on my face infuriated her.

′′What would you do, you fucking righteous girl? Would you die rather than take it in your mouth?′′

That was a fair rebuke. I have no idea what I would have done to save my skin.

In the barracks it turned out that we were the last ones caught. The rest of the ′contestants′ had already been brought in and chained to the walls. So that's what the brackets are for! The bed could be moved or broken, freeing the handcuffs. Ripping the metal out of the log was more difficult. Jason checked to see if my new bracelet was tight by twisting it around my wrist. It scratched my skin, but I held back a groan. As soon as the door closed behind the gamekeepers, I checked the length of the chain, it allowed me to move freely to the bathroom. After looking around the barracks, I counted the casualties. Dayo's father, the strongest of the Nigerians, had been killed. His wife was sobbing with her daughter in her arms. Dayo's brother sat beside them without a single tear in his eye, 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, 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?