87
As we board two helicopters, our numbers naturally splitting rather than being forced into two teams, I bite my hand at Miranda as she glares at me, and sit down beside Thorun.
Crammed into my helicopter are Miranda, Thorun, Cherry and Vasiliki.
In the other are the surviving twin Amadea, Silke, Claire and Sona.
Cameras attached to our fronts will record everything from now on.
“Heli-jump?” Cherry whimpers.
“Hell jump if you ask me,” Miranda scowls, her fingers white where they grip the straps on her pack.
I grit my teeth and try not to think about what’s coming as Thorun whispers non-stop under her breath.
“Fokk, Fokk, Fokk.”
‘If she doesn’t survive the jump, all bets are off. Surely I can’t be blamed for her death if that happens?’
But even as I think this I know it’s beneath me. I’ve made a deal. I need to try to stick to it. And truth be known, I understand why Jag likes Thorun. I can’t help but like her too, even though I now consider her my biggest threat to win the Game.
‘Once more someone who says they’re my friend is actually my enemy. All along I knew this. Why am I even surprised? Why does this make me sad?’
I’m relieved to get out of my head when, after only a few minutes, the helicopter comes to a standstill mid-air. There’s no strong wind blasting into the cabin; it’s still, deathly still, apart from the rotors above.
“OK, ladies,” the pilot announces, “one by one, you’ll jump.”
Reluctantly, we all stand, but I think we’re all surprised when Vasiliki, without even waiting for the go-ahead, steps out the door.
‘Vasiliki!” Miranda shouts.
I gasp as the Greek seems to take a moment to look around before gravity takes hold and she drops like a stone. Her scream goes on for a long, long time.
Leaning out, we all watch as she tumbles over and over mid-air before seeming to right herself into a stable, belly-down position, and opening her chute.
It’s not at all how I pictured skydiving.
‘Madonna Santa! This is more fucked than anything they’ve made us do so far.’
“As I was about to say,” the pilot snorts, “you’ll accelerate to terminal velocity in about ten seconds; it’s the fastest anything falling can reach.
Because you’ve started at zero airspeed your body is going to take a few seconds to right itself — it’s important you don’t black out or panic.
Just relax into the spin, you’ll come right. ”
“Relax into the spin?” Miranda gives us all an incredulous look. “Is he fucking kidding me?”
Ignoring the Australian, I turn to Thorun.
“Jump.”
“No,” she shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I’m more than happy to lose the Game right here and right now.”
“Ciao,” I snap as I push her out the door, following just a few seconds later.
Fortunately, I hadn’t had much food all day, because the spin the pilot said to just ‘relax into’ makes me vomit, the hot mostly-bile splashing all over my face, into my eyes, my hair, my ears.
‘Great, once again the entire Bachelor Universe sees me vomit!’
As I finally begin to fall belly-down, I scramble to pull my parachute cord.
I have several moments of pure, unadulterated terror thinking it isn’t going to work, before it billows out above me, and I start to float.
All around me I see others doing the same.
Counting the parachutes I can see, disappointingly, that everyone is going to survive the jump.
Each chute is colour-coordinated with our catsuits, so it’s easy to see who’s who.
It also seems that most, including Thorun, are heading way further south than where my chute is directing me.
‘How? They’re heading closer to the abandoned city, but I seem to be floating away from it.’
I’ve only just made this concerning deduction when the ground rushes towards me.
Just as the jump was nothing like I expected, neither is the landing. I don’t land on both feet, but rather on my knees, then my guts, then back to my knees, the parachute catching the wind and half bunny-hopping, half dragging me some distance before it folds in on itself like a deflated balloon.
When I finally come to a standstill, suffocating under silk, I struggle free of the chute and stagger to my feet, my knees so weak, legs so unsteady, I feel like I might fall right back down again.
Taking a moment, I lean down and place my hands on my knees to centre myself, taking three deep breaths.
When I feel like I’m not going to faint, and my resolve hardens, I straighten up and, using the parachute silk to wipe the vomit from my face, begin to unshackle myself with shaking fingers.
Finally, free of the encumbrance of the parachute, I take some of the ropes and push them into my backpack before retrieving the map and the first key we’d been given.
It’s then that I notice two things. The first is that the camera on my front has been smashed to bits. The second is that I’ve landed at least three, maybe five kilometres, away from where I need to be.
“Shit.”