There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.
Ernest Hemingway
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events and geographical locations is purely coincidental.
Prologue
Gasping for breath, I raced through the woods, weaving through the trees. My heart was pounding frantically as if it was going to explode. Wet branches whipped my cheeks but I ignored them, dashing through the brush. I didn't even realize it was raining and that the grass was wet until I ran into the clearing and fell down. The camera on the pole in the middle of the clearing slowly turned in my direction. Another, on a special crane, came down to get a close-up of my face. I was tempted to give the invisible viewer the middle finger, but it could have cost me my life. This was not the time to play Katniss Everdeen. Not wasting valuable seconds, I jumped up and ran again.
In three days I had explored the area only partially: I barely remembered this sector of the forest. I hesitated at the fork in the trail and turned to the left. I almost fell into the hole of a wolf trap: slowing down sharply, I slipped on the wet ground and fell, inertia dragging me forward. The distance was enough for my legs to overbalance, pulling me into the trap. Imagining the sharpened stakes below, I grabbed at everything within reach and hung on the edge. I tried to get out by pressing my toes into the trap walls, but the rain was making my shoes slip. There was a scream in the distance, interrupted by a gunshot. I pulled myself up again, whimpering in pain: two fingernails were broken and splinters were stuck under the rest of them. ′′Think positive,′′ I was trying to urge myself on. A shot means a hunter, and a scream means death. And that death means that at least one more killer's daily limit is exhausted. It really doesn't take much in this life to become a cynic. Just three days of running through the woods from armed degenerates eager to kill you. Another push and I climbed out of the trap for good, falling on my back with a sigh of relief. I was alive. But the smile was immediately wiped off my lips by the crackling of a broken branch: they were close. The hunters' footsteps were barely audible, but I knew he was among them. He was following me, raising goosebumps all over my skin. I have felt his presence since the first day of the hunt. And here it was again, the quintessence of danger and fear…
There were three pursuers. They were approaching from the right, and there was nothing I could do but go past the trap deeper into the woods. I had hardly run five meters when a bullet chipped a piece of bark off the tree in front of my face and made me freeze. I got the message, I was not allowed to go that way. I rushed to my left, but another bullet stopped me again. I could see the gamekeepers encircling me, but I kept darting from side to side, twisting and weaving. They weren't going to kill me today. They were just trying to scare me, as they routinely do. The circle tightened, and another pirouette brought me too close to one of the gamekeepers. He swung his rifle at my ankle, knocking me down. Well, that was that. This is it. I knelt without raising my eyes, and could see two silhouettes on both sides. The cold metal touched the back of my neck. I couldn't see their faces, but I knew exactly who was behind me, and whose gun was pointed at me. Jason.
′′Freeze.′′
The warning was unnecessary: in his presence I was afraid to even breathe.
Chapter 1
A clod of dirt thudded on the lid of the coffin and crumbled into dust. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Rest in peace. This latest blow put an end to my list of woes, because there can be no more grief. I have no one else to bury and no one else to mourn for. I don't believe in curses, only in depression which is now my constant companion. In the last six months I had buried everyone I cared for. First my uncle and my brother, now my grandfather. I never knew my parents, they died when I was a little over a year old, and my grandfather took us in, my brother Dmitry and me. The ex-submariner was strict but never used a belt to bring us up. We never stood in a corner either since my grandfather's authority didn't even allow for any thoughts of naughtiness or caprices. He was always an example both for us and for his younger son, who also served in the Navy. It was no surprise Dmitry followed in his footsteps and went to Kamchatka to serve in the navy. He was in the same crew with his uncle… and died with him during the submarine trials. The scandal was muted and nothing leaked to the press, but my grandfather lost the will to live and faded away in six months.
′′Dina,′′ Vika tugged my sleeve quietly. She saw me shaking, and tried to calm me down. ′′Dinka, let's go.′′
She hugged me and mumbled something comforting, but I had no sense of her words. I let her take me away and woke up, or rather, gradually roused from my stupor back in the apartment. The same apartment whose mortgage had been paid off by the benefits provided by the government after my uncle and brother vanished. Except neither I nor my grandfather needed this apartment any longer. He couldn't live here anymore and I didn't want to. No, I didn't want to, but stayed there anyway, slowly finishing the stock of cereals and canned food and washing them down with copious amounts of tea.
In the second month of my voluntary confinement, Vika gave up. Her impending marriage had reprogrammed her brain into a single thought: everyone around her must be happy. I, naturally, failed to fit into this scheme. Long conversations about the fact that life went on were fruitless, and my friend plotted a new plan.
′′You're about to have a nervous breakdown,′′ she droned on and on, removing all reminders of my relatives from the shelves. ′′Or worse, gastritis. Go to the seaside for a couple of weeks, you'll look like a human again.′′
′′I'm fine here,′′ I muttered, stubbornly putting the pictures and souvenirs back in their places.
′′Remember Olga from the second entryway?′′ Vika kept up. ′′The divorce left her swollen with tears until her older sister made her travel to Goa. She came back a different woman – cheerful, enlightened…′′
′′…and knocked up by her yoga instructor.′′
My comment was ignored. In turn, I ignored another moralistic statement about a change of environment.
′′You need a splash of excitement!′′ Vika argued, waving her hands. ′′Stop being carried by the wind and suffering! You'll get stuck eventually.′′
It was useless to explain that I wanted to get stuck, because the idea of shaking me up was firmly planted in Vika's head. She went through all sorts of therapeutic vacation ideas and every day emailed me links with last-minute travel offers, and when she realized that I did not check my inbox, she began to bring printouts.
′′No one's going to make me go to any of those therapies or gymnastics,′′ I pushed the stack of sheets aside, not bothering to read them.
′′Right,′′ Vika suddenly agreed. ′′Old ladies with their daily discussions about ailments are not the best company for you.′′
So health resorts were crossed off the list and my friend switched to websites with extreme tourism. Now the tables and the dresser were covered with a thick layer of booklets describing rock climbing, rafting on mountain rivers, biking, and diving. Excuses that I had no experience in climbing, paddling, or diving were useless. Vika persisted, and I continued to rebuff her, dreaming of marrying her off sooner and having Sergey suffer from excessive care.
On the eve of the wedding she smiled slyly and showed me a plane ticket.
′′Krasnoyarsk?′′ I was surprised. ′′I thought you were going to spend your honeymoon in Egypt…′′
Vika laughed and, seeing my puzzled look, explained:
′′It's for you!′′
I was taken aback and couldn't find anything to say before my friend began to talk enthusiastically about a resort