Chapter 9
“After your introductory video ends, you’ll have an hour,” the escape room attendant told Molly and Karl, after they’d both
signed their waivers and Molly had insisted on paying for their allotted hour. “When you’re ready for one of your three hints,
tap the icon on the screen. If you need to leave before the hour is up and before you manage to escape, press the emergency
exit button next to the door.”
Molly inclined her head. “Got it.”
The young woman left, brandishing an enormous metal key, and the door shut heavily behind her. The key turned in the lock
with an emphatic clunk. Unable to stop herself, Molly tugged at the brass door handle, testing just how locked in they really were. The handle didn’t
move a millimeter. There’d be no escape until they either put together all the clues, employed the emergency button, or ran
out of time.
Hopefully they’d work together and communicate well under pressure, even in an environment unfamiliar to them both. That was
precisely what she hoped to find out today.
Whenever a situation turned difficult and her ex got frustrated, he either gave up or turned snarky and unpleasant.
And too many times, Rob had turned his snarkiness on her.
When that happened, she hadn’t put up with his behavior—she’d told him to cut it out or simply walked away—but she’d always managed to excuse it afterward.
She’d told herself medical school was stressful, that he hadn’t gotten enough sleep, that he didn’t realize how sharp and disagreeable he was being.
Turned out, Rob was just a dick. That was all. And if her long-lost high school crush could do better, even under artificial
circumstances, that would be one more step toward trusting him with more than her friendship and her body.
“‘The Curséd Amulet of Egypt’?” When Karl squinted at the computer touchscreen on the wall, the corners of his eyes creased
in an unfairly handsome way. “That’s our scenario?”
Before she could answer, the informational video started.
“In the final year of the nineteenth century, an Egyptian expedition led by a prominent British archaeologist uncovered the
ancient, untouched tomb of an unknown queen.” The computer screen flickered with black-and-white photos of archaeological
digs, mustachioed Victorian men in suits looking extremely pleased with themselves, and the local Egyptians hired to do all
the hard, dirty work. “The tomb was ruthlessly opened, and priceless artifacts of Egypt’s rich historical legacy were packed
away to far-away London museums—including the queen’s breathtaking amulet, made of turquoise carved into a scarab shape and
hung on a plaited chain of gold wire.”
Karl stabbed a blunt finger at the amulet on the screen. “Are we supposed to steal the amulet from her tomb or something?”
He sounded disgruntled by the prospect. Well, even more disgruntled.
“I certainly hope not,” she said with feeling.
He grunted in agreement. “Only an asshole takes another country’s artifacts.”
As she twisted her neck to smile at him, the informational video’s narrator continued speaking.
“—remained tucked in a dusty drawer for over a century. Until last week, when a museum curator came across the artifact once more, cleaned it, and translated the inscription on its back, which warned of a curse placed upon whoever might despoil the queen’s tomb.”
Karl folded his arms across his chest, satisfied. “Of course there’s a curse. Bastards should’ve kept their eugenics-obsessed
meat hooks off a foreign country’s historical legacy.”
“The curse wouldn’t only target the expedition’s original members. It would also doom their descendants and their descendants
too, unto eternity. They’d ripped away a queen’s and a nation’s legacy, and so their own legacies, the fruits of their loins,
would—”
“Fruit down there? Basically asking for a yeast infection.” Karl pursed his lips and shook his head. “Doesn’t matter how hot
that old-school romance scene was. Like I told all the Nasty Wenches: Raspberries don’t fucking belong in vaginas.”
“—rip and destroy too,” the voice-over actor announced. “And so it came to pass. With the first utterance of the inscription
in a dusty museum storage room, the Colonizer’s Curse fell upon the expedition members’ descendants. Hundreds of them transformed
into zombies and rampaged throughout their communities, killing without thought or pity and creating yet more undead creatures.”
The narrator paused for emphasis. “The only way to break the curse and save humanity? Steal the amulet back from the museum,
survive the ravenous zombies, and overcome all the dangers of the despoiled tomb to return the artifact from whence it came.”
“Like a reverse Indiana Jones?” Karl looked significantly more enthusiastic now. “Ignore my bitching and sign me the hell
up.”
“Your mission begins with the necklace,” the narrator concluded. “Find it first, then enter the tomb. Good luck, and your time begins . . . now.”
The overhead lights of the ersatz museum storage room flicked off, and only the soft glow of two vintage-looking lamps illuminated
the space. The computer screen went dark too, other than its bright blue hint-dispensing icon and the timer ticking down from
sixty minutes.
The wall across from them was lined with shelves. A solid wooden desk to the right boasted several drawers, a metal typewriter,
an enameled ashtray, and a pile of files. To their left: the exit door with its old-fashioned lock and a safe of some sort.
She headed for the desk and those tempting files.
“Take us half an hour, max.” Karl reached for the nearest shelf. “Let’s fucking do this.”
“This fucking blows,” Karl grumbled approximately fifty-seven minutes later. They were the first intelligible words he’d spoken in a good half
hour.
The zombies’ shrieks and howls were getting louder minute by minute. Even the dim lamps in the corners had begun flickering,
in yet another sign that she and Karl were running out of time.
As if she hadn’t realized that already. Three minutes left, and they hadn’t even made it out of the museum storage area. They
had no amulet, no key, no tomb, and no clue.
Well, they did have clues, obviously. But they couldn’t seem to decipher those clues.
The two of them were so bad at escaping, the room’s monitor had actually given them six bonus hints, for a total of nine.
Then the young woman had begun typing helpful messages to them on the screen, directing them to look under the rug; telling them it wasn’t a problem with the lock, they simply had the wrong combination; and suggesting that they compare notes about what they’d each found.
Once, she simply wrote “NO.” In a startlingly large font.
About five minutes ago, the notes had changed in tone. Turned pitying and comforting, as the end drew near.
“You’re doing just fine,” read the latest message. “And it’ll be over soon. For all three of us.”
Molly sighed and chose one last tactic at random. “Why don’t we try to decrypt the typewriter keys again?”
With a groan, Karl rose from a squat, where he’d been studying the locked artifact cabinets. Wordlessly, he walked to her
side and leaned over to contemplate the typewriter too.
He tapped a random key. “That a fish?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
To his credit, even a near hour of nonstop frustration hadn’t made him give up and admit defeat. He hadn’t said much—apart
from occasional outbursts of profane crankiness—but when she’d asked questions, commented on what she’d seen, or made suggestions,
he’d listened to her and followed her lead. And while he was definitely pissy, he wasn’t pissy toward her. More the nature of human existence in general and escape rooms in particular.
Her sole responsibility for suggesting the activity had gone entirely unmentioned.
Was he the best possible escape partner she could have had?
No. Clearly not. If he were, they’d probably have found the amulet before now.
But he could say the exact same thing about her.
More importantly: In this sort of situation, Rob would’ve been livid, all blame and cutting remarks.
Well before the allotted deadline, he’d have been smacking the emergency exit button and stomping out of the room without checking whether she intended to join him.
Sure, Karl had barely spoken an unprompted word, and they were going to be ripped apart by zombies at any moment, but at least
they’d be ripped apart together. She supposed that was a victory of sorts.
While he continued poking at various mechanical components, she tugged futilely at the metal lock securing the lowest desk
drawer and began turning the dials to choose digits at random. They needed five numbers, which seemed simple enough—but those
five numbers encompassed a hundred thousand possible combinations, and there was nothing in the room that actually narrowed
down their options or outright supplied the code.
“This is the most impossible escape room ever.” Giving up, she sat back on her heels. “Why in the world would they require
a five-digit number for this drawer without giving us clues to determine that number?”
Karl stilled. “A five-digit number? Thought you needed four.”
“The locked storage cabinet has a four-digit code,” she corrected. “The drawer is five.”
“That, uh . . .” He scratched his chin, and his Crocs shuffled a bit on the floor beside her. “That museum worker’s name badge
I found a while back? Under the rug? Employee number below the picture has, um . . . five digits.”
Slowly, she tipped back her chin to stare up at him in utter disbelief. “And you didn’t consider sharing that information with me?”
“Thought you knew. Used it to type the employee’s name and number on the typewriter, although that didn’t do shit.” He winced.
“If I’d realized you needed a five-digit number for the lock—”
She’d noticed the engraved badge, but had assumed he’d let her know if it contained anything worth mentioning. “Hand it over.”