Escape Room Read online

  Praise for Novels of

  Brian Ullmann

  “Brian Ullmann strikes gold in this original well-researched and action-packed thriller about a group of adventurers whose journey crosses path with a fabled beast of myth and legend.”

  Steve Alten, New York Times best-selling author of Meg, The Loch and The Shell Game

  “Adventure sportsman Ullmann pours real-life mountain climbing know-how into this impressive debut thriller.”

  Publishers Weekly

  Escape Room

  Brian Ullmann

  Copyright © 2019 Brian Ullmann

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781708903701

  Nobody ever did, or ever will,

  escape the consequences of his choices.

  Alfred A. Montapert

  PROLOGUE

  The boy bolted awake, fully alert.

  His sudden movement fired off a stab of pain into his right shoulder, and he instinctively clutched at it. His left hand probed just beneath his collarbone and found a deep gash. Blood had soaked his denim shirt.

  Fear gripped him like a vise. His heart jackhammered.

  Jackson Sloan clenched his eyes shut, trying to clear his mind, focus his vision. He opened them, and squinted into a bright light.

  He was lying on his back, on a flat, cold rock. He was in a clearing of dirt with sparse patches of yellowing grass. To his left was an outcropping of gray rocks. To his right, a puddle of water, brown and fetid, reeked of feces and urine. Dense foliage ringed the expanse, blocking his view beyond. Overhead branches and leaves were woven into a canopy so thick that he could not see the sky above him. A blaze of light glimmered in the light haze.

  Where am I? he asked himself, fighting panic.

  Think, Jackson, think.

  “Hello?” His voice bounced off the rocks and echoed twice before dying. Jackson paused to listen. Silence.

  Bracing himself with a hand upon the ground, Jackson staggered to his feet. His right knee screamed as he put pressure on it, threatening to buckle. It held, just barely. There was ligament damage in there, he was sure of it.

  He could not remember how he sustained his injuries.

  Thirst clawed at his throat. It burned as if he hadn’t taken a drink in days. Jackson lurched to the puddle. It smelled awful, but his cracked and parched throat demanded relief. No matter how brown the water, he desperately needed a few palmfuls of water.

  He cupped his hands and reached for the water, and then stopped short. Something at the bottom of the silty water caught his eye. What he saw didn’t seem possible, so he blinked, hard, and looked again.

  A copper-colored strainer glinted in the light. It was a drain.

  A drain at the bottom of a puddle? In the middle of the jungle?

  Something behind him growled.

  He jerked his head up. Scanned his surroundings. The jungle enveloping him seemed alive in every way. Branches swayed and leaves fluttered. Insects buzzed. Birds chirped from unseen perches. Behind him, a towering cliff of sheer rock loomed, the only thing in the clearing that seemed lifeless.

  It came from the rocks.

  There, a narrow crevice in the outcrop was shrouded in shadows. The snarl, low and menacing, seemed to shake the ground under Jackson’s feet. Or maybe it was just his feet shaking.

  He took a halting step backward and peered into the shadows.

  The tiger emerged from the cave like a specter.

  Its massive head hung low to the ground, its flame-tipped ears pinned back. The beast was the color of fire. Its giant paws utterly silent as it stepped closer.

  Jackson tried to cry out, but his voice emerged as little more than a raspy croak.

  The tiger stalked forward. Jackson retreated, until his back pressed against the immovable rock face.

  The birds and the insects had fallen silent.

  The creature was covered with thick muscle that rippled with every step. The back of its neck was a knot of raw energy, coiled and tense. The tiger lowered its jaws, exposing a set of razor-sharp canines. Two fangs, honed by millennia to tear flesh from bone, jutted from the top of its mouth like vampire’s teeth.

  “Hey!” Jackson managed to shout. He was trying to make noise, trying to force the tiger to retreat. “HEY!” He waved his arms, making himself look larger.

  The tiger regarded Jackson with piercing, dead eyes. It took another silent stride forward. Another growl, louder this time, startled Jackson.

  How had he gotten here? Who had trapped him in this horrible place? He struggled to remember.

  A flash of memory. He was in a well-lit corridor, walls streaked with blood. A body, lifeless and cold, on the carpeted floor. The face, turned away, in a pool of crimson.

  That was all. He could more clearly remember what came before: Jackson Sloan, high school junior, Jeb Stuart High School, Fairfax, Virginia. Son of John and Deborah Sloan, brother of Courtney, best friend of Arnold. He knew who he was. Surely, his friends and family would be looking for him. Surely, they were on their way.

  How long had he been here? He found he could not recall.

  “Help!” Jackson screamed, as loud as his faltering voice could manage. “HELP!”

  But again, all he heard in response was the faint echo of his own pathetic voice, ricocheting off the rock walls. He pressed his back into the unforgiving stone. There was, he realized with a sudden dread, no escape.

  The tiger stepped forward again. A line of thick saliva dripped from its fangs.

  Jackson slid to the ground, his body trembling, his hands holding the sides of his head. He glanced to the sky, searching for a way out when he knew there was none.

  His eyes caught sight of the puddle again, and he peered into its murky waters.

  The impossible steel drain glimmered.

  The tiger, in two ferocious and brutal bounds, leapt to attack.

  Part One

  ONE

  “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please.”

  The disembodied voice was barely audible in the cavernous auditorium. The administrators of Wakefield Senior High School had optimistically called the space the Multipurpose Room, but it was really just the gym, the same space that hosted sweaty basketball players at Friday night basketball games, a dozen hipsters at Sunday morning meetings of the anime club, and the Wednesday night rehearsals for the off-key stylings of the Footnotes, Wakefield’s resident a cappella group. For today’s event, the basketball rims had been pulled up to the rafters and the bleachers retracted into the walls, but it was going to take more than a few freshly printed banners to cover the pervasive smell of perspiration.

  Four long rows of rectangular tables now bisected the multipurpose room. Each table-row was topped with a dizzying array of gadgets, electronics and computer monitors. Amid the clutter, a garbage automatically sorted trash from recyclables, a mobile app identified birds by their calls, and a robotic raven flew around the gym, powered only by ordinary tap water.

  The Eastern Regional Science and Technology Fair was the premier competition of its kind for high school juniors and seniors. It attracted budding engineers and computer scientists to demonstrate excellence and innovation in science and tech. No baking-powder volcanoes or potato batteries here.

  There were perhaps 80 displays here in all. Over 300 students, parents, friends, teachers and college recruiters roamed the aisles, checking out the presentations, gauging the competition. The top two would advance to the national finals in San Francisco to compete with projects by their peers from the three other regions. Ultimately, three winners would receive scholarships to the University of Maryland, sponsor of the nationwide science fair. In reality, most of the students here did not need the scholarship. They were the best and brightest, and could have th
eir pick of any higher education institution in the country, full rides, free room and board, prestigious internships. But a win in this competition would be a great resume booster. Even before starting college, these competitors were already thinking about entering the workforce, six-figure starting salaries, the promise of advancement. At just 16 or 17, these boys and girls had already entered the rat race.

  A panel of six judges had spent the morning evaluating the exhibits. The criteria were simple and gave equal weight to scientific method and application. This latter factor was ambiguous, but most interpreted it to mean commercial viability. Did the project have the potential to generate revenue?

  Nobody knew who the judges were; apparently, they were professors from the university. Rumors spread quickly nonetheless as well-dressed adults took notes in identical red journals emblazoned with the telltale Terps logo.

  Chance Matthews glanced at his watch, the fifth such glance in the last 60 seconds. It had been a long day already and he was feeling anxious. He had set up his exhibit at 8:45 a.m., then smiled at passersby for nearly three hours. It was stiflingly hot in the gym, and he was tired of standing.

  Just announce the winners already.

  “Hey, Chance, you really think your little project stands a chance?”

  The voice belonged to Oliver Rhodes, a junior with tufts of blonde hair and a lopsided grin. Oliver was the smartest kid in school, with straight A’s every year. He was also the starting center forward on the school soccer team, all-county as a junior. Chance’s grades were merely respectable, and he didn’t play any sports. In nearly every way, Oliver out-achieved him, and Chance accepted it without a flicker of jealousy. Achievement had never been much of a concern for Chance.

  For the science fair, Oliver had built an augmented reality program that showed the exact location and price in a supermarket for all of the items on a grocery list. All the shopper had to do was hold up a smartphone inside the store, and the app shows where to go. It even made suggestions for items that complemented those on the list. If you planned to buy tortilla chips, it would recommend fresh salsa. If the ingredients for apple pie were on your list, the app would direct you to the ice cream aisle. Even Chance had to admit to himself that it was good. But he wasn’t about to let Oliver know that.

  “Does your app identify the best brand of tampons for you?” Chance asked. “I peg you for a heavy flow guy.”

  Oliver grinned. “That is rich, Mr. Matthews, coming from a guy who didn’t even technically do a science project. I’m sure the judges will be impressed with your amazing display of…umm…creativity.”

  Oliver was right. Technically, Chance hadn’t exactly followed the competition guidelines. He had always been a color-outside-the-lines type of guy. Chance was proud of his submission, but he wasn’t expecting any commendations. In his experience, teachers — even university professors — didn’t often reward freethinkers. If it didn’t follow the published guidelines, it was disregarded.

  He was about to respond to the jibe when a screech of feedback silenced the room.

  “Well, I am sorry about that, folks. Maybe one of you students could invent a better PA system next year.”

  The crowd murmured laughter. Chance looked toward the stage at the far end of the gym. A striking woman in a tailored pantsuit commanded the center of the stage, wireless microphone in hand. She was tall and slender, with shoulder-length brown hair that came to such dramatic points on either side of her face that they looked like tusks. Her teeth gleamed a perfect white.

  She tapped the mic with a manicured forefinger and smiled down at the assembled. The crowd fell silent. She held a piece of paper in her hand. Chance prayed it wasn’t a long speech.

  “My name is Madeline Levick, and I am the provost at the University of Maryland. It is truly a privilege and an honor to be with all of you here today. Let’s give everyone here a round of applause for such an amazing display of technical prowess. You are all winners.”

  You are all winners. She actually said that. Chance glanced at his watch again.

  “I know it’s been a long day,” the provost continued, “So let’s just get right to the winners, shall we?”

  Everyone clapped at this.

  “Am I too late?”

  Chance felt a light touch on his shoulder. He turned to a familiar face. Chance’s father was wearing oil-stained coveralls, his name — CLAY — stitched across his right breast. He had worked as a mechanic in the same small auto shop just off Columbia Pike since high school. The hours were long, and often stretched into the weekend. Sometimes fell asleep in his worn recliner, still wearing the same dirty coveralls.

  Chance’s mother had left early on. Chance’s memories of her were blurry, fading with each passing year. His father never said an unkind word about her, but her parting had not been easy. There were no pictures of her in the house. Except for one. A yellowing Polaroid of her that his father kept in a small square frame in the drawer of his bedside table.

  Every time Chance mustered the courage to ask about her, his father said the same thing: “Everyone has their own path to follow. Sometimes that path leads away from the things we love.”

  It was hard to miss someone you never really knew. But Chance felt a hole nonetheless, like a puzzle missing a piece right in the center.

  “Right on time,” Chance said. “They’re about to announce the winners.”

  “Which one is yours?” his father asked.

  Chance had not shared his project ahead of the science fair. He didn’t know how his father would react. Actually, he was pretty sure he did, and it wouldn’t be good. For years, his father had pushed him toward computer science, saying that’s where all the jobs were, where the money was. He’d saved for six months to buy Chance a used MacBook Pro, the 15-inch model with 3.5GHz Turbo Boost. He brought home magazines from the shop, Popular Mechanics and Fast Company.

  “The nice cars that come into the shop all belong to computer geeks,” his father said. “That’s the end of this business you need to be on.”

  Another screech of static made them both wince.

  “Just remember,” his father said. “You’re only a junior, so just to be here, to compete in this, is an achievement to be proud of.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Chance said. “But you kind of have to be proud of me. I’m pretty sure that’s in the basic job description of being a dad.”

  His dad laughed. “Fair enough. But whatever you built here today, you should be proud. If you keep up with this science stuff, you’ve got a bright future.”

  The provost from Maryland tapped the mic again. “The judges have thoughtfully evaluated all of this year’s entries and have rendered their decisions. And we are proud to announce the two winners for this region. As a reminder, both will advance to California for the national finals and a chance to win a full scholarship to the University of Maryland, one of the world’s premier institutions of higher education.”

  Nice plug, thought Chance. The provost was taking advantage of her university’s status as title sponsor.

  “So, without further ado, let’s announce the winners.”

  The provost glanced at her sheet of paper, then up at a sea of expectant faces. Chance looked over at Oliver, who mouthed silently, “Fuck you.” Chance grinned.

  “The first winner is…from Kenmore High School…Ms. Mercedes Kennedy!”

  A Latina student with a red bow in her hair scurried to the stage, her hands clamped over her mouth. Her parents led the applause; there were even a few whistles. Chance remembered her work, a piece of wood that she had somehow drained of melatonin to render it translucent. Chance didn’t really know what to do with see-through wood, but it was impressive nonetheless.

  “Congratulations, Mercedes,” the provost said to another round of applause. “Now, for the final winner. From right here in Wakefield High School…a junior…”

  Chance felt the expectant clamp of his father’s hand on his shoulder.

  “
Dad,” he said without turning. “I should probably tell you something about my project.”

  The Provost’s voice cut him short.

  “…Mr. Oliver Rhodes!”

  Oliver was on stage before the words really registered. For all the shit Chance gave him, he knew that Oliver had created a worthy project. He deserved this win, all the more notable because he was just a junior. On stage, the provost shook Oliver’s hand, expertly turning to present the best angle for the hired photographer.

  Chance caught his friend’s attention and mouthed a silent “fuck you” at him.

  “I don’t get it,” Chance’s father said. “I’m sure Oliver’s submission was good, but he’s not as smart as you. No way. That’s the same guy that sniffed rainbow sprinkles right from the jar at Baskin Robbins when he was 8. How did he beat you?”

  Time to face the music, Chance thought.

  “Uh, Dad,” he stammered. “My submission wasn’t exactly what the judges were looking for.”

  Just then, Oliver returned, holding a small wooden plaque. The provost from the University of Maryland was at his side. She shook hands with Oliver’s parents, then turned to him and said, “Well, congratulations again, Oliver. The judges were particularly taken with the technical aspects of your augmented reality app. Very complex coding. You’ve got a bright future ahead of you.”

  The provost turned to leave, when she suddenly stopped short. She glanced at Chase, then to his display just behind him.

  “This one is yours?” she asked.

  With a furrowed brow, Chance’s father followed her gaze, stared for a moment at the display, and turned to Chance with a puzzled look. “Chance? Is this really yours?”

  There were no computer monitors or robots or apps on Chance’s table. No batteries, circuit boards or mechanical hinges. Not even an erupting baking soda volcano. It was just a single panel of thick poster board, filled with Chance’s neat penmanship.