by Jack Heath
‘Taylor?’ you say again.
No reply.
Heart pounding, you reach out and peel the bushes aside—
Revealing a cave. The entrance is so narrow that the bushes concealed it almost completely.
The breathing sound stops.
‘Hello?’ you call.
Something shifts in the darkness, and then—
‘Boo!’ Taylor leaps out of the cave, waving his arms.
You scream. Not just because he startled you, but because spiders are crawling all over his face.
‘You’re covered in spiders!’ you shriek.
‘What? Argh!’ Taylor bats at his arms and legs, squashing the scuttling creatures. He hops from foot to foot as though standing on hot coals.
‘Your face!’ you yell. ‘They’re on your face!’
He screams and starts slapping his cheeks and forehead. Spiders explode into globs of yellow goo.
Soon all the spiders are squished and you’ve both stopped screaming. The echoes die away—
To be replaced by a dark rumbling sound, just like the one you heard at the station.
‘What is that?’ Taylor hisses.
It’s not until you see the foaming whiteness at the top of the mountain, like the crest of a breaking wave, that you figure it out.
‘Avalanche!’ you cry.
The wall of sliding snow approaches. Taylor bolts back into the cave. You could follow him, but what if the entrance filled up with snow? You’d never be able to dig your way out. And what about the spiders?
Perhaps you should sprint downhill instead. But can you really outrun an avalanche?
If you go into the cave, turn here.
If you run down the mountain, go here.
‘Get away from the windows!’ you shout.
You and Pigeon jump back just in time. Two men swoop in, one through each of the empty window frames, boots first. They land on the broken glass inside the train carriage, one brandishing a scratched-up cutlass, the other wielding a lumpy club. Pale scars lattice their skin.
‘Listen up!’ the bandit with the cutlass bellows. He has about half as many teeth as he should have. ‘Do exactly as we say and nobody gets hurt.’
The man with the club raises it menacingly. You step back and put your hands in the air. Other passengers are already scrambling towards the rear of the carriage, away from the two bandits.
‘Drop it,’ the guy with the cutlass says.
You turn to see the beak-nosed security guard holding up a stun gun. She lets it fall to the floor.
‘Good girl.’ The bandit lowers his sword and turns to face the rest of the group. He has massive forearms and a neck thicker than his head. ‘I want you all to take out your mobile phones and hold them in the air,’ he says. ‘Slowly.’
The other passengers rifle through their pockets and hold up their phones. The bandit with the club walks around, snatching phones out of hands and dropping them into a canvas bag.
If you can keep your phone hidden, maybe you can call the police. Perhaps the bandit will believe that a kid your age might not have a phone.
If you hold up your phone, go here.
If you pretend you don’t have one, go here.
The belt smacks against the side of the train—
And catches nothing. It bounces off.
‘No!’ you cry.
The train rockets away down the slope, leaving you staring helplessly after it, your trousers around your ankles—
And then the wall of snow slams into you from behind.
It happens so fast, with such force, that you don’t even have time to scream before the whole world goes black.
THE END.
For another try, go here.
You lunge towards the empty window frame, reaching for the grappling hook. Hopefully you can dislodge it from the train carriage.
‘Pigeon!’ you yell. ‘Get the other one!’
Pigeon runs to the hook on the other side of the carriage while you fiddle with this one.
Yes! The hook comes loose from the window frame—
But then the cable goes taut, pulling you out the window with it!
You tumble out into the daylight, clinging desperately to the hook as the ground rushes by below you. The helicopter looms above, perched atop the train like a gigantic mosquito. The parts are dirty and mismatched, as though it was pieced together from several different vehicles. The whirling blades are deafening. They seem to be accelerating rather than slowing down.
The helicopter is taking off again!
The plan must have been to lift the train off the tracks so it could be disassembled and sold. But that doesn’t work, because you detached the grappling hook. On the other side of the train, the second hook swings loose—Pigeon must have got to it in time. You hope she didn’t get pulled out the window like you did.
The helicopter rises, taking you with it. Your feet kick uselessly in the air. The ground below gets further and further away.
The chopper tilts forwards to chase the escaping train. You swing sideways on the rope, now eight or ten metres above the snow.
A row of spiky trees looms ahead. It looks like the helicopter is going to fly over them, dragging you into the maze of pointed branches and lethal trunks.
You could let go of the hook, but landing on the snow from such a height might break your legs. Or you could climb up the rope towards the helicopter to avoid hitting the trees, but that would leave you even higher above the ground.
What do you do?
If you crawl up the rope, go here.
If you drop to the ground, go here.
You let go of the rope. It slips through your fingers and you fall—
But only half a metre. The hook snags the hood of your coat, stopping you from falling any further. The zip jerks upwards, pressing hard against your throat.
You choke, arms flailing as you try to grab the rope. Maybe you can pull yourself back up and take the pressure off your neck.
But it’s no use. The grappling hook is behind your head, and reaching for it just makes you spin around. First, you’re facing the mountain, then the train tracks, and then—
The trees, which are rushing towards you, reaching out with deadly branches.
You could try to slip out of your coat and drop to the ground. But it’s a long way down now, and the ice below looks flat and hard. Maybe you should grab hold of the approaching trees instead.
If you slip out of the coat, go here.
If you try to grab the trees, go here.
You scramble up the rope as the helicopter flies closer and closer to the trees.
Are you going to make it?
You’re just in time. The first tree scrapes the sole of your shoe as you fly over it. But some of the other trees are taller, with longer, sharper branches. You climb higher still, heart pounding.
What will happen when the helicopter catches up to the train again? The bandits will probably reel in the hooks so they can try to reattach the chopper to the carriage.
And you’ll get reeled in too. You’ll be trapped in a helicopter full of bandits. You picture them—sneering faces and foul breath, waving swords or guns. What will they do? Just throw you overboard?
You’re trying to come up with a new plan when the helicopter stops dead in the air. The rope goes suddenly taut, almost throwing you off. When you look down, you see that the grappling hook is tangled in one of the trees. The helicopter has accidentally tethered itself like a hot air balloon.
Beyond the trees, the train is zooming away down the mountain at a breakneck pace.
You shimmy down the rope into the trees, ignoring the scratches on your hands as you grab the branches.
The rope quivers. You look up, squinting against the blinding sun, and see a bandit leaning out of the helicopter. His dusty overcoat billows in the wind as his bloodshot blue eyes search for the source of the problem.
He sees you, perched in the tree like a lost cat.
; His eyes narrow. He draws a dagger, clenches it between his teeth like a pirate, and starts to climb down the rope towards you.
At first you think he’s just going to cut through the rope so the helicopter can fly away. But if that was his plan, he would have cut it from the top. Instead he’s climbing down to retrieve the grappling hook.
Which means the knife is meant for you.
You look around. But the train is long gone, and no-one else is in sight. No help is coming.
You dig through your pockets. Maybe you can cut the rope so he can’t get to you. But all you have is your phone, your compass and your train ticket.
The edge of the compass is sort of sharp. Perhaps it could slice through the rope?
If you climb down the tree to escape, go here.
If you try to hack through the rope with the sort-of sharp edge of your compass, go here.
You press your compass against the rope and start sawing at the fibres. The outer layer gets shredded surprisingly quickly. Encouraged, you cut faster.
But then disaster strikes. You’re only about a quarter of the way through when the sound changes, like plastic on metal. You peer at the scrape marks. It looks like the rope has a tightly wound steel core, designed to stop it from fraying or snapping. You hack at it with more force, but it just wears away the edge of your compass.
You look up. The bandit is nearly upon you, although it’s hard to see him through the smoke.
Smoke?
Suddenly you feel the heat and see what you’ve done. The compass has a magnifying glass built into it, and it’s concentrating the sun’s rays onto one of the branches. The branch has started to smoulder, and little wisps of flame have spread to the withered leaves.
You blow gently on the fire, encouraging it.
The bandit scrambles back up to the helicopter as the fire spreads. You climb down the tree towards the ground, trying to outrun the flames.
A charred branch snaps, showering you with hot charcoal and freeing the grappling hook. The helicopter lurches away into the smoky sky, the bandit clinging to the underside. Hopefully the train has reached the bottom of the mountain where the police are close, so the bandits won’t attack again.
You drop from one bough to the next, eyelids almost shut to ward off sparks and scraping branches. Soon you’re only two metres above the ground and you jump, crashing down onto the snow and stumbling away from the burning tree.
Except it’s not burning anymore. The branches are still smoking, but the trunk itself must be too wet and cold to burn. None of the other trees around it have caught alight.
You survived the helicopter, the bandit and the fire. You lie on your back in the snow, watching clouds of mist appear above your head as you exhale.
It’s a long walk down the mountain. You’ll need your strength.
You survived! There are ten other ways to escape the danger—try to find them all!
You clamber down the tree like a monkey trying to escape from a puma. The branches leave red scratches all over your hands.
The bandit reaches the bottom of the cable and starts climbing through the leaves towards you. He’s catching up fast.
You’re at a disadvantage. The bandit wears protective clothes under his coat, so he doesn’t have to worry about getting gutted by a sharp twig. You, meanwhile, are dressed for a nice comfortable train ride, not a deadly chase through the forest.
But if you can get to the ground before he does, you can sprint away into a thicker cluster of trees. The helicopter won’t be able to spot you from above, and the bandit is bigger than you, so maybe you can squeeze through gaps where he won’t fit.
You’re almost at ground level. You let go of the last branch and fall towards the snow—
But something grabs you from above.
‘OK!’ the bandit yells. ‘Pull us up!’
A radio crackles. ‘Putting.’
You scream as you’re dragged back up into the trees by your collar. The bandit holds you with one hand and the rope with the other as the helicopter ascends, hauling you both up out of the forest and into the air.
The rope retracts, carrying you higher and higher until you’re both hanging right beneath the chopper, hundreds of metres above the ground. You stop struggling. If he loses his grip, you’re dead.
A woman leans out the open door of the helicopter. ‘Any luck?’
‘Train’s long gone,’ the bandit says. This close, he smells terrible. ‘But we have a new recruit.’
He lifts you up with one mighty arm and hurls you into the helicopter. You slam down onto the metal floor, which is slippery with engine grease.
The woman stands over you, a wrench in one hand. Her hair looks like it was cut with a knife.
‘You’ll work twelve hours a day, seven days a week,’ she tells you, ‘but you’ll get an equal share of everything we take. What do you say?’
She extends a grimy hand.
If you accept the bandits’ offer, go here.
If you refuse, go here.
You hold your phone in the air. The bandit snatches it out of your hand and throws it into the bag. You wonder if you’ve made a mistake.
The other bandit, the one with the cutlass, is kicking the door to the conductor’s cabin. On his third kick, the hinges crack. He rips the door out of the frame and drags the terrified conductor into the carriage.
‘All right,’ the bandit with the club yells. ‘Listen up. In one minute this train will depart for the top of the mountain.’
Cutlass Bandit sits down in the conductor’s chair and starts fiddling with the controls. The engine rumbles.
‘But if I were you,’ Club Bandit continues, ‘I would get off here.’
He slaps the button for the rear door, which slides open, revealing the frosty mountain-side. The train starts to move slowly up the hill.
You sigh. It feels like you’ve spent all day getting on and off this stupid train.
‘Come on, get a move on.’ Club Bandit grabs someone and throws them out onto the tracks. You and Pigeon are near the back of the crowd. By the time it’s your turn to jump off, the train might be going quite fast.
It doesn’t look like the bandits have done a headcount. Maybe you should just hide under one of the seats. But what will you do when the train reaches the top of the mountain?
If you jump off the moving train, go here.
If you hide, go here.
You reach into your pocket and punch in the number for emergency services. Then you hold both hands up, empty, leaving your phone nestled snugly in your pocket.
‘What are you doing?’ Pigeon whispers.
You shush her. Hopefully the call will go through and the police will hear what’s going on and be able to trace the call.
The lanky man in the broad-brimmed hat hasn’t raised his hands. ‘I don’t have a phone,’ he says, when the bandit with the bag approaches him.
‘I’ll give you five seconds to reconsider that answer,’ the bandit says.
‘It’s broken,’ the man says. ‘I left it at home.’
The bandit raises the club. ‘Five. Four. Three. Two—’
‘OK, OK!’ the man cries. ‘Take it!’ He digs through his pockets, rips out a phone and hands it over.
The bandit puts it in the bag without even looking at it. ‘Smart decision.’
You’re not feeling so good about your choice. But it’s too late to change your strategy—or is it?
You reach into your pocket and pull out your compass. It’s black and rectangular, with glass bits. It might be mistaken for a phone, if the bandit isn’t looking too hard.
Pigeon drops her phone into the bag, very slowly, buying you time.
You’re next in line. You hand the compass to the bandit.
He takes it and puts it in the bag.
Then he does a double-take and pulls it back out again.
‘What’s this?’ he demands.
You roll your eyes, as though that’s the dumbest question
you’ve ever heard. ‘It’s a compass phone? Duh.’
The guy turns it over, examining it from all sides. Your heart is pounding.
‘Here,’ you say, holding out your hand. ‘I’ll show you how to make calls on it—’
The bandit bats your hand away. ‘Nice try,’ he sneers, and drops the compass into his bag.
You breathe out as he walks away. Pigeon stares at you as if you’ve just revealed that you’re a Jedi.
‘Take this,’ you murmur, and slip the phone into her hand. ‘They might wise up and search me later.’
Pigeon nods and slides the phone into her pocket.
The other bandit is up the front of the carriage, banging on the door to the conductor’s compartment.
‘Open up!’ he roars.
The conductor doesn’t respond.
‘I know you’re in there,’ the bandit shouts. He kicks the door with a steel-capped boot. The hinges rattle.
A few more kicks and he’ll probably get through. Then what will he do to the conductor?
The cutlass glints in the bandit’s hand.
If you talk to the bandit and try to stall him, go here.
If you stay back, go here.
‘Wait,’ you shout, walking towards the bandit. ‘I know how to get in.’
The bandit turns to face you. He points the cutlass at you. The sharp tip is only centimetres from your throat.
‘How?’ he asks.
‘There’s a switch,’ you lie. ‘For emergencies. Just promise you won’t hurt anybody.’
‘Show me.’
You reach past him and knock on the door. ‘I’m going to tell him where the emergency switch is,’ you yell. ‘So you may as well just open the door.’
There’s no response from the conductor, just as you hoped.
‘I’m going to give you one minute,’ you shout. ‘Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight—’
The bandit grabs your shoulder. ‘Forget that,’ he says. ‘Just show me where the switch is.’
‘OK,’ you say. You lead him down the stairs to the far end of the carriage. The crowd parts to let you through.
