by Tim Heath
The only other exit was on the floor below and was a little harder to find. The four envelopes there gave details of the other two locations for whoever made it out through that exit.
Once six Contestants had exited through the top floor, and four had made it through the third floor, that corresponding exit would be locked, and its route out of the building, therefore, shut down.
All of the Contestants––besides the wounded Arnold still on the ground floor––had now found some of the supply rooms. Most contained some form of a weapon, be that knives, rods, baseball bats, the odd gun or two as well as some explosives. They also had food, and there were also some chemicals on offer––which for the one chemist in the group might have meant something––but these had already been taken by another Contestant, who was unaware of what they were.
Josée, one of two former cops in the building, was the first to make it to the top floor where more light was available, and movement could be quite free.
From below, odd sounds could be heard, but the building was big, and the sound got easily lost within the thick, decaying walls. It was hard to know where any specific noise was coming.
Coming across an exit, Josée put her shoulder to it, thinking it would be locked tight like the others she’d come across, and fell right through it as it opened quickly. Her force nearly caused her to fall, but she managed to regain control, and rested on the edge of the roof. There was a three-foot wall around the side of the roof––to stop people doing what she’d nearly done.
Over a loudspeaker which seemed at that moment to be coming from everywhere, a very robotic voice––in basic English––sounded out, “Contestant number ten has left the building,” before silence returned. The other nine who remained inside––unaware of the numbers of any of the others beside themselves––were re-energised by the announcement. So someone had beaten them to it and had already found a way out. It couldn’t be that hard, therefore, and they all began to move a little faster.
Within the Games Room, the same confirmation in written form flashed across their screens as the sound was coming through from the building. Dmitry Kaminski shouted for joy at the sight of his Contestant emerging from the exit onto the roof.
Josée stood for a moment, her eyes still adjusting to the light. Though it was anything but bright for a morning, the contrast from inside was still noticeable. Standing on the solid concrete roof, she looked down over the edge, the drop at least thirty metres, maybe a little more. She hoped there was another way off the roof.
Turning, she saw the table, six envelopes laid out in clear plastic folders, a little snow covering each, but nothing to distort what they were. She went over to the table, which besides the folders, had nothing else on it. The command she’d been given that morning about only taking one envelope when presented with the option––or face immediate elimination from the competition––finally made sense. She couldn’t see what was inside any of the folders, besides the white envelope, each untouched, identical. She picked the fourth one, taking it in her hands as footsteps could be heard climbing the stairs where she’d come up. She ran from the spot, folder unopened, and spotted what she’d hoped there would be––a fire escape stairway leading down from the far side of the building.
She was already over the edge of the building when the exit opened in much the same way it had for her. She descended the metal stairs two at a time and did not even see who it was who had so narrowly followed her out. Halfway down the stairs, she heard the same robotic announcement; “Contestant number five has left the building.”
On the ground, her clothing only barely keeping her warm enough, Josée jogged over to another building, moving around behind it to stay out of sight, while she opened the folder and then ripped open the envelope.
Inside there were maps, a photo of the ticket in question, and some related information. She scanned it. Opening the map, it detailed the location within the city of the Peter and Paul Fortress, an island fortress built by Peter I, and dating back to the 18th Century. She’d read about it in the guidebooks she’d studied while staying at the hotel––it was one of the most iconic sites in the city. The ticket, the information said, was located on the fortress in the Artillery Armoury––it was worth over €30 million and had to be claimed in Spain by the end of the week.
The photo didn’t show much apart from its immediate location, and she assumed it would make more sense once she was actually in the Armoury, because it didn’t help her much at that moment.
She took in a breath, the air cold and biting, trying to steady her nerves. This was it. She’d made it out, and she knew where she needed to be heading. How many of the other folders contained the same information, she didn’t know. She assumed, correctly as it happened, that at least one separate folder was a duplicate of the information she had. Getting out first had at least given her a head start, though making it all the way to the fortress, and then gaining access to where she needed to be, was another challenge altogether. She jogged back towards the main road.
On the third floor, not far behind the French woman, Hilary had heard the exit door swing open, the distinctive rush of air cold as it met her in the face. She climbed the flight of stairs in front of her and, after a few moments searching around, found the same exit and pushed through it into the fresh air. As she emerged onto the roof, there was no sign of anyone else. She turned around and took in the table that stood in front of her, next to the exit she had walked out through. There sat five folders, the centre one on the bottom row of two missing, though snow had formed a rectangle around it. She grabbed the front left envelope, and darted to the rear of the roof, getting to the steps as she saw a woman disappearing behind one of the buildings opposite. So it had been one of her fellow females who had made it out ahead of her.
Reaching the ground––and then going in the opposite direction from the one she’d seen the other woman disappearing to––Hilary stopped and opened what she had in her hand, reading through the information quickly. It detailed her ticket as being hidden within the State Hermitage, maybe the most iconic and important building within the city, if not one of the most photographed places in the world. The ticket was hidden in the French Impressionist wing of one of the main buildings. The ticket was attached to the back of one of the paintings, the details of which one––including a photo of the said painting––all within the information she was reading through. For a wrestler from Hounslow, this was something else entirely. Her ticket was worth £22 million and was UK claimable––a piece of good fortune that this particular envelope had been claimed by someone from the same country. As the news sank in within the Games Room, Seventeen punched the air in celebration. The victory was one step closer––lady luck was smiling on him today.
14
Around the Games Room, the tension was growing. The sight of the first of the Contestants making it out of the building had been an exhilarating one, though the longer it took the others also to find their way out made it more pressured for the rest. The truth was, getting out of the building––in one piece, too––was just the first hurdle. In previous events, Contestants had just to go and pick up a ticket, though this time it wasn’t as simple as that. Neither was someone automatically paired with a ticket from their own nation––that would be making it too easy, though the fact Hilary had managed to choose the only lottery ticket that there was from the UK, did give her something of an early advantage.
Around the room, the Hosts were talking in groups of two or three, though at times it felt forced. These men were at best mere acquaintances, at worst near enemies––and today they were all competitors.
Politically ambitious Kaminski, whose Contestant had been the first to emerge from the building, was in good spirits. With a glass in hand he was walking confidently around the room, one eye always on Twenty, the fallen oligarch who was apparently on his way out––Sokoloff––a man central to the finances behind the Putin administration. There had been growing t
ension between the two men, and it once more spilt over with yet another smirk of disdain all over Kaminski’s face. Sokoloff walked over to him, appearing to be getting another drink from the table of champagne flutes that was freely available to them all. He didn’t want to make a public spectacle––he’d been embarrassed enough already––and wanted the conversation to remain between the two of them.
“You think you are something,” Sokoloff started, his voice low, words angry, “but you are nothing, a wannabe struggling to hang on, unable to fit in.”
“You might one day regret such a thought, loser,” he spat back. It stung like salt on an open wound.
“You think because your little lady has made it out of the building first today that you’re in for a certain win?” He laughed at the thought. “You have no idea what the others will do to her.”
“Is that so, loser?”
Sokoloff dropped his flute to the ground and with his right hand got Kaminski by the throat, pushing him back against the wall. The sound of glass smashing and the following fracas drew the attention of everyone in the room.
“If you call me that name once more, I’ll make this very personal. Is that understood?” Kaminski had managed to wriggle free from his grip, though Sokoloff was the stronger of the two physically. Others in the room were trying to separate the two men, as words and threats continued to be exchanged between them both.
“When I’m President of this great nation you’d better run and hide, Twenty!”
“You? President? Is that your game? Putin would never concede to some low life like you, and I’m here to make sure that will never happen.”
“You’re here? Not for much longer––loser!”
Sokoloff reached for him again, security now entering the room through the main doors, men under the authority of Svetlana Volkov, and they pulled the two men apart.
“Gentlemen,” she said, her voice calm but strong, “I thought I made it entirely clear that this type of behaviour was completely unacceptable. That what goes on within these four walls, my four walls, is to remain amicable, even if reputations are placed on the line. I won’t warn either of you again. I will not tolerate any such outbursts. If you can’t keep your hands off one another, I suggest you occupy different sides of the floor. Have I made myself crystal clear?” There was only silence. “Well? Have I?” she repeated, her face reddening, though still seductively beautiful.
Both men nodded, not taking their eyes from the other man, stepping backwards, moving away from each other. The outburst, not the first such altercation in their decade of gatherings, only confirmed the fact that Sokoloff had served his time within their ranks and they would all be better off without him.
On the sidelines, watching but not having moved was Eleven, Foma Polzin, the newest man to the group who stood silently, taking in what was being said, a slight smile appearing on his face as Sokoloff blew his top, but otherwise giving nothing away.
Over the next two hours, all of the remaining Contestants managed to find their way out of the building, without any further incident, the darkness doing its part to lessen confrontation, though it had been assumed the opposite might have been correct. Apart from the initial exchanges, they’d each focused on the most pressing task at hand, namely getting out of the 3D maze.
Arnold had come round from his blow to the head, and while he could feel a sizeable lump, the bleeding had primarily stopped, and full function resumed, for now. Shane, too, was up and moving, buoyed by the announcements following the first two Contestants to leave, and feeling the same breeze flowing down that the others no doubt had.
Walther Bruhn had been the next to find an exit, the one on the third floor, which opened to a fire escape on the side of the building. At the top of the narrow spiral stairs––on the small platform that he walked out onto––sat a tiny table with four folders on it, white envelopes visible inside through the clear plastic.
Opening his envelope there and then––the announcement ringing out as he did so that Contestant number two had left the building––he saw details of the challenge before him.
His ticket––for €28 million from the Euro Loto claimable only in Portugal––was located at the top of St Isaac's Cathedral, a building sitting very centrally within the city, and one of its most imposing structures. Walther put everything back into the folder, before climbing down the stairs and then a ladder, dropping to the ground for the final five feet, the snow untouched beneath him. He was the first person out of that particular exit, it was clear.
He moved away at a fast walking pace––running was pointless and would only tire him out, there was a long way to go, and he had no idea quite where to start.
Half an hour after the first Contestant had left the building, the paired up team of Brit Stafford Davison and Italian Ambra Esposito made it out onto the roof. Four folders lay in front of them. Stafford took the top left, while Ambra went for the bottom right.
If they selected the same locations, it might be over for one of them right away––the roof was high enough to kill anyone thrown over the side. Those within the Games Room were well aware of that possibility as they all waited to see which folder would be selected.
Opening their information, Stafford scanned through what was in front of him, his hands trembling as much from excitement as they were from the cold. Possibly the most difficult of the lot, due to the risks involved in locating the ticket, he read how his one sat within the city’s metro network, between two of the stations on the Red Line. St Petersburg’s metro was the deepest underground train network in the world, serving about two million passengers a day, or forty per cent of the city’s population.
“What does yours say?” Stafford said, aware that there was the chance hers would state the same destination as his, and he knew what that would mean.
“State Hermitage, in the French Impressionists section. Yours?” she said, carefree and relaxed, the possible implication of his being the same as hers not dawning on her at that moment. They’d made a good team, and the time taken to get out of the building had been significantly reduced thanks to his help. In the light of day that cold, overcast January morning, he wasn’t too bad to look at, either.
“Some metro line that runs north/south across the city. The ticket is located between two stations at the end of the line in the south of the city.”
“What’s it worth?”
“Twenty million in Euros. Claimable in Ireland. Yours?”
“Twenty-two million. Pounds sterling.” She left it at that; it was apparent she had a ticket he would be able to claim more easily than one in Ireland. For her, both represented foreign lands, but crucially as she’d already assessed, hers was worth considerably more once the exchange rates were factored in, and being claimable in the UK and not quite as far as Ireland, meant less travelling time. She wasn’t going to give up what she’d picked, nor did that question come up, quite yet.
“Look, seeing as we aren’t aiming for the same tickets, do you want to keep working together? You know, two heads are better than one, and all that.” He didn't sound too hopeful, but she nodded.
“Why not, it’s got us this far. Let’s get to the city, and we can work out our next move from there.”
As the announcement was ringing out following the latest two to make it onto the roof, Talbot Riley was also out through the side exit from the third floor, his confirmation coming soon after, the sixth of the Contestants to make it out of the building, only thirty-five minutes after the first had successfully left. He grabbed an envelope and flew down the metal stairs, his agility and age––he was the youngest Contestant––giving him an advantage now the light was not an issue.
His white envelope detailed the fifth and final location, which was underneath Palace Bridge, in the heart of the city.
Palace Bridge crossed the River Neva, connecting Palace Square which sat in front of the Hermitage to one of the city’s largest islands, home to many historical buildings. The bri
dge itself was a bascule bridge, and during the White Nights of summer would open during the early hours––as did all the bridges along the Neva––to allow ships to pass out to or back from the Baltic Sea. This bridge was maybe the most photographed of all the city’s many bridges, and its location made it an attractive choice; next door was the Hermitage, where two of the Contestants would be heading, and across from the State Hermitage was the Fortress where another two Contestants were heading. The dome of St Isaac’s was also visible from all three of these locations, meaning eight of the ten Contestants were competing within the same small area of the city. It was only the final two whose ticket was located between the last two stations on the metro line, who had to leave the centre.
The teams of Trackers were already on the move, recording the real-time information on each Contestant as they made their way into and around the city, heading mainly south, some with further to go than others.
By lunchtime, all ten Contestants had made it out of the building, only one man––the Irishman Shane Brennan who’d been shot––noticeably less mobile, though he’d patched himself up as best he could. After redressing the wound once he got outside––helped by a first aid kit he’d come across within the building––he felt a little brighter. The injury didn’t appear to be too severe, and though he would need some treatment for sure at some point, he would soldier on for now. The painkillers he’d taken that were in the kit had helped no end.
