Enough! Vika interrupted me. Her voice became stern. You locked yourself away inside four walls for way too long, and now you are grasping at any excuse just to get back to your cozy couch. And God forbid, someone pushes you out of your comfort zone. That's not even cowardice it's laziness! Go ahead, go back to your apartment, where every corner will remind you of your losses. Quietly weep and waste yourself away. You can't even prove to yourself that you are capable of accomplishing anything!
She abruptly hung up and I suddenly felt embarrassed. It was a paradox I wasn't disturbing anyone with my inaction, but somehow her rebuke hit a nerve. I called Vika again but she immediately hung up on me.
What if I really go back now, I grumbled to myself, pocketing my cell phone. I'm the one who decides how to live. If I want to, I'll sit on the couch until I'm old. Or
Hi. Are you Selina? A swarthy Spaniard, who didn't seem to miss a single girl in the pavilion, peeked into the nook. He came closer, swaying his hips and tried to theatrically kiss my hand. I'm Diego.
Selina, I explained, stressing the e. It's not a first name, it's a last name.
He didn't seem to care what my name was. After a couple of banal compliments and seeing no interest from my side, he let up trying to hit on me. I made no attempt to engage in conversation and Diego quickly switched to the Ukrainian woman, who was obviously willing to flirt with whoever showed the slightest interest. Wandering around the pavilion, I turned to the nearest hairdresser's counter. At least I could get my hair done before leaving, and then I moved to a makeup person.
Miss Selina?, again, stressing the second syllable, someone from the film crew asked me while I was having my eyes made up.
I nodded tiredly, it was useless to correct them, they'd mangle my name anyway. Whatever they call me, as they say, names will never hurt me.
You're next.
They put me into a chair in front of the camera and started asking me a familiar list of questions: age, date and place of birth, relatives. Squinting in the spotlight, I muttered my answers. I couldn't get Vicky's words out of my head. Was I really worthless?
When the interview was over, I walked slowly around the pavilion. People were still crowding around; the Mexicans were eating snacks, the Poles were watching the news on TV, and the Spaniard, who had lost his Ukrainian girlfriend somewhere, was hitting on the new girls. After hanging out in front of the screen for a bit, I ducked behind the speakers and sneaked past the guards, slipping out of the pavilion unnoticed. It immediately felt easier to breathe. I smiled. And then it struck me I'll stay here and prove that I can do more than just sit on the couch. Vika was wrong to believe I was lazy.
I looked around and walked down the path to the nearest house. The pavilion in the middle of the village looked oddly out of place, like the crown on a vagrant's head. Shabby peasant houses crowded around it like cripples on a church porch near a humanitarian giving out alms. A crooked well was sticking out of the ground beside the house; half-rotten logs had fallen through, and the chain on the pulley was rusted, but a puddle around it showed it was still in use. The gate creaked and an old woman slowly waddled past me to the well, muttering to herself.
Ma'am, is the water good? I stepped closer in case she needed help with the bucket.
Water is water, she looked up at me and then, frightened, recoiled to the side.
Yeah, a great start. Had the makeup person overdone it? The old woman stared at me and came up closer again.
Get out of here, beautiful, she hissed, clutching my hand. Run far away!
Now it was my turn to recoil. I furtively checked for my bracelet. It was still on my wrist. The guards were already running towards me from the pavilion.
Miss, are you all right? Did she scare you? One of them asked me politely in English.
His Russian mate was less tactful, swearing at the old woman.
Old witch! He added in fury. Miss, make sure you aren't missing anything.
I shook my head, showing a piece of jewelry that was safe and sound.
Inside the pavilion the fun continued but everything that was going on seemed wrong and unreal. Also there was that old woman with her warning. The prize in the show was substantial and I understood why all these people had come to these godforsaken backwoods, but I didn't care about the money! After the last interview was done being filmed, we were shown back to the bus. A nagging feeling of homesickness wouldn't let go of me. Maybe I really am lazy if even thinking of change makes me averse to it. I could leave right now, I thought, hesitating at the entrance to the bus. A girl from the film crew was collecting our cell phones and putting them into a plastic box.
It's our privacy policy, I'm sorry, she apologized repeatedly.
Ok, I'll fly back, and I won't regret it. I was about to step aside, but remembering Vika's angry voice, I got onto the bus. To hell with excuses, I'll go. And if the contest challenges are too difficult, I'll just purposefully fail them.
I dozed off on the way and was awakened by the bouncing of the bus as it was going cross-country, approaching the woods. At the entrance we were met by two camouflaged guards with machine guns. Everyone got visibly tense and silent. The shade of the high tree canopy made the atmosphere in the bus even more somber. An acute sense of foreboding came over me, but this was no time for me to succumb to a fit of hysteria! We were dropped off at the entrance to the contest area which was of impressive size, divided into sectors for different stages of the show. As soon as we unloaded our bags, the bus turned around and left. Everyone looked around at a loss. A high fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the area perimeter. It's for protection from wild beasts, one of the assistants explained immediately. Of course, from bears, the Mexicans nodded understandingly. I rolled my eyes. Bears, of course. Huge and scary. With balalaikas, and wearing valenki, traditional Russian felt boots. With a bottle of vodka in each paw.
The assistants pointed the way and we passed through the gate into the compound. The site didn't look so ominous: the camera crew were bustling and crackling jokes by the access gate, unloading equipment from a pickup truck; a little further away a couple in love were kissing in the parking lot by the cottages. I grabbed my suitcase and followed the crowd. The couple stopped hugging and looked at us with interest. We made our way past the cottages and the two trailers that stood side by side toward the back and stopped near a long wooden structure. A shapely brunette with bright eyeliner was waiting for us inside. Smiling broadly, she introduced herself: Sandra, an executive producer.
I had never been in a military barracks before but I imagined them exactly this way: a big long room with bunk beds two meters apart from each other. At least the toilets were separated from the common room. The windows were narrow, like arrow slits or loopholes. According to Sandra, it was done to prevent the contestants from peeking at the equipment on the site and thus gaining an advantage over their opponents. In some places there were strange brackets sticking out of the walls, but their purpose was not explained to us. Cameras were slowly rotating on the ceiling in the corners of the room.
The rules of the quests were described very vaguely: the trials were supposed to be individual and each participant had to last as long as possible. In the morning we would receive our challenges, and in the evening we would find out the results. Wishing us a pleasant time, Sandra left us to ourselves and departed, politely brushing off Diego. The people slowly disbursed through the barracks. Some were playing cards, others were just chatting or discussing plans. Diego was telling dirty jokes, never taking his eyes off the Ukrainian woman.
I found my bunk labeled with the sign Selina. It seems the last name was firmly cemented as a first name. Well, new life, new name. The player Selina enters the arena. 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