Escape Room Page 8

  The container still felt like it was moving. The swaying motion threatened nausea in Chance, adding to his claustrophobia. He managed to swallow the bile, but he had moved to the far corner, just in case he had to vomit.

  For hours, they had searched the inside of the shipping container. Working together, double-checking each other, they scoured every inch. They scanned the walls with the black light, inspected the divots in the steel walls and combed the ceiling for loose screws, holes or anything that might facilitate an escape from the box, or at least provide fresh air. Except for a sticker beside the door, faded warranty instructions, the walls were devoid of marks, the floor solid and unforgiving.

  A massive lock was affixed to two interlocking steel bars. They had fumbled with the 3-digit combination for a while before frustration kicked in. The cell was 30 feet long, but it felt like they were trapped in a prison cell. The smell of diesel fuel burned their nostrils, the fumes threatening another wave of nausea.

  Chance licked his lips and swallowed hard. He closed his eyes, but sleep was little more than a distant hope. Every time he closed his eyes, the same visions stormed back. The escape room. The blood, the bodies. The deep slash across the throat of the receptionist, Carrie.

  The two killers.

  He tried to piece together what was happening but couldn’t make sense of it.

  What could’ve prompted such a horrific act of violence? Chance considered again the prospect of a robbery gone wrong, but it still didn’t sit right. The escape room couldn’t have had much cash on hand — nobody in his group had paid at all, as they were invited guests. Although he knew some people might still commit a crime for even a small amount — drugs always seemed to bring out the malevolence in people — murdering six innocent people and attempting to kill another five witnesses seemed implausible. Chance was certain; it had to be something else.

  He had watched enough true-crime television programs and documentaries to know that most crimes like this were crimes of passion. Cuckold husband goes on revenge-fueled spree. Jilted lover murders ex-boyfriend. He wondered if that was in play here. Could Carrie have been the object of the murderous intentions? She seemed nice enough, but of course Chance knew nothing of her. Maybe the receptionist was harboring a secret or was just the victim of a jilted boyfriend. Chance couldn’t picture Carrie with either Scarface or Desmond; they were too old. But then again, he couldn’t rule it out, either.

  Leo could’ve been the intended victim, Chance supposed, but something about that didn’t feel right either. The game master had been killed just outside the door to the Darwin Room, and yet they hadn’t heard a thing. Chance hadn’t paused long enough to probe Leo’s wound, but it couldn’t have been a gunshot. They would’ve heard that, surely.

  Any one of the four players in the Pharaoh Room could’ve been the target, too. Chance hadn’t gotten a good look at any of them. They had quite purposely given them a wide berth during their escape. One of them had dreadlocks, and another wore a Gronkowski Patriots jersey. They all looked to be around the same age as Chance’s group, and he wondered if they had also been the recipients of golden invitations.

  Invitations to death, he thought darkly.

  Another thing bothered Chance. If episodes of 48 Hours and Nightline taught him anything, it was that crimes of passion were rarely carried out with an accomplice.

  And then, another horrifying possibility suddenly materialized in Chance’s mind.

  What if one of them was the killer’s target?

  Tahoe. Wolfie. Kate. Jenny.

  What if they were the intended mark? None of them had indicated that Desmond or Scarface looked familiar, but what if that was all subterfuge? What if one of them knew something?

  Chance’s brain hurt, and he rubbed his throbbing temples with the pads of his hands.

  Too many factors in play. Too much he didn’t know.

  “I can practically hear you thinking over there.”

  It was Jenny. It was the first thing she had said in hours. She had spent much of the time whimpering, obviously bothered by her shoulder. Now, Jenny pulled herself to a seated position, her back to the wall.

  Chance blinked twice and wiped his eyes with his palms. “Did I fall asleep?”

  Jenny inched closer, until her shoulder pressed against his. She was warm, and her touch was comforting. “I think we all did,” she said.

  “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Let’s just say, it’ll be awhile before I can use my tennis backhand.”

  “I feel like the gears in my brain are stuck on something,” Chance said.

  “You saved us, you know,” Jenny said. “Back in the escape room. You didn’t freak out, you thought clearly, you found the hidden room under the floor. You even figured out the riddle of the pyramid. You like riddles?”

  “Most riddles seem impossible because they stem from preconceived notions. I suppose I’m pretty good at not having any preconceived notions.”

  “Want another one?”

  “Sure. I could use the distraction.”

  “Imagine a sequence of words that go like this: THIRD—FOURTH—FIFTH—SIXTH—SEVENTH—EIGHTH—NINTH.”

  “Okay, got it.”

  “Now tell me the two words that come before the sequence.”

  It didn’t take long for Chance to respond. “That’s easy: FIRST and SECOND. It completes the sequence.”

  “It does,” Jenny admitted. “But that’s not the right one. Think again.”

  Chance considered the riddle anew, but he couldn’t shake the conviction that his original answer was still the best one. The words FIRST and SECOND kept replaying inside his brain.

  Jenny was watching him intently and clearly not going to offer any assistance. He had to look at the problem from a different perspective. Reframe the question.

  And then he had it.

  “The answer is WHOLE and HALF,” he said. “It’s a sequence of fractions.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “You tried to throw me with a math problem. Not my strong suit.”

  “Well played, Chance,” Jenny said. “I can tell a lot about how your brain works just from watching you puzzle through the riddle.”

  “Yep, it’s that same brain that got us locked up in here,” he said. “You are all most welcome for these accommodations I have managed to find for us.”

  “Beats the alternative,” Jenny said. “Remember the two guys trying to kill us?”

  “Oh yeah, Desmond and Scarface. How could I forget?”

  “I heard one of them call the other Desmond, but Scarface? Really?” She nudged him playfully.

  “Well, he didn’t look much like a Stephen or Walter to me. So yeah, ‘Scarface’ suits him better, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” she agreed. “Anyway, you impressed me. Not many people can think the way you think, act the way you acted, especially under pressure.”

  “You did alright yourself,” Chance said. “You figured out that the figurines fit on the mantel. I still don’t know how you figured that one out. Smart and quiet.”

  “I don’t know about the smart part, but I’m a pretty good observer, I guess.”

  “Observer. You sound like a scientist now. But you’re talking now, so that’s good. But I’m no leader, either. My dad would laugh so hard at that idea.”

  “Yeah?”

  “My dad is a real man’s man. Car mechanic, Budweiser drinker. Played sports all his life, football star, the whole thing. But me? Different story. Never was much of an athlete, much to his disappointment. I got one trophy, when I was like 8. Played on a team that won some tournament. Sat on the bench, mostly. But to this day, he keeps that trophy on a table in our living room. I mean, I was 8. It’s like he could never let go of the idea that his son was going to be a sports star. He could never understand why I’d rather write in my journal than kick a ball around on a grass field.”

  “I’d say he doesn’t know you very well. What about your mom
?”

  Chance shook his head. “Not around. I don’t even remember her.”

  Chance felt a warm hand on his arm. “I never really understood soccer, either,” Jenny joked. Then, in a lower voice, she asked. “What do you write in your journal?”

  “Stories, poems, random stuff.”

  “I’d like to read some of it sometime,” Jenny said.

  “You like poetry?”

  “I don’t know,” Jenny admitted. “Never really read much poetry. Not enough time. God, that sounds like such a pathetic excuse.”

  “Do you still have your journal?” Chance asked, suddenly remembering that Jenny had asked Leo if she could take it into the escape room.

  Jenny nodded. “Still got it. Jammed it into my jeans to keep it safe.”

  “Well, now we know it’s not poetry, so what do you write in your journal, Jenny Chen?”

  She didn’t answer, not right away. After a beat, she finally said, “It’s like you said, random stuff. I don’t write in it very often. Too busy, I guess. I know that sounds lame.”

  “What is keeping you so busy? School, work?”

  “I suppose the answer is both. There comes a point where school and work just blend into one messy thing.”

  “Where do you go to school?”

  “University of Maryland, actually.”

  “Wow, I’ve never actually spoken to a college girl before. I am suddenly feeling like a big shot.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m just a local girl, wanted to stay close to home. That doesn’t sound like an independent college girl now, does it?”

  “You’re from Maryland?”

  “Just a few miles away from College Park. Grew up working at my parents’ dry cleaning business. Terrible work, but the four-cheese bagels at the shop next door made up for it.”

  “Are you guys going to kiss? Because I’m not sure I can handle that right now.”

  Tahoe’s voice was louder than it needed to be. It echoed in the steel container. Jenny’s hand, which had been resting on Chance’s arm, pulled away quickly.

  “Look who’s talking,” Chance said, silently cursing the interruption. “You’ve been snuggling with Wolfie for hours now.”

  “What can I say? He makes a pretty good pillow.”

  “Hey!” Wolfie said. “I’m a real person with real feelings over here.”

  It felt good to laugh. The noise roused Kate, and all five huddled together in the center of the metal box.

  “How long have we been in here?” Kate asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

  “I don’t know, six hours maybe?” Chance replied. “I think I passed out somewhere in there.”

  “I know I’m just stating the obvious here,” said Tahoe. “But we need to get the hell out of here. The lack of air in here is making me woozy. I can’t think straight.”

  “These containers are meant to be watertight and weatherproof,” Chance said. “Keep the corrosive saltwater out during shipping.”

  “Well, thanks for that helpful lesson, professor,” Tahoe said. “Please, tell us more about the fascinating shipping industry. It’ll be a great conversation while we slowly die to death in here.”

  “Die to death?”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “We’re running out of air,” Kate said. “We might run out anytime now.”

  “We’ll actually never run out of air,” Jenny corrected gently, “because we breathe out the same amount of air that we breathe in. The real problem is carbon dioxide. We inhale air that has about 21 percent oxygen, but what we exhale is only 13 percent oxygen. Five percent of what we breathe out is CO2. Once that CO2 gets to around 15 percent of the air inside here, we’re all going to start passing out. I’m guessing this container is…almost 2,000 cubic feet. Based on five of us breathing normally, I’d estimate we have about 12 hours before we start feeling the effects.”

  “Oh my god,” said Wolfie. “Trapped in a steel box with the most boring person on earth.”

  “You guys make a cute couple,” Tahoe said. “The nerdy scientist and the nerdy poet. You can make super-nerdy babies and live in some nerdy place. Like Delaware. Oh wait, you can’t, because we only have, like, five hours to live.”

  Chance felt Jenny fidget beside him, embarrassed. She started absently pulling at the faded warranty sticker near the door.

  “How about we focus less on the terrible jokes and more on a plan to get out of here?” Chance interjected.

  “Second that,” said Wolfie.

  “Artists,” muttered Tahoe. “So sensitive.”

  “Aren’t you a painter?” Wolfie said. “Artist prodigy, remember?”

  “Guys,” admonished Chance. “Focus, remember?”

  Jenny pulled a strip of paper from the wall and started scraping away the sticky residue.

  “What do you expect us to do?” Tahoe snapped. “Search this tin can again? We’ve already been over every inch.”

  “No, that would be a waste of time,” Chance conceded.

  “Then what?”

  “Guys,” said Jenny.

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Wolfie, holding up a hand. “Now follow me here. These shipping containers transport valuable stuff all the time. They are air proof, waterproof and weatherproof for a reason. Exporters are on the hook to protect their cargo. So what happens, for example, if the container is flooded? Or there’s a fire?”

  “I don’t get where you’re headed with this,” Tahoe said.

  “Um…guys?” Jenny repeated, a little more loudly.

  But Wolfie still didn’t hear her. “I’m guessing that there are fail-safe mechanisms. The same automation that locked us in here, maybe it can open the containers too, in case of emergency.”

  “What kind of emergency?” Tahoe asked.

  “Like…a fire.”

  Chance and the others stopped to glare at Wolfie. Even Jenny had stopped her her absent-minded paper-peeling.

  “You…want…to…start…a…fire?” Kate said.

  “Yes,” Wolfie stammered. “Maybe.”

  “Before we commit to a suicide pact,” Jenny said firmly. “I think I found something.”

  She gestured to a discolored postcard-sized patch on the wall. She held up the scraped remains of the sticker in her palm. “Look here,” she said. “There’s something written here under the sticker. War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.”

  Chance leaned in to read it for himself. It felt familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Tahoe asked.

  “I mean, it means absolutely nothing,” Kate pointed out. “And yet it’s literally a thousand times better than setting ourselves on fire.”

  “Hey!” shot back Wolfie, his pride wounded.

  War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.

  Suddenly, Chance crawled over to the steel door with the interlocking bars and started fidgeting with the combination lock.

  The others turned to watch as Chance tugged on the padlock. It popped open with a satisfying clink.

  “How did you just do that?” Tahoe asked excitedly.

  “The power of great literature,” said Chance.

  Wolfie and Kate had scrambled to their feet and bounded towards the door.

  “No seriously,” said Tahoe. “You have to tell us how you did that.”

  “I didn’t recognize the quote at first,” Chance began. “But then it clicked. George Orwell’s novel 1984.” Chance’s explanation was met with furrowed brows. “Nobody remembers that book? It’s a classic.”

  “I read it,” said Tahoe, raising her hand. “But I still don’t know how you did that.”

  “The book is set in a place called Oceania in the year 1984 where an oppressive regime controls everything. They use thought-police and two-way televisions and this creepy leader called Big Brother for constant surveillance of every citizen. The party slogan is—”

  “War is peace. Freedom is slavery. I
gnorance is strength,” Kate finished.

  Chanced nodded. “But this guy Winston decides he doesn’t like living under such a regime. He starts to act out, but it soon labeled as a thought criminal and arrested. He’s taken to this crazy placed called Room 101 and tortured for like a month until he starts to believe in the party line.”

  “Brutal,” said Tahoe.

  “One of the things they try to get him to believe is that two plus two equals five. If everyone believes a lie, it becomes something almost indistinguishable from truth.”

  “Two plus two equals five,” repeated Kate. “2-2-5. That’s the combination.

  “Yep,” said Chance. “Thank you, George Orwell.”

  “I love a great book,” said Wolfie. “And I want to hear what happens to Winston in the end. But right now, I think we should get the heck out of here.”

  “Let’s do it.” Chance slid the bolts apart with a reverberating clang and shoved the door open. Light streamed in, temporarily blinding him.

  Beneath clenched eyes, colors swirled.

  FOURTEEN

  Chance stands in the middle of a room filled with swirling colors. He recognizes it immediately; it’s the small shed in the corner of his backyard. The white-washed shed is no bigger than a walk-in closet, with a sliding barn door flanked by two square windows. Flower boxes hang just below the windows, brimming with purple wisteria.

  Canvasses fill the interior. There must be dozens of them, of all sizes. Some are mounted on easels. Some hang on walls. Still others are stacked in the corner. And everywhere there is color. Paint tubes lay scattered on an unfinished wooden table. Thick pools of magenta and orange and ruby red spill forth like rivers of bright dye. The paint has stained a piece of paper almost completely yellow. It sits on the corner of the table face up, but Chance cannot read it. A paint can hangs from a nail in the wall, filled with well-worn paintbrushes of all sizes and shapes.