The Most Perverted Game

"What was that?"

Rainsford looked self-satisfied. "Devise a new animal to hunt."

"What do you mean, 'a new animal?' Bio-genetics?"

He laughed heartily. "No, I'm no scientist. You'll have to look elsewhere for the Island of Dr. Moreau. But I did settle on my animal. And then, I purchased a network of islands, much like this one, all over the world. Remote, secluded places where I can pursue my sort of hunting in peace."

"But what is your new animal?"

An appreciative gleam came into Rainsford's eye, one she had not seen when he talked of his other trophies. "Ah, it is a truly magnificent beast—strong, resourceful, resolute. But most important, a creature that is able to match my wits. That is the key, you see? The ideal quarry must be able to reason."

"That's ridiculous," objected Zarova. "No animal can reason."

"My dear girl," said Rainsford, "there is one that can."

"But you can't mean—" gasped Zarova.

"And why not?"

"But that's insane. What you're talking about is murder."

Rainsford winced as if she'd slapped him. "My dear, how could you think that of me? I am not a murderer." He paused reflectively. "True, if I got a thrill from killing men then I probably would hunt them to death. But death bores me even more than perfection. Death is merely the end—the absence of being. What thrill is there in that?"

Rainsford went to the window and looked out to sea. "However, you do raise a good question. Once I had decided what my prey must be, I had to devise stakes that would make the game worth playing, both for the prey and for me. I thought about the most primal of human emotions. There is the will to live, of course—the quest for survival. But I had no wish to play a game in which I was likely to die, any more than I wished to shoot down my fellow man. So what is next? The impulse to procreate—to ensure that one's legacy lives on. The male drive to access and inseminate females, especially the most desirable. The female drive to control her reproduction, to choose her mate and tame him to her will. Ah, there is a more interesting set of motivations."

"So, rape then?" said Zarova stiffly.

Rainsford turned back to her and laughed good-humoredly. "Call it what you will. It's a part of our nature, as old as humanity. Evolution is directed by the strong, by those who see what they want and take it. The weak of the world are here to give the strong pleasure. My hunt is just a more sophisticated version of the way things have always been."

"You're talking about human beings," said Zarova hotly.

"Precisely," said Rainsford. "That is the point. I need humans for my hunt. And I need those humans to be motivated to thwart me, to be fired by a desperate desire to control their own destiny. Only that way will they pose a challenge for me. So: I enjoy hunting women, for a good many reasons. And the stakes are such that women will strive their utmost to beat me, even without the threat of death. What could be more ideal?"

"And where do you get these women?"

Rainsford cocked a wry eyebrow at her. "Can't you guess? They tend to go missing in some exotic locale. Not just anyone, mind you. It would be easy to snatch prostitutes or homeless women if I wanted to mingle my essence with scum of that sort. No, I have a small army of agents employed in finding specimens who meet my requirements for amusement and procreation. Business leaders, actresses, scientists, star athletes, scholars, models. Sometimes politicians."

"You call yourself a hunter, but you're just a serial rapist."

Anger flickered briefly across his face before submerging again beneath his placid façade. "You seem to enjoy throwing that ugly word around, my dear. It isn't becoming. And it's absurd to act high and mighty with me. I know all about the things you have done to get ahead in Russian politics." His tone softened. "The problem is that you just haven't grasped, yet, the superior nature of my hunt. The competition, well, it is truly sublime. And every woman has a sporting chance to escape."

Zarova snorted.

"The contest is fair," Rainsford went on earnestly. "The woman is provided with food, an excellent hunting knife, and three hours' start. Then I follow, armed only with this." He pulled a pistol that Zarova didn't recognize from a holster beneath his dinner jacket.

"Tranquilizer gun," Rainsford explained. "Fifty yards range at best. Hardly an overwhelming advantage. So: if my quarry eludes me for three whole days, she wins the game. But, if I find her first"—Rainsford flashed a predatory smile—"then I collect my reward."

The gun remained in his hand as he stood, picked up a silver pot from the side table, and poured them each a cup of thick Turkish coffee.

Zarova knew she should disengage, but found she couldn't. "What if a woman refuses to be hunted?"

"That's her choice, of course," said Rainsford. "I can't force a woman to play the game if she doesn't wish to. If she prefers not to participate in the hunt, then I collect my forfeit immediately. So far, Ms. Zarova, no woman has declined the hunt on those terms."

"And if they win?"

Rainsford's smile never wavered. "I don't blame you for supposing this game to be rigged, Ms. Zarova, but never let it be said that I cheat. It's true that most women present only a rudimentary challenge. Many of them, I'm afraid, are graced with skills and talents that are little use out in the bush. I have children by hundreds of women by now, scattered around the world, representing an extraordinary genetic legacy."

His voice lowered a notch, as if speaking in confidence. "But every so often, Ms. Zarova, I strike an amazon, a woman who pushes me to the limit. You can't imagine how happy that makes me. And a few of these women, a very few, have even bested me! If they do, I set them free and wire ten million dollars for their pains. And I regret those losses bitterly, let me assure you. Such women have proven themselves to be among the fittest in the world, and thus the most suited to bear my children, yet they are the very ones denied to me. You see, it is that possibility of defeat that keeps it interesting for me."

Rainsford's ravings were so absurd that Zarova was finding it hard to take the danger to herself seriously. "Look, this eugenics wet dream of yours must be very arousing," she said archly, "but you should know that I'm on the pill."

His look softened, and his eyebrows bent sympathetically. "Oh, my dear—no, I'm afraid you're not. They were switched out with sugar pills weeks ago, you see? We've been watching you very closely to make sure no other man would, as it were, come between us. And to be sure that the timing is ideal—but I'm sure you've worked that part out for yourself already. Of course, nature still has to take its course. Once I seed the woman, I can't be entirely confident of fertilization. That's all part of the game. But rest assured, most of my trophies do end up carrying my offspring."

"In fact," continued Rainsford, "if you wouldn't mind accompanying me to the library, I would love to regale you with my past conquests. I think you'll be surprised to learn some of the women who have borne children for me. People you never would have guessed."

Zarova hardly heard him. The revelation that the man had been watching and manipulating her for months changed everything. Her face was flushed and she looked agitated. "My God, you're an utter psychopath. Get away from me, you freak!"

"Ah, forgive me, my dear," said Rainsford, looking apologetic. "I forgot how exhausted and overwhelmed you must be. I should have left all this until the morning. What you need now is a good night's sleep in a comfortable bed. Tomorrow you'll see things in a whole new light. And then we will hunt together."

She mounted the stairs with unwilling legs, Rainsford trailing a few paces behind. She entered her room, and he stopped at the doorway. "Good night Ms. Zarova. Get as much rest as you can." He shut the door, and bolted it with a soft click.

Zarova searched feverishly for means of escape. She tried muscling the door open, but all she did was bruise her shoulder. She found the windows locked and barred; and even if she could have forced them open, her third-floor room projected over a sheer, jagged cliff. There was no way out there.

Nor could she find anything likely to serve as an effective weapon. Rainsford was crazy, but clearly no fool. She would not be able to take him unawares. And he had a good 35 kilos and 15 centimeters on her. Coming at him with a wicker chair or brandishing a hair-dryer at him was not going to solve anything.

She told herself that it was best to wait and save her strength.

She found fine white silk pajamas in a drawer, and the feather-bed was positively decadent. And she was profoundly tired. But she couldn't sleep. Instead she just lay there, hour after hour, staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes. For a time, she got up and paced the perimeter of her room—around and around like a caged lioness. Then she lay down again, and at last drifted into a drowsy stupor that lasted until the first rays of morning streamed through the east windows.

* * * * *

The sun had risen a good deal higher by the time Rainsford appeared, grasping the tranquilizer gun easily in one hand as he opened the door. This morning he was attired in a punctilious English hunting suit of greenish-brown tweed. He inquired politely about Zarova's night and well-being, before inviting her to descend for a late breakfast.

Though there were other items of evening-wear in the closet, Zarova had found none more practical than the cocktail dress from the night before. She had opted to remain in the pajamas. Their contrasting apparel made her even more conscious of the tilted power dynamics between them, but the man seemed not to notice. Through most of breakfast he made skillful small talk about the political and economic situation in Russia, showing impressive depth of knowledge and acuity of perception.

Then, pushing his plate away, Rainsford sighed and raised his champagne-flute. "But enough of these trivialities. Let us toast! For tonight, we will hunt—you and I."

Zarova was relieved to have the topic out in the open; but she was determined not to give him any satisfaction. "I won't play your sick game, Rainsford," she said with quiet vehemence. "I won't. I will not be hunted."

Rainsford picked a stray blueberry off his plate and popped it in his mouth. "That, my dear, is entirely up to you. But if I may say so, I really don't see you as a 'lie back and take it' sort of girl. Isn't it more in your nature to claw and scrape for even the slightest chance at victory?" He eyed her quizzically. "Another mimosa?"

He refilled her glass from the pitcher on the table.

"Moreover," he went on, "you may find that this game has a certain appeal for one of your temperament. Wouldn't you like to test your mettle against me? Your brain against mine. Your woodcraft against mine. Your stamina and determination against mine. Outdoor chess! Surely that prospect appeals to a huntress of your quality? And if you need any further motivation, then there are always the consequences of defeat. I flatter myself that you would find me attractive under other circumstances, but I hardly think your feminine instincts take lightly the prospect of being impregnated against your will. Surely that inspires you to want to fight back?"

"But what happens if I win?" Zarova croaked huskily.

"In that case, my dear, I will gladly admit myself defeated! I give you my word: if I do not take you by dawn after the third night, then I will transport you immediately to a nearby town, reward you for your troubles, and never disturb you again. That is a promise."

Zarova eyed him doubtfully.

"You're thinking," said Rainsford slowly, "that I could not possibly let you go, because then I would be at risk. Please don't fret about that, my dear. Win or lose I will release you, and you will not pose the slightest threat to me. None of your agencies in Moscow could ever find me, even if your bizarre tale was believed. I've covered my tracks quite thoroughly. Vitansky now, he's expendable. He has no information of significance. You are free to have him killed or imprisoned if you wish. Consider him a gift—he did sell you out rather cheaply."

"Whatever you do, I will never carry your child," said Zarova harshly.

"Oh," said Rainsford coolly, "I think you will. If you get an abortion or otherwise endanger the child, I will know. And in that case, video recordings of our entire, um, encounter will be released, with my identity obscured of course. Your political brand is very much rooted in conservative Orthodox morality, is it not?"

"What will that prove? Political positions change. Such a video will only show that I am the victim here."

"Aha, I see you understand me precisely. You will be revealed as a victim. And who wants to be governed by a victim? Who votes for a victim? How forgiving is the cutthroat world of Russian politics to people who become known as victims?"

Ransford sipped his drink. Zarova was silent.

Abruptly, he shifted to a more businesslike tone. "Well, my dear, I think we've covered everything, and the day wears on. No doubt you are eager to get started. I will not follow until dusk. Hunting at night is much more exciting than by day, don't you think?"

Rainsford gestured for her to rise and proceed toward the entrance hall. He followed, always careful to trail a little behind, leaving no opening for her to lunge for the gun. "Let me offer you a bit of friendly advice," he said as they proceeded. "Avoid the large swamp in the southeast corner of the island. Death Swamp, I call it. The place is riddled with quicksand. One foolish girl tried it, I'm afraid. You can imagine my distress—such a waste, when she could still be alive today, and the mother of my child."

He operated a keypad on the wall and the large double-doors swung open, revealing the jungle landscape outside. "When you go, if you follow the path to the right, you will soon come upon a lean-to. In it you will find food and a knife. Also a few things to wear. And moccasins—they are excellent for this climate, leaving only the faintest trail. And with that, let me bid you farewell, Ms. Zarova. I wish you the best of luck."

In short order she found the shelter, which contained the promised moccasins, a pack with food, and a long-bladed hunting knife in a leather sheath. The clothing turned out to be a set of tan, spandex athletic underwear. She snorted—'a few things to wear' indeed! Still, after a quick glance around to confirm she was alone, she put them on. The panties made her feel marginally less vulnerable; and although she was not at all large-breasted, she appreciated the extra support of the bra. Even so, she put the gauzy silk pajamas back on to cover them.

* * * * *

Zarova's first impulse was to get as far from Rainsford as she could. The last twenty-four hours had been so bizarre, so nightmarish, that she was unable to compose herself or develop a plan as long as she remained nearby to that accursed mansion and the monster who lived there.

So she spent two hours, at least, simply crashing through the jungle as fast as she could, blindly and without purpose. Only then did it feel safe to stop and take stock.

"I have got to keep my nerve," Zarova reminded herself grimly. This game was rigged—Rainsford had the gun, he knew the island, and physically he was much stronger. Only by out-thinking him did she have a chance of winning. If she panicked, she was finished.

Now that she had some distance from Rainsford, she realized that it was hopeless to flee in a straight line. The island wasn't large; it would not take her long to reach the sea. If he cornered her there, it was over. She needed to think like a boxer—quick on her feet, and unwilling to be pinned on the ropes.

But if Rainsford's promises could be believed then Zarova did have one other advantage: time. If she could devise a series of fiendishly-complicated trails, enough to keep Rainsford occupied for three days, then she might simply run out the clock. That didn't seem so difficult.

Moving now with stealthy cunning, she spent the rest of the day circling and crisscrossing the jungle. She put everything she knew about tracking into creating an impossible trail. She placed false clues and doubled back. She used each rivulet and rocky-patch as a new opportunity for misdirection. Sometimes she wore her moccasins and sometimes padded carefully in her bare feet. The light, flowing fabric of the pajamas snagged and tore on the dense underbrush, and had to be discarded so as not to give her away.

As night fell Zarova was exhausted, her arms and legs lacerated by the cruel vegetation of the bush. It would be senseless to continue on in the dark—her tricks would be less effective, and she could very well injure herself. That would be disastrous. She knew she had created a puzzle that would keep Rainsford occupied well into the next day. That was enough for now. Better to rest and replenish her strength. She would continue spinning her byzantine diversions tomorrow.

She found a huge, wide-spreading tamarind tree that suited her purposes nicely. Without leaving a trace, she shimmied up the trunk and concealed herself on one of the broad branches, high above the jungle floor. She felt a certain smugness at beating Rainsford at his own game. Here she was, resting secure, while he wasted the night away, uncovering her path to nowhere. Still it was hard to sleep. Although the tropical night was warm and close, her bare skin registered a chill. The familiar sounds of the jungle echoed ominous in her ears, and the rough bark of her perch chafed. Over all her thoughts loomed the menacing specter of her adversary ...

The sky had just begun to lighten in the east when the call of a startled bird jolted Zarova from a light doze. She perked her eyes in that direction, and saw that some large creature was moving through the brush. At first she could see only the disturbance of the undergrowth; then, soon enough, she could tell that it must be a man, moving deliberately and methodically.

For a fleeting moment she entertained the hope that he was a rescuer of some sort. But as the light grew and he came ever closer, the truth became undeniable: the man was Rainsford.

She winced to think how confident she had been the evening before. But how could he possibly have followed her trail so quickly through the night? It was inconceivable! Was Rainsford a man or a devil? The blood ran cold in Zarova's veins, and for the first time she contemplated the possibility that she might lose.

Watching him come on, she could see that Rainsford tracked with surprising speed and energy. His eyes were riveted to the ground with penetrating focus. He moved relentlessly from clue to clue, now crouching for a moment to ponder, now bounding ahead. The hair stood up on the back of Zarova's neck as he homed inexorably in on her hiding place, and she tried to shrink herself down to be as small as possible.

At last, she was cornered. He followed her traces right up to the base of the tree. He seemed confused for a moment, and circled the trunk once or twice, gun in hand, scanning the ground intently. She clutched her knife and contemplated springing at him. It would be a desperate gamble. From that height, anything might happen. If she got lucky, she might get the jump on him. More likely, she would end up with a disabling injury, or simply overpowered by him.

Then Rainsford straightened up, right below her. Unexpectedly, he pulled out a cigar and lit it. The fragrant smoke drifted up to fill her nostrils. Zarova bit her lip and dared not breathe, her skin damp with nervous sweat, her muscles quivering with tension. All he had to do was look up, and he would spot her. If he did, she resolved, she would strike before he had the chance to dart her.